LETTER L
Saturday.
This is the fifth dreary day I have been impriſoned by the wind, with every outward object to diſguſt the ſenſes, and unable to baniſh the remembrances that ſadden my heart.
How am I altered by diſappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the elaſticity of my mind was ſufficient to ward off wearineſs—and the imagination ſtill could dip her bruſh in the rainbow of fancy, and ſketch futurity in ſmiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in ſearch of ſunbeams!—Will any ever warm this deſolated heart? All nature ſeems to frown—or rather mourn with me.—Every thing is cold—cold as my expectations! Before I left the ſhore, tormented, as I now am, by theſe North eaſt chillers, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious Heaven! at leaſt, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that ſtill warms this agitated boſom—compelling life to linger there.
I am now going on ſhore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to ſeek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk—after which I hope to ſleep—for, confined here, ſurrounded by diſagreeable ſmells, I have loſt the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almoſt drives me to the brink of madneſs—only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feveriſh ſlumbers I ſometimes fall into, the miſery I am labouring to blunt the the ſenſe of, by every exertion in my power.
Poor ——— ſtill continues ſick, and ——— grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.
I hope this will be the laſt letter I ſhall write from England to you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?
Yours truly
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