Of this speculation you are, perhaps, tired, and would rather hear of Sophy.  I hope, before this comes, that her head will be easier, and your head less filled with fears and troubles, which you know are to be indulged only to prevent evil, not to increase it.

Your uneasiness about Sophy is, probably, unnecessary, and, at worst, your own children are healthful, and your affairs prosperous.  Unmingled good cannot be expected; but, as we may lawfully gather all the good within our reach, we may be allowed to lament after that which we lose.  I hope your losses are at an end, and that, as far as the condition of our present existence permits, your remaining life will be happy.  I am, &c.

XXXIII.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Lichfield, March 25, 1776.

DEAR MADAM,—­This letter will not, I hope, reach you many days before me; in a distress which can be so little relieved, nothing remains for a friend, but to come and partake it.

Poor, dear, sweet little boy!  When I read the letter this day to Mrs. Aston, she said, “such a death is the next to translation.”  Yet, however I may convince myself of this, the tears are in my eyes, and yet I could not love him as you loved him, nor reckon upon him for a future comfort, as you and his father reckoned upon him.

He is gone, and we are going!  We could not have enjoyed him long, and shall not long be separated from him.  He has, probably, escaped many such pangs as you are now feeling.

Nothing remains, but that, with humble confidence we resign ourselves to almighty goodness, and fall down, without irreverent murmurs, before the sovereign distributer of good and evil, with hope, that though sorrow endureth for a night, yet joy may come in the morning.

I have known you, madam, too long to think that you want any arguments for submission to the supreme will; nor can my consolation have any effect, but that of showing that I wish to comfort you.  What can be done, you must do for yourself.  Remember first, that your child is happy; and then, that he is safe, not only from the ills of this world, but from those more formidable dangers which extend their mischief to eternity.  You have brought into the world a rational being; have seen him happy during the little life that has been granted him; and can have no doubt but that his happiness is now permanent and immutable.

When you have obtained, by prayer, such tranquillity as nature will admit, force your attention, as you can, upon your accustomed duties and accustomed entertainments.  You can do no more for our dear boy, but you must not, therefore, think less on those whom your attention may make fitter for the place to which he is gone.  I am, dearest, dearest madam, your most affectionate humble servant.

XXXIV.—­To MRS. THRALE.

Sept. 6, 1777.