LETTER LVII.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.
The longer I live, and the more
I see of 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 perplex'd with errours—
Who is there hardy enough to try its 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 encreased—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.
