Yet dare I not indulge in these melancholy reflections. I find my head strangely working again—Pen, begone!
FRIDAY, SEPT. 15.
I resume, in a sprightly vein, I hope—Mowbray and Tourville have just now—
But what of Mowbray and Tourville?—What's the world?—What's any body in it?—
Yet they are highly exasperated against thee, for the last letter thou wrotest to them*—such an unfriendly, such a merciless—
* This Letter appears not.
But it won't do!—I must again lay down my pen.—O Belford! Belford! I am still, I am still most miserably absent from myself!—Shall never, never more be what I was!
***
Saturday—Sunday—Nothing done. Incapable of any thing.
MONDAY, SEPT. 18.