July 7.
I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to silence the usual expressions of sorrow——Believe me, there is such a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy prays upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive to painful sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.
The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a negative. My brain seems on fire. I must go into the air.
* * * *
LETTER LVIII.
July 14.
I am now on my journey to ——. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her voice—I asked myself how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?
Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the winds to the shorn lamb;” but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!