Mr. Broome is here every day.
God knows the quality of this epistle; but the quantity I am certain
you won't complain of. 'Tis like throwing the dice--a mere game at
hazard; like all gamblers, I am always in hopes the last will prove a
lucky cast. Pray, in what consists the pleasure of a familiar
correspondence? In writing without form or reflection your ideas and
feelings of the moment, trusting to the partiality of your friend
every imperfect thought, and to his candour every ill-turned phrase.
Such are the letters I love, and such I request of those I love. It
must be a very depraved mind from whom such letters are not
acceptable.
Neither the packet you left at Kingston, nor the money and greatcoat
by Colonel Gausbeck, have yet reached me. I wish you could have passed
that leisure four weeks with me at Frederick's. How pleasant such a
party would have been. How much quiet we should have enjoyed.
July 3d.
I was interrupted yesterday by the death of Charlotte's child. Though
a long-expected event, still the scene is painful. The mother's tears
were almost too much for me. I hope nothing new will occur to impede
my journey. I set off to-morrow morning.
I am not so sick as when I wrote you last, nor so well as when you
left me. I confess I have neglected the use of those medicines I found
relief from. The situation of my family has obliged me to neglect
myself, nor can I possibly use them at Frederick's.
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