anted me! She was once
ill, pale, and had lost all her freshness. I only adored her the more
for it, and fell in love with the decay of her beauty. I could devour
the little witch. If she had a plague-spot on her, I could touch the
infection: if she was in a burning fever, I could kiss her, and drink
death as I have drank life from her lips. When I press her hand, I
enjoy perfect happiness and contentment of soul. It is not what she
says or what she does--it is herself that I love. To be with her is to
be at peace. I have no other wish or desire. The air about her is
serene, blissful; and he who breathes it is like one of the Gods! So
that I can but have her with me always, I care for nothing more. I
never could tire of her sweetness; I feel that I could grow to her, body
and soul? My heart, my heart is hers.

LETTER VI

(Written in May)

Dear P----, What have I suffered since I parted with you! A raging fire
is in my heart and in my brain, that never quits me. The steam-boat
(which I foolishly ventured on board) seems a prison-house, a sort of
spectre-ship, moving on through an infernal lake, without wind or tide,
by some necromantic power--the splashing of the waves, the noise of the
engine gives me no rest, night or day--no tree, no natural object varies
the scene--but the abyss is before me, and all my peace lies weltering
in it! I feel the eternity of punishment in this life; for I see no end
of my woes. The people about me are ill, uncomfortable, wretched
enough, many of them--but to-morrow or next day, they reach the place of
their destination, and all will be new and delightful. To me it will be
the same. I can neither escape from her, nor from myself. All is
endurable where there is a limit: but I have nothing but the blackness
and the fiendishness of scorn around me--mocked by her (the false one)
in whom I placed my hope, and who hardens herself against me!--I believe
you thought me quite gay, vain, insolent, half mad, the night I left the
house--no tongue can tell the heaviness of heart I felt at that moment.
No footsteps ever fell more slow, more sad than mine; for every step
bore me farther from her, with whom my soul and every thought lingered.
I had parted with her in anger, and each had spoken words of high
disdain, not soon to be forgiven. Should I ever behold her again?
Where go to live and die far from her? In her sight there was Elysium;
her smile was heaven; her voice