LETTER LVII.

July 7.

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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