“The deed is done, and I am virtually a free man.
* * * What had I better do in these circumstances?
I dare not write to her—I dare not write to her father. She has shot me through
with poisoned arrows, and I think another ‘winged wound’ would
finish me. It is a pleasant sort of balm she has left in my heart. One thing I agree with you in—it will
remain there for ever—but yet not long. It festers and consumes me. If it were
not for my little boy, whose face I see struck blank at the news, and looking
through the world for pity, and meeting with contempt, I should soon settle the
question by my death. That is the only thought that
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WILLIAM HAZLITT. | 181 |
“I had hopes, I had prospects to come—the flattering of
something like fame—a pleasure in writing—health even would have come back to
me with her smile. She has blighted all—turned all to poison and drivelling
tears. Yet the barbed arrow is in my heart—I can neither endure it nor draw it
out, for with it flows my life’s blood. I had dwelt too long upon Truth
to trust myself with the immortal thoughts of love. That
—— —— might have been mine—and now never can:
these are the two sole propositions that for ever stare me in the face, and
look ghastly in at my poor brain. I am in some sense proud that I can feel this
dreadful passion. It makes me a kind of peer in the kingdom of love. But I
could have wished it had been for an object that, at least, could
182 | WILLIAM HAZLITT. |
“Will you call at Mr. ——’s school, and tell my little boy I’ll write to him or see him on Saturday morning. Poor little fellow!”