Chapter 51

Saturday.

THIS is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart.

How am I altered by disappointment!--When going to ----, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of sunbeams!--Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to frown--or rather mourn with me.--Every thing is cold--cold as my expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these North east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming--Give me, gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger there.

I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after which I hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the the sense of, by every exertion in my power.

Poor ------ still continues sick, and ------ grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.

I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you--are you not tired of this lingering adieu?

Yours truly

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