 the soft lap of prosperity becomes enfeebled by years, the mind also partakes of its enervation; and we have still less reason to expect a vigorous exertion of the mental powers, than of muscular strength at threescore.
THE wisdom therefore, that is in general attributed to age, arises more from a privation of passion, than from experience or any other cause. As the nerves grow rigid, the heart is insensibly rendered callous. The exquisite sensations both of pain and pleasure, after a certain time of life are imperceptibly blunted, by each returning day; and we at last become solely indebted to memory for informing us, that we were ever capable of feeling the extremes of joy or sorrow.
THE only passion, which nature seems to design should remain in its full force in our declining age, is paternal affection; and as the others subside, I should imagine that gains strength—there is a mixture too of self-love in it, which generally makes its existence equal with our own. The

objects of this affection are gradually maturing, under our fostering care; each day they make some advances towards our idea of perfections, a likeness to ourselves; with anxious hopes we watch the tender buds look with delight upon the opening blossom, and gaze enraptured on the blooming fruit—It is our own, we planted, and we reared it! In this most tender point, then the poor old general is now vounded; his armour and his breast plate thrown aside, the barbed arrow sinks into his heart.
SHOULD madame de Carignon die, which I hope she will not, there are abundance of good christians, who would immediately conclude her death to be a judgment on him, for his inhuman treatment of Charlotte. But I, who confess myself a sinner, have not a doubt of his having already atoned his passive guilt, towards her by his contrition.—You are the single person, who appear to be injured by it,—for I am fully satisfied, that Charlotte is no longer unhappy.
I HAVE philosophized and moralized upon this subject, to the extent of my time and paper, perhaps to prevent my entering again upon another on which I am neither philosopher, nor moralist.—I shall therefore, fly from it by bidding you,






MADAME de Carignon is recovered, if it can be called a recovery, for a fine young woman to survive her beauty.—That is indeed, absolutely destroyed; but as her husband's fondness seems unabated by the loss, her homeliness may possibly become an advantage, rather than a misfortune.—Eew, very few women, or men either have strength of mind
