LETTER LIV.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
All the scenes of my past life return
fresh upon my memory. I examine
every circumstance as they pass in review before
me—I see nothing to cause any disagreeable
or unwelcome sensations—no terrour
upbraids me—no reproaching conscience
stings my bosom as I reflect on the actions
that are past. With her I expected happiness—I
have expected a vain thing—for there
is none—She is gone—gone to a far country
—she is preparing a place for me—a place of
unutterable bliss—But ah! an immeasurable
gulph lies between us—Who can tell the
distance that separates us? What labour—
what toil—what pain must be endured in
traversing the thorny paths that lead to her
blessed abode?—And will she not receive me
into those happy regions with as much joy—
with as sincere a welcome—if I cut short my
journey?—And will not the Eternal Dispenser
of Good, pardon the awful deed that frees
me from this world of misery—the deed by
which I obtrude myself into his divine presence?
WHY must I wait the lingering hand of
the grifly messenger to summon me to the
world above?
