September 6.

I received juſt now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter laſt night, into which imperceptibly ſlipt ſome of my bitterneſs of ſoul. I will copy the part relative to buſineſs. I am not ſufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and repoſe on the idea that I am happy.

Gracious God! It is impoſſible for me to ſtifle ſomething like reſentment, when I receive freſh proofs of your indifference. What I have ſuffered this laſt year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy ſubſtitute for wiſdom, inſenſibility—and the lively ſympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleaſure and I have ſhaken hands.

I ſee here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converſe with people immerſed in trade and ſenſuality.

I am weary of travelling—yet ſeem to have no home—no reſting place to look to.—I am ſtrangely caſt off.—How often, paſſing through the rocks, I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature—I have never met with one, ſofter than the ſtone that I would fain take for my laſt pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a deluſion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle—and, when I am conſcious that I have fulfilled the duties of my ſtation, almoſt to a forgetfulneſs of myſelf, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus abandoned?"

You ſay now    —    —    —

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I do not underſtand you. It is neceſſary for you to write more explicitly—and determine on ſome mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this ſuſpenſe—Decide—Do you fear to ſtrike another blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I ſhall not write to you again, till I receive an anſwer to this. I muſt compoſe my tortured ſoul, before I write on indifferent ſubjects.    —    —

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