I shall not however complain--There are misfortunes so great, as to silence the usual expressions of sorrow--Believe me, there is such a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some pa.s.sion, cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.

Still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--My G.o.d! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful sensations?--But it cannot--it shall not last long.

The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a negative.--My brain seems on fire. I must go into the air.

MARY.

LETTER LVIII

_[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795]._

I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I should--and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--I asked myself how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?

Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "G.o.d will temper the winds to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear--What is the war of elements to the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!

All is not right somewhere!--When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.

I could still confide--for I opened my heart to you--of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first object. Strange want of judgment!

I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.--I mean not to allude to fact.i.tious principles of morality; but to the simple basis of all rect.i.tude.--However I did not intend to argue--Your not writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.

Poor ---- would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some accident.--But it would have injured the child this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.

I hear not of your having written to me at Stromstad. Very well! Act as you please--there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply.

LETTER LIX

_[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795]._

I am here in Tonsberg, separated from my child--and here I must remain a month at least, or I might as well never have come.

I have begun ---- which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.--I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it sooner.

I shall make no further comments on your silence. G.o.d bless you!

MARY.

LETTER LX

_[Tonsberg] July 30 [1795]._

I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.

Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, G.o.d knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.

I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can never be healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing.

When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set me free.

Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings antic.i.p.ate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth.

But to have done with these subjects.

I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet I never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe, and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The child, ---- informs me, is well, I long to be with her.

Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.

Yours most affectionately MARY IMLAY

I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to yours.

LETTER LXI

_[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]._

Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so const.i.tuted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am afraid not without a pa.s.sion--and I feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude.

Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my own bosom--tenderness, rather than pa.s.sion, has made me sometimes overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. G.o.d bless you!

LETTER LXII

_[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]._