_[Hull, June, 1795] Tuesday Morning._
The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the
course of a few hours.--I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you--Should
one arrive, it will be sent after me.
My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why----The quitting England seems
to be a fresh parting.--Surely you will not forget me.--A thousand weak
forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual
conflict of mind, I was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by
the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to
be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my
faculties.
The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know
not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--It is not
a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of
disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for
misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--Well, let it
come--I care not!--what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!
God bless you--I am most affectionately and sincerely yours