58 MEMOm OF JOHN WILSON. 



" Whenever I thought of writing to you, I thought of the dis- 

 tance I was from you, of the sadness I suffered when I bade you 

 farewell, and the loss of almost all the happiness I enjoy in this 

 world by no longer seeing you. All this quite overpowered me, 

 and I could no more have written to you than I could tell you that 

 forenoon I last saw you not to forget me when 1 was away. Your 

 letter has revived me ; and if you have any regard for me, which 

 I believe you have, oh, write often, often ! You know I am un- 

 happy ; comfort me, comfort me ! A few lines will delight me, 

 and you are too kind to refuse me such a gratification. It will also 

 serve to keep you in remembrance of me, when perhaps you might 

 otherwise forget me, which, should it ever happen, would complete 

 my sum of wretchedness. If hearing from me will afford you any 

 pleasure, I will write as often as you choose — a small mark of affec- 

 tion surely to one, to serve whom I would endure any thing on the 

 face of the earth. It will also afford myself greater pleasure than 

 you. When I left you, my dear Margaret, you know that I was 

 afraid that Oxford would be to me a dull, unhappy place. You 

 seemed to think not yourself, and believed that the change of situa- 

 tion and novelty of company would make me forget any thing that 

 distressed me, and even make me think less on those friends I had 

 left. 



" Perhaps though you said this, you did not exactly think it, and 

 wished only to comfort me, which you have so often and so sweetly 

 done. All my suspicions have been verified, and how indeed could 

 it be otherwise ? Oxford is a gay place most certainly, and, I dare 

 say, to people whose minds are at ease, a pleasant one ; but to me 

 it appears very different. It is true, that when I was in Glasgow 

 I endeavored to dissipate my melancholy by company, for which I 

 could often feel nothing but contempt, and by pursuits which I 

 heartily despised. I imagined such a course of life might have 

 moderated the violence of what my mind suffered, and I had cer- 

 tainly acquired such a portion of self-command as frequently to ap- 

 pear the happiest and most indifferent person in company. But 

 this conduct did not do. When alone I was worse than ever, and, 

 added to my other distress, had the idea of being guilty of decep- 

 tion, and following conduct unworthy of myself. Accordingly here 

 I follow another plan. I do not dissipate ; I live retired. I have 

 no need to follow a course of deception, which, if long persevered 



