ste, and of that exquisite
relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and
drinkers and _child-begeters_, certainly have no idea. You will smile at
an observation that has just occurred to me:--I consider those minds as
the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to
their senses.

Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I
cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength
of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and
purity of feeling--which would open your heart to me.--I would fain rest
there!

Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my
attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live
has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that
despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my
child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might
become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might
there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.

Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting
happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in
order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked
sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot
indeed, without agony, think of your bosom's being continually
contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I
recollect why my child and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in
which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry
fate.--These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the
shafts of disappointment.

Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in
something-like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be
unbounded; consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what
you term "the zest of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your
own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!

The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me
so wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But
first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness,
you w