LETTER XLII

_[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Clock [May 27, 1795]._

We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.

I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.--It is even now too full to allow me to write with composure.--Imlay,--dear Imlay,--am I always to be tossed about thus?--shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in? How can you love to fly about continually--dropping down, as it were, in a new world--cold and strange!--every other day? Why do you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?--This alone is affection--every thing else is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.

I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely and affectionately

MARY.

Fanny is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----Adieu!