very imperfect judge of the affair.

'—— Francis.'

 

 

CHAPTER XII

To the remonstrance of my friend, which roused me from the languor into which I was sinking, I immediately replied—

TO MR FRANCIS.

'You retort upon me my own arguments, and you have cause. I felt a ray of conviction dart upon my mind, even, while I wrote them. But what then?—"I seemed to be in a state, in which reason had no power; I felt as if I could coolly survey the several arguments of the case—perceive, that they had prudence, truth, and common sense on their side—And then answer—I am under the guidance of a director more energetic than you!"17 I am affected by your kindness—I am affected by your letter. I could weep over it, bitter tears of conviction and remorse. But argue with the wretch infected with the plague—will it stop the tide of blood, that is rapidly carrying its contagion to the heart? I blush! I shed burning tears! But I am still desolate and wretched! And how am I to stop it? The force which you impute to my reasoning was the powerful frenzy of a high delirium.

'What does it signify whether, abstractedly considered, a misfortune be worthy of the names real and substantial, if the consequences produced are the same? That which embitters all my life, that which stops the genial current of health and peace is, whatever be its nature, a real calamity to me. There is no end to this reasoning—what individual can limit the desires of another? The necessaries of the civilized man are whimsical superfluities in the eye of the savage. Are we, or are we not (as you have taught me) the creatures of sensation and circumstance?

'I agree with you—and the more I look into society, the deeper I feel the soul-sickening conviction—"The general pursuit is misery"—necessarily—excruciating misery, from the source to which you justly ascribe it—"The unnatural and odious inventions of a distempered civilization." I am content, you may perceive, to recognize things by their genuine appellation. I am, at least, a reasoning maniac: perhaps the most dangerous species of insanity. But while the source continues troubled, why expect the streams to run pure?

'You know I will tell you—"about the indissoluble chains of association and habit:" and you attack me again with my own weapons! Alas! while I confess their impotence, with what consistency do I accuse the flinty, impenetrable, heart, I so earnestly sought, in vain, to move