(Caution, a virtue rare, I ween)
For evils with the great abide,
Which dwell not in our sylvan scene.
THESE are the scenes to which I have chosen to retreat; contented with the suffrage of the virtuous and the good, and inattentive to the contemptuous sneer of the giddy and the futile, for even these have the vanity to look with pity on those who voluntarily remove from whatever agrees with their ideas of pleasure. He who has no conception of the beauties of the mind, will contemn a person aukward or illfavoured; and one whose store of enjoyment is drawn from affluence and abundance, will be astonished at the conduct of him who finds cause to rejoice, though surrounded with inconvenience and penury. Hence we judge of the happiness of others by the standard of our own conduct and prejudices.
FROM this misjudging race I retire, without a sigh to mingle in their amusements, nor yet disgusted at whatever is thought of sufficient consequence to engage their pursuits. I fly from the tumult of the town—from scenes of boisterous pleasures and riot, to those of quietness and peace, “where every breeze breathes health, and every sound is the echo of tranquillity.”—On this subject I give my sentiments to you with freedom, from a conviction that I bear the world no spleen; at the same time with a degree of deference to the judgement of others, from a conviction that I may be a little prejudiced.
I HOPE to be with you soon—in the meantime continue to write.
Eliza Holmes.
LETTER VIII.
Worthy to Harrington.
New York.