I do not inquire whether I have a right to dispose of myself contrary
to the will of those who gave me birth; but whether I can do it
without involving them in a mortal affliction; whether I can abandon
them without bringing them to despair; whether alas! I have a right to
take away their life who gave me mine? How long has the virtuous mind
taken upon itself thus to balance the rights of consanguinity and laws
of nature? Since when has the feeling heart presumed thus nicely to
distinguish the bounds of filial gratitude? Is it not a crime to
proceed in questioning our duty to its very utmost limits? Will any
one so scrupulously enquire into its extent, unless they are tempted
to go beyond it? Shall I cruelly abandon those by whom I live and
breathe, those who so tenderly preserve the life and being they gave
me; those who have no hope, no pleasure, but in me? A father near
sixty years of age! A mother weak and languishing? I their only child!
Shall I leave them without help in the solitude and troubles of old
age; at a time when I should exercise towards them that tender
solicitude they have lavished on me? Shall I involve their latter days
in shame and sorrow? Will not my troubled conscience incessantly
upbraid me, and represent my despairing parents breathing out their
last in curses on the ungrateful daughter that forsook and dishonoured
them? No, my Lord, virtue, whose paths I have forsaken, may in turn
abandon me, and no longer actuate my heart, but this horrible idea
will supply its dictates; will follow, will torment me, every hour of
my life, and make me miserable, in the midst of happiness. In a word,
if I am doomed to be unhappy the rest of my days, I will run the
risque of every other remorse; but this is too horrible for me to
support. I confess, I cannot invalidate your arguments. I have but too
great an inclination to think them just: but my Lord, you are
unmarried, don’t you think a man ought to be a father himself to
advise the children of others? As to me, I am determined what to do:
my parents will make me unhappy, I know they will: but it will be less
hard for me to support my own misery than the thought of having been
the cause of theirs; for which reason I will never forsake my father’s
house. Be gone then, ye sweet and flattering illusions! Ideas of so
desirable a felicity! Go, vanish like a dream; for such I will ever
think ye. And you, too generous friend, lay aside your agreeable
designs, and let their remembrance only remain in the bottom of a
heart, too grateful ever to forget them. If our misfortunes, however,
are not too great to discourage your noble mind; if your generosity is
not totally exhausted, there is yet a way to exercise it with
reputation, and he whom you honour under the name of friend may under
your care be deserving of it. Judge not of him by the situation in
which you now see him; his extravagance is not the effect of
pusillanimity, but of an ambitious and susceptible disposition, making