—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the
child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night
and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like
house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished
this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out
early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or
the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full
to allow me to write with composure.—***, —dear ****,—am I always to be
tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in?
How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in
a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach
those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my
eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity,
electrified by sympathy.
I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be
detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours
sincerely and affectionately
* * * *
—— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise
of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!