10th month, 1789; a sweet and comforting savour being mercifully felt at this awful season.

THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

Written by David Cooper, near Woodbury, New Jersey.

Every period or portion of time has its employment; the most useful and necessary is that which tends to prepare us for the succeeding. The activity, and the busy scene of childhood and youth, fit us for the life of action allotted to young men, and the energies of manhood are employed to provide and lay up a store against the winter of life, or old age, when we can no longer labour; so that then, being provided with things needful, we may bid adien to the active world, and prepare for our great and last change.

I seem to be marshalled in this class. Mine appears to be the serious and awful business of declining age: for though years have not whited my head, yet my infirmities tell me that I am old, and point at the grave. How oft has it gaped upon me when I have been tottering on its brink, and my faltering tongue ready to call for my winding-sheet! How often have I been trembling on the verge of eternity, when the thin partition seemed ready to open upon me! yet have I been snatched as it were from the jaws of death, and my portion of time lengthened out. I am still numbered with the living; and, while one friend drops here, and another there, I am yet continued in time. Thus, in addition to my days, can any thing be more rational,-can any thing

be more awfully necessary, than serious thoughts, and an industrious preparation for my long and endless home? Let me ever indulge these reflections, that pour themselves upon me, in my solitary and lonely hours.

When I view the rest of mankind around me, and consider that as we are fellow-possessors of time, so shall we be joint-heirs of eternity;-and that we all have the same occasion to prepare for that hour which is so awfully approaching. But I am often surprised to think that rational creatures should be so regardless of the end for which they were created;-the important and awful end for which time is given;— as to be playing with straws and trifling with feathers; while the momentous concerns of eternity are disregarded. ETERNITY! astonishing and tremendous sound, Eternity!-Eternity! where does that word reach? where shall I send my thoughts to find its extent? If I stretch my views through myriads of ages, I shall be no nearer its limits. If I reach thro' as many thousand years as there are grains of sand on the globe, and that number multiplied into itself, I shall be no nearer its end than when I began.— And what have we, poor pensioners of a moment! who are but as of yesterday, and may even be gone to-morrow,-what have we in readiness for this state of unmeasurable duration? Is the last moment of our time here, to fix our happiness or misery forever, without a possibility of our condition being reversed? Ah! can the thought enter the stoutest mind, without striking the deepest awe?

And is this awful, endless eternity so seldom in our minds that it occupies the least of our thoughts, while the bubble of life engrosses the whole of our

attention? A bubble indeed! a feather! yea, less than a feather in one scale,-when the whole creation of God is not equal to eternity in the other.— What pains and labour do we bestow to acquire the good things of this life, which we can enjoy but for a moment, and which are more uncertain than the variable wind! Yet what anxiety and uneasiness, when we meet with disappointment in the pursuit of them, or when stripped of those we had in possession! What folly can be compared to this! what stupidity can equal it! so anxious to provide for an hour in labouring to procure things that we can, in no wise, give to ourselves, and so wholly unconcerned in securing to ourselves the happiness of eternity,-ever-during, never-ending eternity! And what is this life that we are so fond of? a shadow!— a bubble, which a breeze will soon destroy. What so uncertain, so little to be depended upon, as life? Wherefore do we centre our hopes and desires upon it, and prize it above all things? Why centre all our cares upon that which may end with the present moment? and think it not worth our concern to provide for that permanent duration, which never ends, when nothing is more certain than our final change?

And why are we so terrified at the thoughts of death? What is it that we are so afraid of?Wherein doth its terror consist? Doth it not argue great weakness to form such ideas of a stranger we have never seen, and of whom we have no personal knowledge? Nor have any that have ever seen him, given us this information. They are images of our own fancy,- bug-bears of our own creating.— Perhaps, when we come to see for ourselves, we may think him the most agreeable messenger,—cur

best friend, a redeemer from prison, and a deliverer from captivity. This we are sure of, that it is a door which opens for our release, and through which we must step out of this prison, from under this load of human life; and if it is not a pleasing release, it is our own fault. The scene beyond the curtain can only terrify those who are conscious they have not acted as they ought on this stage of being.

Happiness! O happiness, our beings end and aim; wherein centres all our hopes, all our wishes and pursuits! But, alas! the fatal mistake of our choice; we bound it by this world, and entail it upon ourselves through endless duration. Mistake indeed! to think that souls created for the joys of heaven should be satisfied with the dirty delights of earth; be contented in prison,-easy in captivity,-or happy in banishment from their destined home.

But

so it is. Misery, which above all things we wish to avoid, like infatuated creatures, we seek with greatest ardour; and while its chains are chafing our limbs, please ourselves with the fancied possession of happiness. So fond are we of this life,—so attached to this world,—that the joys of heaven have no allurements in them. Though we know we must die, we will not think of death. Notwithstanding all things sound the awful alarm, we scarce believe ourselves mortal. The long-lived oak and the lofty pine, the durable cedar and the beautiful elm, are daily dropping into dust,-and the animated beings which nature is constantly handing into life, industrious time is melting down, and sending as into the mint again. Thus we see things gravitating to their end;-nature is a continual scene of revolution; every thing is upon the wing of change. VOL. VII.-18

How then can we expect permanent happiness on earth? or is there any thing here below, worth our anxiety, our esteem, or our attachment? Wherefore, then, do we refuse to look toward eternity, our fixed and durable home?

Although, in our considerations, we may discard the thoughts of.death, yet we know it must visit us ere long, and open to us a new scene. How dare we then omit providing for so awful a guest! Will he neglect to come, because we are not prepared?— No: he will surely come; and our omission will make him doubly terrible. Oh! the horror and gnashing of teeth, when conscience joins the potent foe, and in our hearing informs how constantly he has been whispering in our ears that the king of terrors was at hand, and reminding us of the necessity of making preparations for his reception; and how we had slighted his kindness, and mocked at his admonitions. Then, Oh! then, we shall see, with the Preacher, all below the sun to be vanity and vexation of spirit, and that there is no profit in any thing but what produces self-approving thoughts. Then shall we see that the smiles of conscience, on a retrospect of our past lives, would be of more value than legions of worlds. Then shall we see what stupid and infatuated creatures we have been, without the least shadow of excuse; and how terrible will conscience appear, when we remember how often we have refused him audience, and turned him over till to-morrow; but now to-morrow is no more. What we might have easily prevented, now admits of no remedy, or cure. Time, that magazine of events, which we so lavishly squandered away, is to us exhausted. We are forced on a journey, with