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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