D, ESQ.
SUNDAY MORN. (JUNE 11). FOUR O'CLOCK.

A few words to the verbal information thou sentest me last night
concerning thy poor old man; and then I rise from my seat, shake myself,
refresh, new-dress, and so to my charmer, whom, notwithstanding her
reserves, I hope to prevail upon to walk out with me on the Heath this
warm and fine morning.

The birds must have awakened her before now. They are in full song. She
always gloried in accustoming herself to behold the sun rise--one of
God's natural wonders, as once she called it.

Her window salutes the east. The valleys must be gilded by his rays, by
the time I am with her; for already have they made the up-lands smile, and
the face of nature cheerful.

How unsuitable will thou find this gay preface to a subject so gloomy as
that I am now turning to!

I am glad to hear thy tedious expectations are at last answered.

Thy servant tells me that thou are plaguily grieved at the old fellow's
departure.

I can't say, but thou mayest look as if thou wert; harassed as thou hast
been for a number of days and nights with a close attendance upon a dying
man, beholding his drawing-on hour--pretending, for decency's sake, to
whine over his excruciating pangs; to be in the way to answer a thousand
impertinent inquiries after the health of a man thou wishedest to die--to
pray by him--for so once thou wrotest to me!--To read by him--to be
forced to join in consultation with a crew of solemn and parading
doctors, and their officious zanies, the apothecaries, joined with the
butcherly tribe of scarficators; all combined to carry on the physical
farce, and to cut out thongs both from his flesh and his estate--to have
the superadded apprehension of dividing thy interest in what he shall
leave with a crew of eager-hoping, never-to-be-satisfied relations,
legatees, and the devil knows who, of private gratifiers of passions
laudable and illaudable--in these circumstances, I wonder not that thou
lookest before servants, (as little grieved as thou after heirship,) as
if thou indeed wert grieved; and as if the most wry-fac'd woe had
befallen thee.

Then, as I have often thought, the reflection that must naturally arise
from such mortifying objects, as the death of one with whom we have been
familiar, must afford, when we are obliged to attend it in its slow
approaches, and in its face-twisting pangs, that it will one day be our
own case, goes a great way to credit the appearance