_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
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—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 oh! 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 in 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 grisly messenger to summon me
to the world above?