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unattractive, as did also the monotony of the plantation.
In my own case this unsettled feeling soon passed away, and the old love of letters rapidly revived;--the editing of the “Harvard memorial biographies” affording an easy transition, as was also the work of translating the noble writings of Epictetus, of whom I could think with satisfaction that he was himself a slave, and was the favorite author of Toussaint L'Ouverture, the black military leader.
Moreover, my wife had removed for health's sake to Newport, Rhode Island, and I found ready distraction in the new friendships and social life of that attractive place of residence.
Of this portion of my life I have already given some glimpse in the novel called “Malbone” and in the collection of sketches called “Oldport days,” so that I will not dwell further upon it here.
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