Chapter XCII: Letter XIV

I send you _all_ the books I had to review except Dr. J——’s Sermons, which I have begun. If you wish me to look over any more trash this month, you must send it directly. I have been so low-spirited since I saw you—I was quite glad, last night, to feel myself affected by some passages in Dr. J——’s sermon on the death of his wife—I seemed (suddenly) to _find_ my _soul_ again. It has been for some time I cannot tell where. Send me the Speaker, and _Mary_, I want one, and I shall soon want for some paper—you may as well send it at the same time, for I am trying to brace my nerves that I may be industrious. I am afraid reason is not a good bracer—for I have been reasoning a long time with my untoward spirits, and yet my hand trembles. I could finish a period very _prettily_ now, by saying that it ought to be steady when I add that I am yours sincerely,

MARY.

If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—’s s—— on his wife, be it known unto you—I _will_ not do it any other way—I felt some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect to the memory of a man—who, spite of all his faults, I have an affection for—I say _have_, for I believe he is somewhere—_where_ my soul has been gadding perhaps;—but _you_ do not live on conjectures.