will be entirely divided. I want not protection without
affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed.
I had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way
to superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum
necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go
to Switzerland. I shall not remain at ----, living expensively. But be
not alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.

Adieu! I am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if
shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.

God bless you.

* * * *

* * * * *

LETTER LXV.

September 6.

I RECEIVED just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter
last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul.
I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to
imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of
life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose
on the idea that I am happy.

Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like
resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I
have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that
happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies
which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--They
are the agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and I have shaken hands.

I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people
immersed in trade and sensuality.

I am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting place to
look to.--I am strangely cast off.--How often, passing through the rocks,
I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them,
and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the
affections of my nature--I have never met with one, softer than the stone
that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it
was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound
together by affection or principle--and, when I am conscious that I have
fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself,
I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus
abandoned?"

You say now -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --

I do not unde