LADY MARCHMONT TO SIR JASPER
MEREDITH.
Which was the true philosopher?—the sage
Who to the sorrows and the crimes of life
Gave tears—or he who laughed at all he saw?
Such mockery is bitter, and yet just:
And Heaven well knows the cause there is to weep.
Methinks that life is what the actor is—
Outside there is the quaint and gibing mask;
Beneath, the pale and careworn countenance.
My dear, kind Uncle,—I cannot tell you the effect which the sight of your handwriting had upon me. It was the first letter that I ever had from you in my life. How bitterly it reminded me that we were separated! and yet I was very glad to hear from you. I am ashamed to tell you that I cried like a child before I opened it, or rather before I read it: still, it has made me much happier. It reminded me, that there was one person to whom every thing that concerned me was an object
