“My dear Girl.—It is
extremely uncomfortable to write to you thus without expecting, or even daring
to ask for an answer, lest I should involve others in my difficulties, and make
them suffer for protecting me. The French are at present so full of suspicion
that had a letter of James’s
imprudently sent to me been opened, I would not have answered for the
consequence. I have just sent off great part of my MS., which Miss Williams would fain have had me burn,
following her example; and to tell you the truth, my life would not have been
worth much had it been found. It is impossible for you to have any idea of the
impression the sad scenes I have been witness to have left on my mind. The
climate of France is uncommonly fine, the country pleasant, and there is a
degree of ease and even simplicity in the manners of the common people which
attaches me to them. Still death and misery, in every shape of terror, haunt
this devoted country. I certainly am glad that I came to France, because I
never could have had a just opinion of the most extraordinary event that has
ever been recorded, and I have met with some uncommon instances of friendship,
which my heart will ever gratefully store up, and call to mind when the
remembrance is keen of the anguish it has endured for its fellow-creatures at
large—for the unfortunate beings cut off around me, and the still more
unfortunate survivors. If any of the many letters I have written have come to
your hands or Eliza’s, you know
that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most worthy man, who joins to uncommon tenderness
of heart and quickness of feeling, a soundness of understanding and
reasonableness of temper rarely to be met with. Having also been brought up in
the interior parts of America, he is a most natural, unaffected creature. I am
with him now at Havre, and shall remain there, till circumstances point out
what is necessary for me to do. Before I left Paris, I attempted to find the
Laurents, whom I had several times previously sought
for, but to no purpose. And I am apt to think that
| LETTER FROM PARIS. | 219 |
“Where is poor Eliza? From a letter I received many many months after it was written, I suppose she is in Ireland. Will you write to tell her that I most affectionately remember her, and still have in my mind some places for her future comfort. Are you well? But why do I ask? you cannot reply to me. This thought throws a damp on my spirits whilst I write, and makes my letter rather an act of duty than a present satisfaction. God bless you! I will write by every opportunity, and am yours sincerely and affectionately,
