THE pensive and melancholy will muse over the ordinary accidents of life, and swell them, by the power of imagination, to the heaviest calamities. Hence we find a treacherous friend will sensibly affect some men, and a capricious mistress will destroy a real lover: Hence people in misfortune frequently construe the slightest inattention into neglect and insult, and deem their best friends false and ungrateful. The sting of ingratitude, deeply pierces the heart of sensibility. THE passions and affections which govern mankind are very inconsistent. Men, confined to the humble walks of life, sigh for the enjoyment of wealth and power, which, when obtained, become loathsome—The mind unaccustomed to such easy situation, is discontented, and longs to be employed in those things in which it was formerly exercised. THE greatest rulers and potentates become unhappy—they wish for the charms of solitude and retirement, which, when attained, become more irksome than their former condition—_Charles_ the Fifth, of _Spain_, resolved to taste the pleasures of a recluse life, by abdicating the throne—he soon found his imagination had deceived him, and repented of the step he had taken. This lazy life, when compared to the business and grandeur of a court, became tasteless and insipid.—“The day,” says a historian, “he resigned his crown to his son, was the very day in which he repented making him such a present.” IT is a great art to learn to be happy in the state in which we are placed—I advise you to mingle in the concerns of your acquaintances—be cheerful and undisturbed, nor give yourself up to those gloomy ideas which lend only to make you more wretched—If such obtrude themselves, avoid being alone—I had rather been a dupe to my imagination than sacrifice an hour’s calmness to my sensibility or understanding. Determine to be happy, and you will be so— God be with you! LETTER LXII. _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. TOMORROW I shall go—But oh! whither?—