I could not help feeling extremely mortified laſt poſt, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at ——— was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I ſhall not however complain—There are miſfortunes ſo great, as to ſilence the uſual expreſſions of ſorrow—Believe me, there is ſuch a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whoſe very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cheriſh by reflection ſome paſſion, cannot reſt ſatiſfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myſelf, and launched into all the diſſipation poſſible here, only to feel keener anguiſh, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing pleaſe me—had not diſappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, theſe fine evenings, would intereſt me.—My God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful ſenſations?—But it cannot—it ſhall not laſt long.
The poſt is again arrived; I have ſent to ſeek for letters, only to be wounded to the ſoul by a negative.—My brain ſeems on fire, I muſt go into the air.
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LETTER LVIII
July 14.
I am now on my journey to ———. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I ſhould—and, whilſt at night I imagined every inſtant that I heard the half-formed ſounds of her voice,—I aſked myſelf how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpleſs?