INGRATITUDE, then, is constitutional, and inseparable from human nature, but it ought not to fill us with surprize, because it is no new discovery—It has ever been invariably the characteristick of man. Is not the page of antiquity distained with blood of those who ought to have received honour and adoration? Behold the brilliant race of the world’s benefactors: Consider their benevolent actions, and regard their ungrateful return—these benefactors, who have been sent from Heaven to inform and entertain mankind, to defend the world from the arm of tyranny, and to open the gates of salvation, have been despised, and banished, and poisoned and crucified.
BEHOLD the support of the Roman power, the invincible Belisarius! who protected his country from the ravage of the Huns, and displayed the Roman eagle in every quarter of the globe! Behold him fall a sacrifice to malice, to faction and ingratitude! Behold him cast out by the country he had defended, and for which he had wasted his life to protect and honour, and left alone to deplore his unfortunate condition, when he was old, and blind, and naked and miserable!
UNFORTUNATE is the man who trusts his happiness to the precarious friendship of the world—I every day become more of a misanthrope, and see nothing to increase my desire of living, but your esteem and affection. I want advice, but am too proud to let the world know I am weak enough to be under obligation to anyone else.
THAT you may never want friends or advice, is the sincere prayer of
Yours &c.
LETTER LIV.
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?