Tuesday morning.
The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the
course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from
you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.
My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why the quitting England seems
to be a fresh parting. Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak
forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
sensible to every thing. It is surprising, that in London, in a
continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here,
bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by
despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that
withers up all my faculties.
The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I
know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. It
is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been so perpetually the sport
of disappointment, having a heart that has been as it were a mark for
misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. Well, let it
come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!
God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours.
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