LETTER LIV. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ ALL the scenes of my past life return fresh upon my memory. I examine every circumstance as they pass in review before me—I see nothing to cause any disagreeable or unwelcome sensations—no terrour upbraids—no reproaching conscience stings my bosom as I reflect on the actions that are past. With her I expected happiness—I have expected a vain thing—for there is none—She is gone—gone to a far country—she is preparing a place for me—a place of unutterable bliss—But oh! an immeasurable gulph lies between us—Who can tell the distance that separates us? What labour—what toil—what pain must be endured in traversing the thorny paths that lead to her blessed abode?—And will she not receive me in those happy regions with as much joy—with as sincere a welcome—if I cut short my journey?—And will not the Eternal Dispenser of Good, pardon the awful deed that frees me from this world of misery—the deed by which I obtrude myself into his divine presence? WHY must I wait the lingering hand of the grisly messenger to summon me to the world above? LETTER LV. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ AM I a child that I should weep?—I have been meditating on the course of my calamities—Why did my father love _Maria_—or rather, why did I love their _Harriot_? Curse on this tyrant custom that dooms such helpless children to oblivion or infamy! Had I known her to have been my sister, my love would have been regular, I should have loved her as a sister, I should have marked her beauty—I should have delighted in protecting it. I should have observed her growing virtues—I should have been happy in cherishing their growth. But alas! She is gone—and I cannot stay—I stand on the threshold of a vast eternity. LETTER LVI. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ I AM determined to quit this life. I feel much easier since my determination. The step must not be taken with rashness. I must be steady—calm—collected—I will endeavour to be so.— HER eager solicitation—the anxiety she always expressed for me—When I think she is no more, it wrings my heart with grief, and fills my eyes with tears— —I must go— 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.—