THE idea chills me—I am frozen with horrour—cold damps hang on my trembling body—My soul is filled with a thousand troubled sensations—I must depart—it must be so—My love for thee, O Harriot! is dearer than life—Thou hast first sat out—and I am to follow.—
WERE it possible that I could live with her, should I be happy? Would her presence restore peace and tranquility to my disordered mind? Ah no! it never would here—it never would. I will fly to the place where she is gone—our love will there be refined—I will lay my sorrows before her—and she shall wipe away all tears from my eyes.
WHEN the disembodied spirit flies above—when it leaves behind the senseless clay, and wings its flight—it matters not to me what they do with his remains.
Cover his head with a clod or a stone,
It is all one—it is all one!
LETTER LVII.
Harrington to Worthy.
Boston.
THE longer I live, and the more I see the misery of life—the more my desire of living is extinguished. What I formerly esteemed trifles, and would not deign to term misfortunes, now appear with a formidable aspect—though I once thought them harmless, and innoxious to my peace, they assume new terrours every day.—But is not this observation general? It is—It is thus every son of human nature, gradually wishes for death, and neglects to seek for, and improve those comforts, which by diligent search there is a possibility of attaining.
AM I to reason from analogy? I know what has been—the afflictions I have felt; but what is the prospect before me? The path is darkened by mists—