LETTER LXXIII.

Saturday Night.

I HAVE been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.--

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

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Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.

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