As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on
a little;--perhaps it may relieve the load of _wretchedness_ which
presses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill
me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I
should have remained well. I can bear to die--I cannot bear to leave
her. Oh, God! God! God! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds
me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my
travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid
about her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the world of
sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case
when I was in England: I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the
time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes
fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing
her again--Now!--O that I could be buried near where she lives! I
am afraid to write to her--to receive a letter from her--to see her
handwriting would break my heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to see
her name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what
am I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had any
chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the
whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this
fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you
will do immediately, write to Rome (_poste restante_)--if she is well
and happy, put a mark thus +; if--
Remember me to all.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413