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LETTERS.
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
* * * *
LETTER
