The longer I live, and the more
I &longs;ee of the mi&longs;ery of life—the more my
de&longs;ire of living is extingui&longs;hed. What I
formerly e&longs;teemed trifles, and would not
deign to term misfortunes, now appear with
a formidable a&longs;pect—though I once thought
them harmle&longs;s, and innoxious to my peace,
they a&longs;&longs;ume new terrours every day.—But
is not this ob&longs;ervation general? It is—It is

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thus every &longs;on of human nature, gradually
wi&longs;hes for death, and neglects to &longs;eek for,
and improve tho&longs;e comforts, which by diligent
&longs;earch there is a po&longs;&longs;ibility of attaining.

am I to rea&longs;on from analogy? I know
what has been—the afflictions I have felt;
but what is the pro&longs;pect before me? The
path is darkened by mi&longs;ts—

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 &longs;evere—tho&longs;e, which,
if I live, I &longs;hall &longs;uffer, may be yet more &longs;o—
This idea &longs;inks me to de&longs;pair.

AS a thing becomes irk&longs;ome to us, our
dete&longs;tation is always encrea&longs;ed—Whatever

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object is di&longs;agreeable, we pine and &longs;icken until
it is moved out of &longs;ight. Life growing upon
one in this manner—increa&longs;ing in horrour—
with continual apprehen&longs;ion of death—
a certainty of &longs;urviving every enjoyment,
and no pro&longs;pect of being delivered from suspense—
it is intolerable—he will a&longs;&longs;uredly
be tempted to terminate the bu&longs;ine&longs;s with
his own hand.