July 7.
I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving
a letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have
hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to
silence the usual expressions of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a
thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy prays
upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion,
cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have
endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation
possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from
life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My
God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive to painful
sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.
The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be
wounded to the soul by a negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go
into the air.
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