LETTER LV.
HarringtontoWorthy.
Boston.
AM I a child that I should weep?—I have been meditating on the course of my calamities—Why did my father loveMaria—or rather, why did I love theirHarriot? Curse on this tyrant custom that dooms such helpless children to oblivion or infamy! Had I known her to have been my sister, my love would have been regular, I should have loved her as a sister, I should have marked her beauty—I should have delighted in protecting it. I should have observed her growing virtues—I should have been happy in cherishing their growth. But alas! She is gone—and I cannot stay—I stand on the threshold of a vast eternity.