LETTER LVII.
HarringtontoWorthy.
Boston.
THE longer I live, and the more I see the misery of life—the more my desire of living is extinguished. What I formerly esteemed trifles, and would not deign to term misfortunes, now appear with a formidable aspect—though I once thought them harmless, and innoxious to my peace, they assume new terrours every day.—But is not this observation general? It is—It is thus every son of human nature, gradually wishes for death, and neglects to seek for, and improve those comforts, which by diligent search there is a possibility of attaining.
AM I to reason from analogy? I know what has been—the afflictions I have felt; but what is the prospect before me? The path is darkened by mists—
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours—
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours—
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours—
Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with errours—
WHO is there hardy enough to try difficulties? Is not the view horrible! My pains and anxieties have been severe—those which, if I live, I shall suffer, may be yet more so—This idea sinks me to despair.
AS a thing becomes irksome to us, our detestation is always increased—Whatever object is disagreeable, we pine and sicken until it is moved out of sight. Life growing upon one in this manner—increasing in horrour—with continual apprehension of death—a certainty of surviving every enjoyment, and no prospect of being delivered from suspense—it is intolerable—he will assuredly be tempted to terminate the business with his own hand.