LETTER LXXV

_London, December 8 [1795]._

Having just been informed that ---- is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain that my last, by Dover has reached you.

Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and I wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.

That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish I do at present--for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.

I am stunned!--Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.--Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--Principles are sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity.

The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--Indeed, it seems to me, when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.--Yet you will not always forget me.--You will feel something like remorse, for having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present conduct. You do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem.

You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an imaginary being.--I once thought that I knew you thoroughly--but now I am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared up by time.

You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.--I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleasure.

Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I thought your property in jeopardy.--When I went to [Sweden], I requested you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was interested about.--Money was lavished away, yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not discharged, that now come on me.--Was this friendship--or generosity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for you.--God bless you.

MARY.