LETTER LIII.
June 29.
I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any serious consequences.
—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns are here so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.
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