LETTER IX.
TO E. HARTLEY.
New-York, April 26.
My father carries you this. The merciful
God grant that he may find you alive! Edward,
is it possible for you to forgive me....But I deserve
it not. I have lost you forever! My
wickedness and folly merited no less.
My father smiles and says there is hope.
He vows to find you out; to restore you to
health, to bring you back to us alive and happy.
Good God! what horrible infatuation was
it that made me write as I did! If thou diest,
just....just will be my punishment. Never
more will I open my eyes to the light.
My father, my mother, will not suffer me
to go to thee. To see thee once more; to receive
thy last sigh; to clasp thy cold remains;
to find my everlasting peace in the same grave.
They will not hearken to me; they will not
suffer me to go!
In my frantic thoughts, I ran to the water's
edge. I was stepping into the boat to cross the
river, determined to see thee ere a new day
returned, but I was pursued. I am detained
by force; by intreaties more powerful than
bonds and fetters.
I need not go. Thou art gone forever. My
prayer for forgiveness thou canst not hear.
Heaven has denied me the power to repair the
wrongs that I have done thee. To expiate my
folly, to call thee back to my bosom; and to
give my stubborn heart to thy possession, cannot
be.
