It Ought Surely To Be The Punishment Of The
Wicked Only.
I bring that cup to my lips, of which I must soon
taste, and shudder at its bitterness.
What then is life, I ask
myself, is it a gracious gift? No, it is too bitter; a gift means
something valuable conferred, but life appears to be a mere
accident, and of the worst kind: we are born to be victims of
diseases and passions, of mischances and death: better not to be
than to be miserable. - Thus impiously I roam, I fly from one erratic
thought to another, and my mind, irritated by these acrimonious
reflections, is ready sometimes to lead me to dangerous extremes of
violence. When I recollect that I am a father, and a husband, the
return of these endearing ideas strikes deep into my heart. Alas!
they once made it to glow with pleasure and with every ravishing
exultation; but now they fill it with sorrow. At other times, my
wife industriously rouses me out of these dreadful meditations, and
soothes me by all the reasoning she is mistress of; but her
endeavours only serve to make me more miserable, by reflecting that
she must share with all these calamities, the bare apprehensions of
which I am afraid will subvert her reason. Nor can I with patience
think that a beloved wife, my faithful help-mate, throughout all my
rural schemes, the principal hand which has assisted me in rearing
the prosperous fabric of ease and independence I lately possessed,
as well as my children, those tenants of my heart, should daily and
nightly be exposed to such a cruel fate.
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