LETTER XLVII.
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.
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