New Hampshire Statesman

INTERESTING CORRESPONDENCE.

(Continued from our last.)

LETTER VII.

FROM CHARLES WALLER TO FRANCES CROMWELL

Penetrated with the most lively sense of gratitude for your last favour, permit me once more to take up your attention for a few moments. Let me endeavor to prevail upon you to recall the cruel sentence you have passed commanding me not to write to you again. It is obscuring the only ray of comfort that is left to guide me through the misfortunes of this world,—and, after what you have acknowledged, is calmly arming my desperate hand with suicide,—or, worse, immuring me in the most dismal dungeon that wretchedness ever beheld; for such will be my situation, if I be compelled to feed upon the bitterness of my miseries, by keeping them to myself.

Besides, my dear Frances, (pardon my calling you so) where is the criminality of relieving the distressed, when it can be done by simply attending to the pathetic tale of their woes? or in what does it consist? Surely common charity will urge this as a duty, when it can be effected without guilt. The world, if it could possibly hear of such a commerce, might call it, in a person of your distinction, inconsistence,—but inconsistence without vice is no crime; and I am confident, though it might be reckoned a spot here, it will assume a very different character in the sight of heaven.

O, Frances! what a situation I am doomed to fulfil! a situation in which I never can expect even tranquility, much less happiness, the only wish I have, is to pour out my miseries to the attention of one who would hear me with complacence, and yield me one sigh of pity:—and this you have the cruelty to deny me.

Thrice happy they whom mutual affection hath joined in early wedlock,—whose thoughts flow in the most delightful unison, and whose looks are illumined by the transcendent sensations of reciprocal love—who never reflect but upon past joys, and who look forward, with gratitude to their Creator, to many succeeding days of delight! What a state of delicious serenity must such experience!—But I,—born to a different fortune, placed in a sphere which only adds to my torment, cut off from consolations of paternal kindness—who have no friend whom I can trust,—who never revolve the past occurrences of my life but I awaken thoughts that rend my bosom with anguish—and who dare not attempt to speculate upon futurity,—envy the hapless wretch who is chained to the galley, and think his fate the most exalted felicity compared to my own.—Bodily labour is the only evil he has to contend with; it may fatigue but it gives no anxiety to the mind. It affords him a relish for his scanty meal, and makes his bed of straw superior to softest down. The slave has no pleasure above the gratification of sense, and consequently, has no idea of intellectual misery.

I will honestly confess that I have more than once beheld the happiness of others with a malignant eye, and have sickened at the thought of seeing others in prosperity while I was racked with such cruel sensations. I hope the idea presents itself to every person in adversity; for I should tremble to think myself alone capable of forming it. It is the disposition of a demon to give way to it; and whatever pangs I may endure in the attempt, this I am determined to overcome.—Horrid conception! why dost thou haunt me thus?—What have I done, that I should be abandoned in this manner?—I have examined my conscience, and have so far satisfaction, at least, as to say that I hope and trust I never committed any act so black that I should be constrained to be the object of such a dreadful persecution. O, eternal fountain of kindness! look down with an eye of pity upon me!—suffer me not to harbor ideas that make me loathe my existence.

You have done me the honour to confess that you suffer equally with myself. Strange! that such a declaration can supply any joy to a person who loves you more than he has power to express! yet, believe me, that avowal gave me some relief.—Good God! how selfish a being is man!—who would rather hear that she, for whom he has the most tender attachment, is unhappy, than that she does not return his love.

If you are miserable communicate your cares; it will lighten the burthen of them, and take from your spirits a load sufficient to oppress the greatest fortitude. Reflect only upon what I ask. Do I attempt to persuade you to a secret marriage, which would most undoubtedly bring you into difficulties too dreadful even to think of? Do I wish you to do any thing that you could not reflect upon in your last moments without regret? Do I desire you to run any risk, and by that injure the good opinion you have with your father which I know, you value above life? No all of these are the farthest from my desires! I only intreat you to tell me the movements of your soul, and to consent to an intercourse which would be a mitigation to those pangs, the unhappiness of our destiny hath ordained us to feel. From such an intercourse no evil can accrue: our letters may be delivered with our own hands, and instantly destroyed when read. We have frequent opportunities for such an exchange, without being in any danger of discovery.

Consent, therefore, with a goodness so natural to your heart, to a correspondence, that you may be convinced is innocent, if not deserving of a higher epithet.

Adieu! I wait your determination with no small uneasiness.

[To be Continued.]