Wedneſday Morning.
I was hurried on board yeſterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midſt of miſts and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles.
You will ſcarcely ſuppoſe that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was even ſo—for I wiſhed to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with ſo much hoſpitality and kindneſs. They will probably ſend me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long.
The veſſel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other paſſengers, I have the cabin to myſelf, which is pleaſant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile wearineſs; but I ſeem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of ſuſpence in writing ſome effuſions, than in reading.
What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you anſwer theſe queſtions. My dear friend, my heart ſinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to ſtruggle continually with my affections and feelings?—Ah! why are thoſe affections and feelings the ſource of ſo much miſery, when they ſeem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my uſefulneſs! But I muſt not dwell on this ſubject.—Will you not endeavour to cheriſh all the affection you can for me? What am I ſaying?—Rather forget me, if you can—if other gratifications are dearer to you.—How is every remembrance of mine embittered by diſappointment? What a world is this!—They only ſeem happy, who never look beyond ſenſual or artificial enjoyments.—Adieu!
——— begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.—I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
Yours ſincerely
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