LETTER LXII.
HarringtontoWorthy.
Boston.
WHEN we seek for diversion in any place, and there is nothing to be found that we wish, it is certainly time to depart.
TOMORROW I go—There is nothing here that can calm the tumult of my soul—I fly from the sight of the human countenance—I fly from the face of day—I fly from books—Books that could always cheer me in a melancholy moment, are now terrifying—They recall scenes to my recollection that are past—pleasant scenes that I am never moreto enjoy. They present pictures of futurity—I just opened a book, and these words that I read:—“The time of my fading is near, and the blast that shall scatter my leaves. Tomorrow shall the traveller come, he that saw me in my beauty shall come; his eyes shall search the field, but they will not find me.”
THESE words pierce me to the quick—they are a dismal prospect of my approaching fate.
TOMORROW I shall go—But oh! whither?—
O! MY friend, when we find nothing we desire in this world, it is time to depart. To live is a disgrace—to die is a duty.
Farewel.
Farewel.
Farewel.
Farewel.