Thursday.
Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the
pilot who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as expected,
by the wind. It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without
going forward. I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to take care
of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is
unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the
ship, as we ride at anchor.
These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of
mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth
I never in my life suffered so much from depression of spirits—from
despair. I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most
terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of
countenance.
I will not, my dear ——, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and
will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at
present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these
continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some
comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you, when
we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean
not to have seas between us, it is more than I can support.
The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.
In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would
disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free,
the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Your’s most truly
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