Writing is
an employment which suits me not at present. It was pleasing to me
formerly, and therefore, by recalling the idea of circumstances and
events which frequently occupied my pen in happier days, it now gives me
pain. Yet I have just written a long consolatory letter to Mrs. Richman.
She has buried, her babe--her little Harriet, of whom she was dotingly
fond.
It was a custom with some of the ancients, we are told, to weep at the
birth of their children. Often should we be impelled to a compliance
with this custom, could we foresee the future incidents of their lives.
I think, at least, that the uncertainty of their conduct and condition
in more advanced age may reconcile us to their removal to a happier
state before they are capable of tasting the bitterness of woe.
"Happy the babe, who, privileged by fate
To shorter labors and a lighter weight,
Received but yesterday the gift of breath,
Ordered to-morrow to return to death."
Our domestic affairs are much as when you left us. Nothing remarkable
has occurred in the neighborhood worth communicating. The company and
amusements of the town are as usual, I suppose. I frequent neither of
them. Having incurred so much censure by the indulgence of a gay
disposition, I am now trying what a recluse and solitary mode of life
will, produce. You will call me splenetic. I own it. I am pleased with
nobody; still less with myself.
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