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Yes, brother! let God be glorified, whether by suffering, or life, or death!"

approve, she looked kindly on her attendants, and said, "I hope I have not spoken sharply.”

So far was she from this, that her whole conduct was marked with the greatest gentleness. She resigned herself to the most trying measures, for the satisfaction of her friends, when she had relinquished all hope of recovery; and the smallest attentions were sure to be met with kind acknowledgments.

O brother, I am so frail-so helpless-so very helpless! In these deep waters, I often seem just On being told that her brother was coming to her like Peter, ready to sink; and, like him, I cry, room, after a long and heavy conflict, she imme'Lord, save, or I perish!" diately said, still alive to all the delicacies of her "But you did not, like him, challenge Provi-sex-"Then, Maria, do see that the room is in or dence."

"No, no, brother; the Lord brought me here, and he supports me, and will support me!"

"OI cannot sufficiently admire the Saviour, who, in such circumstances as his, could say, 'Not my will, but thine be done!' He was human as well as divine; he saw all his sufferings beforehand; and his sufferings were every way peculiar and inconceivable; and he felt every thing as we do; and he said, 'Not my will, but thine be done!' O what resignation!"

"I have had a night of dreadful pain. It has been as though every joint and nerve in the body were rent asunder. I have not so much as the tip of the finger free from pain. I never could have thought the body was capable of so much suffering.

Fearing that this language might be mistaken for complaint, she continued "This is better than I deserve; this is better than the pleasures of the world and of sin; this is nothing to what my Saviour suffered; his were the sufferings of the soul mine are those of the body. O praise him, for he is good; his mercy endureth for ever-praise himpraise him!"

der, and-my person? Is that nice and becoming? -Do put me to rights-that I know will please. my dear brother!"

I had now obtained more of self-command, and was much with my sister: and though she had wonderful power to restrain her feelings when I was present, it was impossible not to be acutely af fected by her afflictions.

These afflictions, continuing day after day, and each day with more hopelessness, could not be desired. I could not, indeed, bring myself to utter such words, but the inward sentiment of the heart was, "that if life could only be held on such terms, life itself, dear as it was, might terminate." So may we be brought to ask, what, of all other things, we dreaded to realize!

On entering her chamber at this time, I took my seat by her side, and gave her some cider, the only thing she could now take-" Brother," she said, " you got me this cider-it is so acceptable!-Thank you, thank you. O how sweet is the kindness of friends! How great are my mercies!

"Is it not mysterious, brother, that I still am appointed to suffer?"

'Yes, my dear; but while we continue here, God has some end to answer by us." "Yes, brother, all is right!"

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'Now," I said, we believe it; by-and-by we shall see it."

But all this cannot so fully reveal the serenity and composure of her spirit as the interest she still took in the welfare and even transitory feelings of others; and her watchfulness over herself in her conduct towards them. In her most pungent suffer- "O yes!" she replied; "now I must walk by faith ings, there was the same disregard of herself, the-sense won't do now-won't do now!" same consideration and love of others. It was really surprising!

In a most severe paroxysm of pain, she said-" I have been fearing lest my sufferings should cause any who see them, or may hear of them, to stumble; but remember, this is my dying testimony- Behold, happy is the man whom the Lord correcteth!"

Gazing on her brother's averted and troubled features, she said, "Brother! It is such a pleasure to think of you."

"I am pleased that it is, my dear."

That, brother, gives me greater pleasure still !” "And this pleasure, I trust, will never be taken from us!"

