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have eight years laboured under affliction with perseverance, but have found no reward. By industry have I made myself what I am; by ministerial favour, never. Worn out and weak, the history of your life, worthy sir, fell into my hands, and poured balsam into my wounds. There I saw sufferings immeasurably greater; there, indeed, beheld fortitude most worthy of admiration. Compared to you, of what could I complain? Receive, noble German, my warmest thanks; while I live they shall flow. And should you find a fortunate moment, in the presence of your King, speak of me as one consigned to poverty; as one whose talents are buried in oblivion. Say to him--'Mighty King! stretch forth thy hand, and dry up his tears.' I know the nobleness of your mind, and doubt not your good wishes." To the Professor's letter I returned the following answer:-- "I was affected, sir, by your letter. I never yet was unmoved, when the pen was obedient to the dictates of the heart. I feel for your situation; and if my example can teach wisdom even to the wise, I have cause to triumph. This is the sweetest of rewards. At Berlin I have received much honour, but little more. Men are deaf to him who confides only in his right. What have I gained? Shadowy fame for myself, and the vapour of hope for my heirs! "Truth and Trenck, my good friend, flourish not in courts. You complain of priestcraft. He who would disturb their covetousness, he who speaks against the false opinions they scatter, considers not priests, and their aim, which is to dazzle the stupid and stupefy the wise. Deprecate their wrath! avoid their poisoned shafts, or they will infect tiny peace: will blast thy honour. And wherefore should we incur this danger. To cure ignorance of error is impossible. Let us then silently steal to our graves, and thus small we escape the breath of envy. He who should enjoy all even thought could grasp, should yet have but little. Having acquired this knowledge, the passions of the soul are lulled to apathy. I behold error, and I laugh; do thou, my friend, laugh also. If that can comfort us, men will do our memory justice--when we are dead! Fame plants her laurels over the grave, and there they flourish best. "BARON TRENCK "_Schangulach_, _near Konigsberg_, _April_ 30_th_, 1787." "P.S--I have spoken, worthy Professor, the feelings of my heart, in
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