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,