July 20, I went to Ashbourne, where I have
been till now; the house in which we live is repairing. I live in too
much solitude, and am often deeply dejected: I wish we were nearer, and
rejoice in your removal to London. A friend, at once cheerful and
serious, is a great acquisition. Let us not neglect one another for the
little time which Providence allows us to hope. Of my health I cannot
tell you, what my wishes persuaded me to expect, that it is much
improved by the season or by remedies. I am sleepless; my legs grow
weary with a very few steps, and the water breaks its boundaries in some
degree. The asthma, however, has remitted; my breath is still much
obstructed, but is more free than it was. Nights of watchfulness produce
torpid days; I read very little, though I am alone; for I am tempted to
supply in the day what I lost in bed. This is my history; like all other
histories, a narrative of misery. Yet am I so much better than in the
beginning of the year, that I ought to be ashamed of complaining. I now
sit and write with very little sensibility of pain or weakness; but when
I rise, I shall find my legs betraying me.
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