On hearing her nurse, who was affected by her "Never-never!" she replied with fervency. torments, say-"Dear creature, she will have had But who shall successfully contend with death! all her sufferings in this life."-She immediately The youngest and the strongest must utterly fail took it up, and with peculiar earnestness replied, before his unsparing and all-powerful hand. The "No, nurse, that is a fatal deception! Our depend last and severest attack of disease was made early ance must be, not on our own sufferings, but on the on the morning of December the eleventh; and I sufferings of Christ. We all deserve to suffer for was suddenly called up to witness a struggle that ever, and if we escape this, it must be by the Lord was supposed to be fatal. But the voice was not in Jesus Christ. Remember, nurse, by faith in the the storm. The divine goodness had graciously Lord Jesus Christ, as penitent sinners! no other way!' appointed (and I cannot sufficiently adore it) that In the midst of most violent pain, she turned to the spirit, which was prepared meekly to resign its Maria, and said, " Mind, my dear, above all things, habitation at its Father's bidding, should not seem that you seek to be rooted and grounded in the faith. to be forced from it, amid the throes of convulsion You will surely want it when you come to this. O and the wildness of delirium. Martha, after susit is a solemn thing to step from one world to an-taining, in the spirit we have recorded, a desperate other! we can never take such another step-so solemn! See that you are ready for it. Walk, my dear Maria, near to God, walk circumspectly-be familiar with another world-the end of all things is at hand-think of nie!"

On being partially relieved from agony, which brought on delirium, she exclaimed, scarcely recovered to her thoughts-"There, now tell my dearest mother I am better!"

In similar circumstances, fearing she might, without knowing it, have uttered what she would not

and heart-rending conflict, for most of this day, sunk into a deep sleep. This blessing had been long sought, but not found; and now it had come, it remained on her through the night, and the whole of the next day, till we began to tremble, lest, indeed, she should wake no more. However, on the evening of the twelfth, she awoke, greatly refreshed in spirit, and comparatively at ease in her body.

But the victory was gained. Death had subdued the earthly frame, and put his awful signature upon it. Fiery inflammation had done its work, and

mortification was eating its way to the vital parts. The body, which had recently discovered such unnatural energy, was now powerless as earliest infancy. The lifeblood had fallen from the countenance; the shadows of death hung on the eyelids; the lips refused all nourishment, except what could be conveyed to them on the head of a feather. How low, how very low we may be brought, before we are actually brought to the dust of death!

There was something strangely impressive in this change! The features were occasionally illuminated by the indwelling spirit, and then sunk again into darkness. The voice was now uttered under the breath, and was rather like a whisper from the grave than sound the human tongue can utter, so unearthly was it. And the whole form frequently appeared almost as without life; and when it was put in motion, it seemed to be more by the impulse of a living spirit on a dead body, than by the free use of any physical powers. Yet when the spirit could make itself expressed, through these dim and disordered bodily organs, it spoke of peace which Fain could not destroy, of a life over which death had no power. The following are some of its brief and broken expressions, which are among the most precious and sacred things committed to memory's keeping.

Soon after her waking, desirous to have renewed testimony of her happiness, I asked, if she still felt sustained and comforted?

"Yes," she replied; "suffering and weakness affect the mind, and bring a cloud between me and every thing I cannot dwell on things as I wishbut the foundation is the same-the foundation is the same-and that supports me-the foundation of God standeth sure.

"I have great reason to be very thankful for this relief-very thankful-O to praise Him!-help me to praise-I cannot praise-in Heaven!"

Righteous is the Lord, and good-immensely good-he is become my salvation-to praise him!" "Pray that my death may be more useful, much more useful, than my life!""

"One moment after death!"

"O Heaven--Heaven-Heaven!" "Maria," she said, "talk to me about Heaven." It was spoken of as a state of rest, happiness, and purity.

"Yes-yes," she replied to the several observations, with a most gentle and heavenly expression of countenance.

"Ah! Heaven!-I am going, I will not stay here!"

It was remarked-" There we shall see God!" The words touched her soul; delight and love stood in her eyes-" See God, see God-tell me no

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She dwelt on it in silence, till her feeble powers were perplexed:-" Talk about it again," she said. It was revived-her mind seized on it-" See God!-ah!-yes!-do not say any more; it is too much!-Pray for patience."

