Wednesday Morning.
I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having
changed. But before evening it steered round to the old point; and here
we are, in the midst of mists and waters, only taking advantage of the
tide to advance a few miles.
You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it
was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt
pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had
treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably
send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely
to remain, I am afraid to think how long.
The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted
kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to
myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to
beguile weariness; but I seem inclined rather to employ the dead moments
of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.
What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time
before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within
me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and
feelings? Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so
much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and
extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. Will you not
endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I
saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other gratifications are dearer
to you. How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
What a world is this! They only seem happy, who never look beyond
sensual or artificial enjoyments. Adieu.
—— begins to play with the cabin boy, and is as gay as a lark. I will
labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
Your’s sincerely
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