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AN ADDRESS, &c.
I. The Princess Charlotte is dead. She no longer
moves, nor thinks, nor feels. She is as inanimate
as the clay with which she is about to
mingle. It is a dreadful thing to know that she is a
putrid corpse, who but a few days since was full of life
and hope; a woman young, innocent, and beautiful,
snatched from the bosom of domestic peace, and
leaving that single vacancy which none can die and
leave not.
II. Thus much the death of the Princess Charlotte has in common with the death of thousands. How many women die in childbed and leave their families of motherless children and their husbands to live on, blighted by the remembrance of that heavy loss? How many women of active and energetic virtues; mild, affectionate, and wise, whose life is as a chain of happiness and union, which once being broken, leaves those whom it bound to perish, have died, and have been deplored with bitterness, which is too deep for words? Some have perished in penury or shame, and their orphan baby has survived, a prey to the scorn and neglect of strangers. Men have watched by the bedside of their expiring wives, and have gone mad when the hideous death-rattle was heard within the throat, regardless of the rosy child sleeping in the lap of the unobservant nurse. The countenance of the physician had been read by the stare of this distracted husband, till the legible despair sunk into his heart. All this has been and is. You walk with a merry heart through
