Aug. 7.
Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my
muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former
activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched
some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and
resting on the rocks.
This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on
something—and soon; we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am
sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched, when we were
together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught,
slip from me. I cannot live with you, I ought not, if you form another
attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little
reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel
disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to
depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a
chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I
can provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part
to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a
comfort to me, if I am to have no other, and only know me as her
support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with
you, if we are only to correspond. No; if you seek for happiness
elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to
you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an
eternal separation. You must determine, examine yourself—But, for God’s
sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty! I may sink under the trial;
but I will not complain.
Adieu! If I had anything more to say to you, it is all flown, and
absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what
new form of misery I have to dread.
I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but
you will impute it to affection, if you understand any thing of the
heart of
Yours truly
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