LETTER LXVIII.
November 15.
I THANK you, my good friend, for interesting yourself so kindly
in what relates to me, and for the good advice you give me; and I
beg of you to make yourself easy. Leave me to my sufferings;
surrounded as I am, I have still strength enough to endure them
to the end. I revere our religion; you know I do: I am sensible
that it often gives strength to the feeble, and comfort to the
afflicted. -- But has it, should it have this effect on all men
equally? Consider this vast universe, and you will find millions
for whom it never has existed; and millions, whether it is
preached to them or {163} not, for whom it never will exist. --
Do not give a wrong construction to this, I beg of you. I don't
love vain disputes on subjects which we are all equally ignorant
of. What is the destiny of man? -- to fill up the measure of his
sufferings, and drink up the bitter draught. -- And if the cup
appeared bitter even to the Son of the Most High, why should I
affect a foolish pride, and say my cup is sweet? Why should I be
ashamed to tremble in that fearful moment, when my soul shall be
suspended between existence and annihilation -- when dissolution,
like a flash of lightning, shall illuminate the dark gulph of
futurity -- when every thing shakes around me, and the whole
world vanishes away? -- This is the voice of a creature oppressed
beyond all resource, and who feels with terror that he cannot
escape destruction -- "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken
me?" -- Should I be ashamed to use this expression? He who
spreads out the heavens as it were a garment, felt terror
himself.
