LETTER LXII.
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TO MISS JULIA GRANBY.
Hartford.
DEAR JULIA,
I hope Mrs. Sumner and you will
excu&longs;e my writing but one letter, in an&longs;wer to
the number I have received from you both.
Writing is an employment, which &longs;uits me
not at pre&longs;ent. It was plea&longs;ing 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 ju&longs;t written a long consolatory
letter to Mrs. Richman. She has
buried her babe; her little Harriot, of whom
&longs;he was doatingly fond.
It was a cu&longs;tom with &longs;ome of the ancients,
we are told, to weep at the birth of their children.
Often &longs;hould we be impelled to a compliance
with this cu&longs;tom, could we fore&longs;ee the
future incidents of their lives. I think, at
lea&longs;t, that the uncertainty of their conduct and
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condition in more advanced age, may reconcile
us to their removal to a happier &longs;tate, before
they are capable of ta&longs;ting the bitterne&longs;s
of woe.
“Happy the babe, who, priviledg'd by fate,
To &longs;horter labors, and a lighter weight,
Receiv'd but ye&longs;terday the gift of breath;
Order'd to morrow, to return to death.”
Our dome&longs;tic affairs are much as when
you left us. Nothing remarkable has occurred
in the neighborhood, worth communicating.
The company and amu&longs;ements of
the town are as u&longs;ual, I &longs;uppo&longs;e. I frequent
neither of them. Having incurred &longs;o much
cen&longs;ure by the indulgence of a gay di&longs;po&longs;ition,
I am now trying what a reclu&longs;e and &longs;olitary
mode of life will produce. You will call me
&longs;plenetic. I own it. I am plea&longs;ed with nobody;
&longs;till le&longs;s with my&longs;elf. I look around
for happine&longs;s, and find it not. The world is
to me a de&longs;art! If I indulge my&longs;elf in temporary
enjoyment, the con&longs;ciou&longs;ne&longs;s or apprehension
of doing ami&longs;s, de&longs;troys my peace of
mind. And, when I have recour&longs;e to books,
if I read tho&longs;e of &longs;erious de&longs;cription, they remind
me of an awful &longs;uturity, for which I am
unprepared; if hi&longs;tory, it di&longs;clo&longs;es facts in
which I have no intere&longs;t; if novels, they exhibit
&longs;cenes of plea&longs;ure which I have no prospect
of realizing!
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My mamma is &longs;olicitou&longs;ly attentive to my
happine&longs;s; and though &longs;he fails of promoting
it; yet I endeavor to &longs;ave her the pangs of
di&longs;appointment, by appearing what &longs;he wi&longs;hes.
I anticipate, and yet I dread your return;
a paradox this, which time alone can &longs;olve.
Continue writing to me, and intreat Mrs.
Sumner, in my name, to do likewi&longs;e. Your
benevolence mu&longs;t be your reward.
Eliza Wharton.
Foster, Hannah (Webster), 1759-1840 [1797], The coquette, or, The history of Eliza Wharton: a novel, founded on fact (Samuel Etheridge, Boston) [word count] [eaf104].
