LETTER XLIX
Thurſday.
Here I am ſtill—and I have juſt received your letter of Monday by the pilot, who promiſed to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind.—It is indeed weariſome to be thus toſſed about without going forward.—I have a violent head-ache—yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, becauſe ——— is unable to do any thing, ſhe is rendered ſo ſick by the motion of the ſhip, as we ride at anchor.
Theſe are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguiſh of mind—compared with the ſinking of a broken heart.—To tell you the truth, I never ſuffered in my life ſo much from depreſſion of ſpirits—from deſpair.—I do not ſleep—or, if I cloſe my eyes, it is to have the moſt terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different caſts of countenance.
I will not, my dear ———, torment you by dwelling on my ſufferings—and will uſe all my efforts to calm my mind, inſtead of deadening it—at preſent it is moſt painfully active. I find I am not equal to theſe continual ſtruggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me ſome comfort—and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you—when we meet again—ſurely we are to meet!—it muſt be to part no more. I mean not to have ſeas between us—it is more than I can ſupport.
The pilot is hurrying me—God bleſs you.
In ſpite of the commodiouſneſs of the veſſel, every thing here would diſguſt my ſenſes, had I nothing elſe to think of—"When the mind's free, the body's delicate;"—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Yours moſt truly
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