_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
WHEN we seek for diversion in any place, and there is nothing
to be found that we wish, it is certainly time to depart.
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.