On Saturday the fifteenth, Martha lay mostly in a state of insensibility. She received no refreshment, took no notice. In the afternoon, her anxious mother expressed a conviction that she would notice me, if I sought to call up her attention. I sat quietly at her side, and fanned her. I moistened her lips with the cider, to which she had been so partial. She revived. "So sweet!" she said-" That kind hand!--my dearest brother !—I love to see you!-quite worn out!"

Soon afterward the tolling of the church bell caught her ear--" That sweet bell-sweet bell!" she said.

Brother, what is to-morrow?" "It is the Sabbath day, my dear!"

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Yes, the Sabbath!" she replied, as the smile of hope and peace softly glowed over the ruins of her outward features, and then forsook them for ever. She had frequently referred to this day, I learnt, as the day of her happy release.

The Sabbath came. There was an impression among us, made principally by Martha's allusions, which rendered the opening of this day most peaceful and solemn. We moved about without noise, spoke with a subdued voice, and took our refreshments as though we took them not. The dear patient (sufferer now no longer) remained through the early morning shut up from all surrounding objects. Her mother, exhausted by many nights watching, I had urged to seek slight repose; the family went out to the house of prayer; I undertook, for the period, the sole care of our common love. It was an opportunity I sought, but scarcely knew how to sustain. However, there were no symptoms of present alarm-my charge was as she had been through most of the night-feeling nothing, awake to nothing. I took the New Testament into my hand, that charter of our immortality; and to avoid my own reflections, read its blessed assurances. An unusual composure stole over my thoughts-they were following, in imagination, the spirit they loved into heaven's eternal mansions.

The body stirred, and called up my attention.

I hung over it, and explored the features, hoping yet for some sign of love and consciousness-bul there was no spirit visible there!

'My dear!" I said.

Her eyes, still true to their love, wandered in search of their object-but no! the film of death hung too heavily upon them.

Disappointed at this, the hand which had seemed to be lifeless so long, made an effort to creep towards me.

The sight was too affecting. I put my hand into hers, and brought it on its way. I pressed it.

It made a feeble and painful effort to return_the pressure.

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My dear!" I repeated.

She made a last effort to raise her eyelids-but in vain!

Her lips moved, and I bent my ear for some expression of hope and peace.

My--brother!"-they whispered.

Those gentle, affectionate, dying sounds will always dwell in my ear; but there was yet (I can scarcely tell why) another name I wished once more to pass those lips!

I said "There is a name that is far dearer to you than even that of brother."

She made an effort to speak again-but the lips refused to do her bidding. I watched them intensely. They became fixed, and the eyelids had sunk to their former position!

I pressed my finger on her pulse. It came and went; it fluttered and faltered; it stopped and revived most ominously!

I was relieved by the arrival of the family. Her mother, Eliza, and Maria came into the chamber successively; and, without saying a word, they marked the change, and took their place beside me. It was a solemn hour. We could not move; could not speak; could not weep. We were standing on the verge of two worlds. This world never appeared so shadowy; heaven never appeared so near. It seemed as though a breath would waft aside the thin veil which separated us from eternity; and faith and imagination were alive to the presence of ministering spirits, who were expected each moment to convey a sister spirit to all the grandeur and blessedness which it can reveal.

The object of our motionless and fixed attention

ay as in a profound sleep, only that the respiration | blessed kind; and now it presented a picture of the was becoming longer and deeper. Our own breathing, by sympathy, was made more difficult. It became deeper-and deeper-and deeper! After each act of respiration, there was a dreadful hesitancy, whether it should be renewed any

more!

It was renewed-once-and again-and then lost for ever!`

That moment our breath was suspended-and all was still as death, silent as the grave.

The next minute we recovered our inspiration by an hysterical effort; trembling seized us; we fell back in our seats, and burst into a flood of tears.

