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