I dare say, quoth my mother⸻⸻But stop, dear Sir⸺for what my mother dared to say upon the occasion⸺and what my father did say upon it⸺with her replies and his rejoinders, shall be read, perused, paraphrased, commented, and descanted upon—or to say it all in a word, shall be thumb’d over by Posterity in a chapter apart⸺I say, by Posterity—and care not, if I repeat the word again—for what has this book done more than the Legation of Moses , or the Tale of a Tub , that it may not swim down the gutter of Time along with them?
I will not argue the matter: Time wastes too fast: every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen; the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more⸺everything presses on⸺whilst thou art twisting that lock,⸺see! it grows grey; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make.⸺
⸺Heaven have mercy upon us both!