We were, at length, interrupted by the arrival of the nurses. I was unwilling that strangers should enter the room, it seemed so heavenly; I could not bear that the body should be touched, it seemed so sacred. I waved my hand for them to depart; but, checked by recollecting that their offices were needful, we hastened from the spot, and mourned apart the common, the inexpressible visitation.

CHAPTER XXV. LAST OFFICES. 1821.

On the next morning we arose to a sense of our situation. The habitation was darkened; and an air of gloom and desertion rested on all its apartments We moved about it with a silent and smothered tread, as if we might still disturb the repose of our beloved relative. We feared to meet each other's look; and the loved name which filled our thoughts no one could venture to utter. The smiles and caresses of our children seemed unnatural and distressing to us; and, I believe, had we obeyed the impulse of personal feeling in this early stage of our grief, we should each one have sought a state of absolute seclusion.

But there were duties still to be paid to the deceased; and reverence and love urged us to discharge them without delay. Our minds, therefore, were quickly girded to their performance; and painful as they are, they seem designed by a compassionate Providence, at this period of deep distress, to temper and regulate those emotions which might otherwise work with destructive power.

Some of the earliest and least welcome duties, however, which properly attached to me, were as kindly as delicately anticipated by those who might well have shrunk from them. Yet, as the mind recovered a degree of tranquillity, I felt that sacred and final trusts were committed to my hands, which I ought not entirely to delegate to others; and that I should not be satisfied with myself, unless I became the witness of their having been executed. This impression, supported by the yearnings of a trembling affection to take a last look of a form so unutterably dear, gave birth to a desire of visiting the chamber where it lay, before it should be for ever shut up from my sight.

It appeared essential to the accomplishment of this purpose, that it should be unobserved; and having sought for the occasion, I crept to the room as if detection would have made it really impossible. I approached the coffin. With a steady hand I gently pressed aside its cover. The first glimpse of the object for which the eye was searching, smote my hand and frame as by the shock of electricity. I recovered myself, and gazed on it for a moment. Those eyes, those ears, those hands had never been utterly insensible to me, and now they were so! It was not to be indured! The lid was hastily closed, and resting the arm upon it, I endeavored to divert the course of thought by turning the eye on other things. But this room was associated with manifold recollections of the most cheerful, pleasant, and

most entire desolateness. The domestic fire was extinguished, the carpets were taken up, the bed was removed. Its furniture was a coffin; its inhabitant a corpse; and the only sign of life about it was derived from a poor robin, which sat on the opened frame of the window, repeating his short wintry note, as if asking for food he had often received, but had now sought many days in vain. There was no relief to be found here. I hastened away to the garden, to regain the composure I had lost.

But the morning arrived on which the very remains of so valued a being were to be removed from our possession. It was a dreaded day. There was a feverish activity about the family, connected with an expression of our mutual wishes by signs rather than words, which intimated the suppression of feeling that would scarcely yield to the hand of government. Our friends, the Rev. Messrs. Kemp and Weybridge, with the male members of our families, assembled to perform the few last offices due to mortality. One of them sought to break the painful silence, while waiting for our summons, by remarking to my father-" Well, my friend, God is lopping off the branches, that the trunk may fall the easier!"

"Lopping off the branches, indeed!” he replied, in so tremulous and sad a voice, as made us all seek refuge again in silence.

The arrangements were now complete, and we were called to take our piace in them. There were, first of all, twelve children, who had been the latest scholars of the deceased, dressed in white. Close by the side of the body there was, unobtrusive and faithful, the lone widow in quiet sorrow; and around her, but a little distant, were some female villagers with their children, all of whom were evidently interested in the occasion. Afterward came the mourners, who closed the simple procession. My attention was called up by my father, at whose side I stood. We had spared him suffering as much as possible through the past scenes; but this final service seemed to take greater effect on him. His noble and revered frame, bending with age and shaken by present affliction, rocked and trembled so as to make me fear, that my efforts to steady his steps would not avail to support him through the trial.

