WERE it possible that I _could live_ with her, should I be happy? Would her presence restore peace and tranquility to my disordered mind? Ah no! it never would _here_—it _never_ would. I will fly to the place where she is gone—our love will there be refined—I will lay my sorrows before her—and she shall wipe away all tears from my eyes. WHEN the disembodied spirit flies above—when it leaves behind the senseless clay, and wings its flight—it matters not to me what they do with his remains. Cover his head with a clod or a stone, It is all one—it is all one! LETTER LVII. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ THE longer I live, and the more I see 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 perplexed with errours— WHO is there hardy enough to try 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 increased—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. LETTER LVIII. _Worthy_ to _Harrington_. _Boston._ YOU argue as if your reason were perverted—Let your mind be employed, and time will wear out these gloomy ideas; for it is certainly a truth, the _love of life increases with age_—Your letters, therefore, are predicated on the most erroneous principles.