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 more to 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.
LETTER LXIII.
Worthy to Mrs. Holmes.
Boston.
I ARRIVED in town last evening—you desire me to write you a statement of affairs as I should find them here—and of my marriage with the amiable Myra—I promised to obey—but how little do we know of the termination or consequences of the most probable event!
I SAW my beloved—her eyes were yet heavy and smarting with weeping for the death of Harriot—and this, once the house of joy and cheerfulness, is turned into the house of mourning. My unfortunate friend had just then fallen into a calm sleep, and it was impossible to see him—it was what I very much desired—but it was the wish of the family that I should desist for the present—he had not slept the evening before—he had been heard walking across his chamber all the night, with little intermission, oftentimes talking to himself in a passionate tone of voice.