 | The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact |  |
LETTER LXII.
Hartford.
I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will
excuse my writing but one letter, in answer to
the number I have received from you both.
Writing is an employment, which suits me
not at present. It was pleasing to me formerly,
and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances
and events which frequently occupied
my pen in happier days, it now gives
me pain. Yet I have just written a long consolatory
letter to Mrs. Richman. She has
buried her babe; her little Harriot, of whom
she was doatingly fond.
It was a custom with some of the ancients,
we are told, to weep at the birth of their children.
Often should we be impelled to a compliance
with this custom, could we foresee the
future incidents of their lives. I think, at
least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and
us to their removal to a happier state, before
they are capable of tasting the bitterness
of woe.
To shorter labors, and a lighter weight,
Receiv'd but yesterday the gift of breath;
Order'd to morrow, to return to death.”
Our domestic affairs are much as when
you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred
in the neighborhood, worth communicating.
The company and amusements of
the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent
neither of them. Having incurred so much
censure by the indulgence of a gay disposition,
I am now trying what a recluse and solitary
mode of life will produce. You will call me
splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with nobody;
still less with myself. I look around
for happiness, and find it not. The world is
to me a desart! If I indulge myself in temporary
enjoyment, the consciousness or apprehension
of doing amiss, destroys my peace of
mind. And, when I have recourse to books,
if I read those of serious description, they remind
me of an awful suturity, for which I am
unprepared; if history, it discloses facts in
which I have no interest; if novels, they exhibit
scenes of pleasure which I have no prospect
of realizing!
My mamma is solicitously attentive to my
happiness; and though she fails of promoting
it; yet I endeavor to save her the pangs of
disappointment, by appearing what she wishes.
I anticipate, and yet I dread your return;
a paradox this, which time alone can solve.
Continue writing to me, and intreat Mrs.
Sumner, in my name, to do likewise. Your
benevolence must be your reward.
| The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton : a novel, founded on fact | |