The train of thoughts which the writing of this epiſtle awoke, makes me ſo wretched, that I muſt take a walk, to rouſe and calm my mind. But firſt, let me tell you, that, if you really wiſh to promote my happineſs, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourſelf. You have great mental energy; and your judgment ſeems to me ſo juſt, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in diſcuſſing one ſubject.
The poſt does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I cannot yet ſay when the veſſel will ſail in which I have determined to depart.
Saturday Morning.
Your ſecond letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, in ſuppoſing that I did not mention you with reſpect; though, without my being conſcious of it, ſome ſparks of reſentment may have animated the gloom of deſpair—Yes; with leſs affection, I ſhould have been more reſpectful. However the regard which I have for you, is ſo unequivocal to myſelf, I imagine that it muſt be ſufficiently obvious to every body elſe. Beſides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ——, and that I deſtroyed from delicacy before you ſaw them, becauſe it was only written (of courſe warmly in your praiſe) to prevent any odium being thrown on you[133-A].
I am harraſſed by your embarraſſments, and ſhall certainly uſe all my efforts, to make the buſineſs terminate to your ſatiſfaction in which I am engaged.
My friend—my deareſt friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the moſt ſacred principles of my ſoul, and the yearns of—yes, I will ſay it—a true, unſophiſticated heart.
Yours moſt truly
* * * *
If the wind be fair, the captain talks of ſailing on Monday; but I am afraid I ſhall be detained ſome days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want this ſupport) till you are ſure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any ſhould arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——'s friend, I promiſe you) from whom I have received great civilities, will ſend them after me.
