LETTER LX.
HarringtontoWorthy.
Boston.
HOW vain is the wish that sighs for the enjoyment of worldly happiness. Our imagination dresses up a phantom to impose on our reason: As Pygmalion loved the work of his own hand—so do we fall in love with the offspring of our brain. But our work illudes our embrace—we find no substance in it—and then fall a-weeping and complain of disappointment. Miserable reasoners are we all.
WHY should I mourn the loss ofHarriotany longer? Such is my situation—in the midst of anxiety and distress, I complain of what cannot be remedied.—I lament the loss of that which is irretrievable: So on the sea-beat shore, the hopeless maid, unmindful of the storm, bewails her drowned lover.