Auguſt 7.
Air, exerciſe, and bathing, have reſtored me to health, braced my muſcles, and covered my ribs, even whilſt I have recovered my former activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have ſnatched ſome moments of exquiſite delight, wandering through the woods, and reſting on the rocks.
This ſtate of ſuſpenſe, my friend, is intolerable; we muſt determine on ſomething—and ſoon;—we muſt meet ſhortly, or part for ever. I am ſenſible that I acted fooliſhly—but I was wretched—when we were together—Expecting too much, I let the pleaſure I might have caught, ſlip from me. I cannot live with you—I ought not—if you form another attachment. But I promiſe you, mine ſhall not be intruded on you. Little reaſon have I to expect a ſhadow of happineſs, after the cruel diſappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child ſeems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wiſh you to ſacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it ſhall be my object—if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection muſt not be divided. She muſt be a comfort to me—if I am to have no other—and only know me as her ſupport.—I feel that I cannot endure the anguiſh of correſponding with you—if we are only to correſpond.—No; if you ſeek for happineſs elſewhere, my letters ſhall not interrupt your repoſe. I will be dead to you. I cannot expreſs to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal ſeparation.—You muſt determine—examine yourſelf—But, for God's ſake! ſpare me the anxiety of uncertainty!—I may ſink under the trial; but I will not complain.
Adieu! If I had any thing more to ſay to you, it is all flown, and abſorbed by the moſt tormenting apprehenſions, yet I ſcarcely know what new form of miſery I have to dread.
I ought to beg your pardon for having ſometimes written peeviſhly; but you will impute it to affection, if you underſtand any thing of the heart of
Yours truly
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