Note 16: — Chapter X

'After all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! Why cannot I sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? But something whispers, "this would be wrong."—How shall I tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted, associations?—And must I live—live for what? God only knows! Yet, how am I sure that there is a God—is he wise—is he powerful—is he benevolent? If he be, can he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble, impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their choice—impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through mistake, into calamity?—Ah! my friend, who will condemn the poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and accelerate the hour of repose.16 Who would be born if they could help it? You would perhaps—you may do good—But on me, the sun shines only to mock my woes—Oh! that I had never seen the light.