not unfertile district; let us offer a few reflections suggested by our own mortality, together with some of the practical improvements, which naturally and respectively belong to them.

And the first of those awful truths, which strike the mind respecting death, is its certainty, the proofs of which surround us wherever we look, or whatever we do. The very analogy of nature affords presumptive proof of this effect, and of the strongest kind; for since all things which come within the sphere of our observation, are in one continued state of motion, and, though they present the same general appearance as a whole, are constantly changing the subordinate parts of which they consist, it would follow, that, according to the general laws of that order of things under which man is included, he too must share the common fate, and can only exist in perpetuity, as a constituent part of creation, by the regular succession of the species to which he belongs. This conclusion would be farther confirmed by an examination of the human body, and the nature of the processes to be carried on in it, essential to the life of the individual; for, even excluding the effects of accidents and of violence, the machine itself, by whose intervention vitality is maintained, consisting only of frail and perishable materials, must be necessarily subject to the ravages of time,

and gradually suffer, even under the most favourable circumstances, decay, disorganization, and destruction.

If now we turn the attention from theory to experience, whether of a general or particular kind, the same conclusion invariably follows. We open the interesting page of history, and we read of great and mighty nations, illustrious in arts and arms, who have held the kingdoms of the earth in subjection by the terrific majesty of their name, and of men of renown, the fathers of literature and science, the venerable authors of civilization and of law, and the inventors of arts which facilitate and embellish the daily communications of social life. And what is become of all these far-famed characters, who shed such a lustre over humanity? shall we look for them in the countries where they once flourished, and which they contributed to raise to such an exalted rank in the scale of nations? We may seek them, but we shall not find them, for the place which once exulted in their presence, now knoweth them no more: the ruined arch, indeed, and the crumbling column may perhaps attest that they have existed; but they, for whose glory these fragile remains of magnificence were intended, are themselves long ago past and gone; they have been swept away by the torrent of time, and are engulphed in the boundless ocean of eternity.

But we need not travel to distant regions for examples of human mortality; for in all places, and in every walk of life, they cross our path at every step. Where can we look without perceiving the sable weeds of woe, betokening the loss of some relative or friend; and where is that favoured spot to be found, in which a solemn sound is not occasionally heard proceeding from the temple of God, and proclaiming that some soul of man has left its earthly habitation?

Let us pause, then, for a moment to inquire what lessons of wisdom we may derive from the undoubted fact, "that all flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field." If it be true that our connection with this world must so certainly and so speedily terminate, what infatuation must it be, so to live as if we were to continue upon earth for ever; whereas we are here but strangers and pilgrims, as all our fathers were. What madness must it be, under such circumstances, with unceasing exertion and anguish of mind, at the expense of quiet, and with the sacrifice of principle, to make provision for an age, when we know not what an hour may bring forth;" to join house to house, and lay field to field, till there be no room" for others, when the narrow limits of the grave shall shortly furnish an ample abode for ourselves. Surely, in the hasty passage we are now performing from this life to

another, if we have only things convenient for us, we may and ought to be therewith content. And as in the brief records of mortality, the avaricious may read the end of their sordid labours, so may the ambitious discern the object, for which they have all their lives tormented themselves and others. To the misery of those, who are involved in the consequences of their folly, and for the derision of those who are not,-with unrelenting purpose of soul to bear down all opposition, they sally forth in pursuit of human glory, which they either never obtain at all, or else enjoy it just long enough to learn its emptiness-even till the hour arrives when they and their rivals lay down in the dust together, and the worm feeds sweetly on them both.

But the nature of man is compounded, and we have hitherto viewed him with reference only to one of the principles which enter into his composition. The body, we find, is changed by death into a mere mass of inert matter, but a much more important question remains behind;-how is the soul affected by this event? That it is not and cannot be destroyed by it, reason itself renders highly probable, from a consideration, both of the present situation of the soul, and also of its independent nature. In this life provision is abundantly made for all the desires of the body; it has no want which cannot be supplied; no

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sense, which has not a sufficiency of objects whereon to exert itself, perfectly accommodated to its proper perceptions. Very different is the case with the soul: it employs itself on every thing, but is perfectly satified with nothing; it ransacks all the kingdoms of nature and the departments of art for food, and it still cries "give, give," never saying "it is enough;" and therefore, if its being terminated here, its existence at all would be a singular anomaly and imperfection in the works of God, since an excess of power which could never be exerted would be a superfluity, and consequently a blemish. The soul, therefore, appears to be designed for a higher and a better state of being. And so it would seem from observations on its nature, compared with that of the body. Instances have occurred, and do occur not unfrequently, where the faculties of the former have been seen to flourish in all their vigour, up to the very latest moment in which the latter has retained the breath of life; and a single instance of this sort would be an adequate proof that the soul is independent of the body, and therefore may survive the dissolution of it. Were this probability all we had to go upon, it would still be the province of true wisdom to bestow much more attention in cultivating the spiritual, than in ministering to the gratification of the animal part of our nature; not only because, as the soul is the