We moved slowly, reluctantly forward. There was no noise, no disgusting indifference, no impertinent curiosity. The spectators showed their concern by silent sympathy; and if any of them spoke, it was with a soft voice, and mostly the record a full heart was disposed to make of the virtues or sufferings of the departed.

We entered the churchyard. We were received by the officiating minister, and passed into the church. The service began. Never did I listen to it with such ears. I had many times read, and had admired as often as I had read, the apostle's argument on the great doctrine of the resurrection; but if ever it is to be felt in all its force of proof, in all its exaltation of sentiment, in all its triumph of confidence, it must be when hanging over the relics of those we most have loved, and clinging to the hope of immortality as the only one that can abide with us amid the devastations of time and death. We quitted the sanctuary for the spot where we were to deposite our sacred charge-a spot which the deceased had chosen. We met around the mouth of the grave, and beneath the shade of a spreading yew-tree. The coffin descended. The service went on. The fragments of earth fell on the surface with a rattling hollow sound, which affectingly proclaimed the nothingness of all earthly life, the vanity of all earthly hope The "sure and certain hope"

was expressed with the confidence of faith; the | a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. It is good thanksgiving and the prayer were offered, and the act of solemn worship ceased.

that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the Lord." It is needless to say, that the We hung around the spot as if it could not be reflections which were grounded on this passage forsaken. The children looked into the grave, and were such as well illustrated and forcibly applied its shed sincere and generous tears over their devoted important doctrine; and it will be at once apparent, instructer. The good mothers expressed their emo-that the words themselves could not have been bettion, either by uttering their blessings on her me- ter adapted to the occasion, had they been selected mory, or averting their countenances, which were by those who knew most of the deceased. too much distressed for inspection. The widow stood gazing with features full of resigned sorrow, which seemed to say, "I have lost a friend, and I shall never and such another." Her father resolved on one last look; and, deeply groaning, turned away for ever. For myself, my courage failed me; I feared to look at all; and in moving from the place, I found myself involuntarily endeavoring to assuage rebellious feeling, by repeating the words, "In sure and certain hope! in sure and certain hope!"

Yet, however willing to stay, it was necessary for us to depart. We allowed ourselves to be put in our former melancholy order, and moved from the sacred enclosure. There, where Tillotson has preached, where Watts has studied, where Mason sleeps-there, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest-there we left the precious remains, sustained by the gracious assurances of Him who watches over the dust of his saints, and who has promised to raise, glorify, and immortalize it. The particular place at which it reposes is marked by a plain tablet, which bears the following inscription:

M. R.

OBT. DEC. 16, 1821, ET. 28.
TO THE STRANGER,
HER VIRTUES
CANNOT BE KNOWN
TO HER FRIENDS,

HER MEMORY

IS HER BEST EPITAPH.

The solemn duties of the temple terminated; and in the evening I was glad, under the influence of suppressed feeling, to seek the relief of retirement. I had necessarily been much with others; now I was alone. I had had a distinct object before me, and had struggled against emotion, that I might not be disqualified for paying those last offices to the dear departed which I had determined to render; but, now every thing was done, the bracing power of resolution was lost, and the reflections wandered at liberty over all that had transpired. Thought was busy in dwelling on the more recent and distant scenes of her life. Our infantile sympathies— our childish amusements our youthful perplexities-our matured affection-our Christían communion-were all surprisingly present to the mind. Then it was that I felt the kindred ties of blood, the dearest attachments of the heart, were rudely burst asunder; that she, who had been cherished on the same bosom, and reposed in the same cradle-that she, who had shared in my earliest recollections, my best enjoyments, my deepest affections-that she, who had grown up by my side, shedding the light, and love, and gladness of her presence around me, till it seemed almost the necessary element of my existence-that my sister, my only sister, was no more-that an irreparable breach had been made in the series of my relationships-that I was sister. less, and that I could never be otherwise!

