I am still an invalid—and begin to believe that I ought never to expect
to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body—and, when I endeavour to be
useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace. Confined almost
entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously solicitous for their
future welfare, and mortified beyond measure, when counteracted in my
endeavours to improve them.—I feel all the mother’s fears for the swarm
of little ones which surround me, and observe disorders, without having
power to apply the proper remedies. How can I be reconciled to life,
when it is always a painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the
pleasures I relish?—I allude to rational conversations, and domestic
affections. Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land,
tied to one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be
contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause for
sorrow—and am not without reason detached from life. I shall hope to
hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,