Adieu! adieu! My friend--your friendship is very cold--you see I am hurt.--G.o.d bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in every sense of the word--Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is full.

Yours sincerely

The child is well; I did not leave her on board.

LETTER LII.

June 27, Sat.u.r.day.

I ARRIVED in ------ this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at ----. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were set ash.o.r.e in a boat above twenty miles below.

What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon--nor mention the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.--This morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.

Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged me--and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere stables--I must nevertheless go to bed.

For G.o.d's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well and yet you see I cannot die.

Yours sincerely

LETTER LIII.

June 29.

I WROTE to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ------'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--I likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any serious consequences.

------ will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ------. The inns here are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.

My friend--my friend, I am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.

LETTER LIV.

July 1.

I LABOUR in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me--this is a life that cannot last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity--and, when you have, I will act accordingly--I mean, we must either resolve to live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual struggles--But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I mentioned to you--for we must either live together, or I will be entirely independent.

My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision--You know however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the moment--You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need of) by being with me--and, if the tenderest friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?

Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?--I shall, I should imagine, be at ------ before the close of August; and, after you settle your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?

G.o.d bless you!

Yours truly

Poor ------ has suffered during the journey with her teeth.

LETTER LV.

July 3.

THERE was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.

Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I a.s.sure you) there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb your tranquillity.--If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.

I grow more and more attached to my little girl--and I cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul.--She is an interesting creature.--On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; a.s.serting with Brutus, "that the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart--could have stopped me.

What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ----) that stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.

My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.--Love, in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c, alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described.

Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--Aiming at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul--almost rooted out what renders it estimable--Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid--soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.

I am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my const.i.tution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.

I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark.

Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.--I will listen to delicacy, or pride.

LETTER LVI.

July 4.

I HOPE to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot tear my affections from you--and, though every remembrance stings me to the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.

Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my faculties.--Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of my reason--for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really surprises me.--The rosy fingers of health already streak my cheeks--and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth.

With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!--Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ------'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ------'s children, and makes friends for herself.

Do not tell me, that you are happier without us--Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?--why are you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the sensibility of an expanded heart can give.--G.o.d bless you! Adieu.