But these reflections would mix themselves with others which served to qualify them. It was impossible to separate Martha's life from the presence of religion; or to revert to the final scenes of suffering without receiving a triumphant testimony of the power of godliness. Here the lacerated heart found consolation. Imagination turned from privation, anguish, and death, to follow the living and emancipated spirit springing to the light of heaven, clad in the glory of heaven, and keeping heaven's eternal Jubilee with God, and the Lamb, and all the sanctified. The mind seemed present to the society and blessedness it contemplated. The tender request of the departing saint-"Do not think of me, brother, as far away!" came softly over the memory, and supplied the last drop to the overflowing emotions of the heart.-There is a balm most fragrant and salutary in those tears which nature sheds and

On arriving at the cottage, there was yet another duty to be discharged before we separated. Martha, in disposing of what belonged to her, had assigned a portion of her circulating books to the children who were now with us, appointing a particular book to each child. They were, therefore, arranged in the hall; and the books were presented to them in her name, with a request that they would not part with them. One of my ministering brethren very kindly gave them a brief and appropriate address, while the other offered for them earnest and affectionate prayer. The tender, sympathetic, and solemn allusions made in these services to the deceased, went direct to the hearts of the children, and they indulged themselves in the unconstrained ex-religion sanctifies. pressions of their grief. It was a very affecting close of most affecting engagements.

In the decline of the day we hastened to town, and prepared ourselves as we could to seek, on the approaching Sabbath, the improvement of the event, in the more trying and public service of the sanctuary. On the afternoon of the day Dr. Winter* commended the bereaved family to the divine pity and blessing; and sought to render the impressive dispensation beneficial to a crowded and deeply interested auditory, from these words, "It is good for

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Winter has returned again, and again departed; but we are still a mourning family; and the sense of our loss will often cross the current of our thoughts when they are seeking recreation, or intent on the busy duties of life. The beloved name has indeed been given to an infant born to us since the removal of our relative; but the heart cannot so be cheated. There is a void in our circle, and about our cottage, which Martha only could fill. Her smiles, her words, her handiwork, are associated with every thing and every apartment of the place; and tell us of enjoyments that are past never to be restored!

The bereavement was also improved the same day by the Cheshunt ministers, and the Rev. T. West, of Barking, the residence of my parents; to them, and to the extended circle of sympathizing friends, who Time, however, has so softened grief, that it has sought by the kindest attention to lighten the burden now little to distress, nothing to alarm reflection. of the sufferer or of the survivors, the writer tenders It is of a quiet, soothing, and often, I trust, of an his respectful but cordial acknowledgements. May elevating character. Martha lived a saint, and 'ney find comforters, kind and true, in their adversity! I died a saint; and, now that the first flow of sorrow

is past, the impression of her life and death is most saintly and blessed. The house in which she dwelt s the more dear for having had her as its inhabitant; the paths she loved to tread are the more pleasant because she has trod them; the garden she admired is the more beautiful for having given her pleasure; her flowers, the only living memento of her lovely but frail existence, are the more precious for reminding us of her; and in the very chamber and on the very pillows where she resigned her spirit into the hands of her Saviour, I now frequently lay me down to repose, with a sense of serenity and peace never connected with the spot be

fore.

Similar impressions happily extend even to our children, from their partial remembrances. The eldest, when anxious to give his full commendation to any real or supposed excellence, declares, it is like aunt Martha. And his younger brother, as if sympathizing in our seriousness, would sometimes arrest himself in his gambols, and pointing to the blue sky, would say, with his broken utterance, "Aunt Martha gone up to heaven-me go to aunt

Martha !"

It

The memory of the just is blessed! It softens the heart, elevates the eye, strengthens the hand, sanctifies the soul. It is the voice of God proclaiming to us peace in this life, joy in the life to come. has often been enshrined in the breast of infancy, as the seeds of a future and glorious life; and has sometimes made its way to the heart, which had shown itself preoccupied by worldly care and earthly enjoyment, against all common remonstrance and entreaty. The memory of the just is

blessed!

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READER-I have now accomplished, with what ability I might, my painfully pleasing task of introducing you to an intimate knowledge of a relative who was dear, unutterably dear while living, and whose memory is made divinely sacred by the solemn and final transformations of death. It is neither accordant with my wishes nor my taste to close this narrative by burdening your attention with all the inferences, in formal succession, which it might sufficiently justify. But, on the other hand, I cannot feel at liberty entirely to resign this record to your hands, without pressing on your thoughts the importance of a personal and practical application of the lessons it unfolds or suggests. If virtue has been exhibited, it is that it may be reproduced and invigorated in you; if natural defect of character has been acknowledged, it is, that in coming to a wise sense of your own deficiencies, that you may not be seduced into despondency; and if the gradual conquest of these infirmities, has been traced to the corresponding influence of vital religion, it is that you might have greater solicitude awakened for

those influences, which alone can effectually guard, and sanctify, and exalt the mind.

The question, then (forgive its freedom in its kind intention,) which I am anxious earnestly to propose, is, By what principles is your life regulated? To what end is it directed? Are you living as seeing the things that are invisible and eternal? or are you intently pursuing present and worldly objects as your highest good? Is your life, like that of the deceased, a course of strict self-discipline and unlimited devotedness to its Author? or does it centre in selfish gratifications and earthly pleasures? Are you prepared for a change of being which will certainly, and perhaps quickly, come; and beyond which all change, and all hope of change, are excluded for ever?

These inquiries arise to you as a rational and immortal creature; and, excuse me in remarking, if there is any reluctance to entertain them, there is proportionate reason to fear they have been too sadly neglected. And can such subjects as they involve be neglected, without affording some proof of an inward reluctance to regard them? And can

such reluctance dwell in the breast of a rational being, without implying an alienation of heart from objects by which it ought to be most powerfully at

tracted?

It is a law of your nature, that whatever of good is possessed, you should still be looking from the present to some future enjoyment. But, how is it, that while, under the force of this principle, you pass eagerly from the attainment of one temporal pleasure to the pursuit of another, your anticipations never spring beyond the limitations of sense and time, and feed on the immutable realities of a spiritual world? Why should hope stop suddenly in her excursion into futurity, on the line which separates this world from another, when by passing that i:ne the prize immortality, the utmost to which she could aspire, would be within her grasp? Could any thing check her course and paralyze her energies at once, and just when they should be most excited, but fear? And why should fear have power to array every thing in an unseen world in forms of alarm and terror, if not sustained by the testimony of conscience? Surely here are inuications of a mind estranged from Him whom it ought most to know; of a soul fallen from God, sunk into itself, and losing itself in an animal, sensitive, and perishable existence.

Such a state, as it is the offspring of crime, so it is the parent of misery. It is admitted, that it is capable of some gratifications; and were you not enriched with a superior nature, they would be perfect in their kind while they continued. As it is, they are necessarily imperfect. The senses and appetites of the body may find readily the pleasures for which they are adapted, in the suitableness of things around them to their nature; but the soul, an exile from its home, wanders about in such a world, solitary and sorrowful, seeking rest and finding none. In the midst, indeed, of animated spirits, social enjoyments, honorable duties, and soothing reputation, your passions have endeavored to importune you into a sense of happiness; but the effort has been as unsuccessful as it was clamorous. The soul, offended at the violence offered to its own unwelcome convictions, has refused to confirm the pleadings of the heart; and while the smile of joy has been playing on your cheek, and the breath of flattery exhilarating your spirit, and the cup of prosperity sparkling in your hand, it has ached with a bitter sense of vacancy and vexation!

O do not put from you this confession of a timid and silenced conscience! Do not hide yourself from the inquietudes of your own spirit! They are unwelcome, but they are salutary. To trifle with

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