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of the fugitive dream. When I say that I have no regret, I do not mean that I have no remorse; for a life either of business, or still more of pleasure, never was and never will be a state of innocence. But God, who knows the strength of human passions and the weakness of human reason, will, it is to be hoped, rather merci. fully pardon, than justly punish acknowledged errors. I have been as wicked and as vain, though not as wise as Solomon, but am now at last wise enough to feel and attest the truth of his reflection, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. This truth is never sufficiently discovered or felt by mere speculation; experience in this case is necessary for conviction, though perhaps at the expense of some morality.

"My health is always bad, though sometimes better and sometimes worse; and my deafness deprives me of the comforts of society, which other people have in their illnesses. This, you must allow, is an unfortunate latter end of life, and consequently a tiresome one; but I must own, too, that it is a sort of balance to the tumultuous and imaginary pleasures of the former part of it. I con.sider my present wretched old age as a just compensation for the follies, not to say sins, of my youth. At the same time I am thankful that I feel none of those torturing ills which frequently attend the last stage of life, and I flatter myself that I shall go off quietly, and with resignation. My stay in this world cannot be long; God, who placed me here, only knows when he will order me out of it; but whenever he does, I shall willingly obey his command. I wait for it, imploring the mercy of my Creator, and deprecating his justice. The best of us must trust to the former and dread the latter. I think I am not afraid of my journey's end, but will not answer for myself when the object draws very near, and is very sure. For when one does see death near, let the best or the worst people say what they please, it

is a serious consideration. The Divine attribute of mercy, which gives us comfort, cannot make us forget the attribute of justice, which must blend some fears with our hope. Life is neither a burden nor a pleasure to me; but a certain degree of ennui necessarily attends that neutral state, which makes me very willing to part with it, when He who placed me here thinks fit to call me away. When I reflect, however, upon the poor remainder of my life, I look upon it as a burden that must every day grow heavier, from the natural progression of physical ills, the usual companions of increasing years, and my reason tells me that I should wish for the end of it; but instinct, often stronger than reason, and perhaps oftener in the right, makes me take all proper methods to put it off. This innate sentiment alone makes me bear life with patience; for I assure you I have no further hopes, but, on the contrary, many fears from it. None of the primitive Anchorets in the Thebais could be more detached from life than I am. I consider it as one who is wholly unconcerned in it; and even when I reflect upon what 1 have seen, what I have heard, and what I have done myself, I can hardly persuade myself that all the frivolous hurry and bustle, and pleasures of the world, had any reality, but they seem to have been the dreams of restless nights. This philosophy, however, I thank God, neither makes me sour nor melancholic; I see the folly and absurdity of mankind without indignation or peevishness. I wish them wiser, and, consequently, better than they are."

This is the life, these are the mortifying acknowledgments, and this is the poor sneaking end of the best bred man of the age! Not one word about a Mediator! He acknowledges, indeed, his frailties, but yet in such a way as to extenuate his offences. One would suppose him to have been an old heathen philoso

pher, that had never heard of the name of Jesus, rather than a penitent Christian, whose life had abounded with a variety of vices.

4. PHILIP III., KING OF SPAIN.

"Now naught of firmness, naught of rest remains,
Since death to fear unfolds eternal pains."

PHILIP THE THIHD was born in the year 1577, and succeeded to the crown of Spain in the twenty-first year of his age. Of an inactive disposition, and averse to the trouble of governing a great kingdom, he committed the whole administration of affairs to his minister and favourite; and this was the source of many calamities to his subjects, and of perplexity and distress to himself.

When this king drew near the end of his days, he desired, as the last action of his life, to see and to bless his children. He told the prince, his successor, he had sent for him, "that he might behold the vanity of crowns and tiaras, and learn to prepare for eternity." He kindly addressed all his children, gave them his blessing, and dismissed them with fervent prayers for their happiness, both here and hereafter.

During the progress of his disorder, he appeared to be greatly disturbed in mind. He made repeated confessions of his sins, and implored Divine mercy. He said to those around him, that he had often been guilty of dissimulation in matters of government. He deeply regretted his indolence, and blamed himself much for having devolved the cares of the state on his ministers. When he reflected, that he had not in all things made the will of God the rule of his government, he trembled, crying out, at different times: "O! if it should please Heaven to prolong my life, how different from the past should be my future conduct!" The affecting expres

sions of his repentance and devotion, drew tears from the eyes of those who surrounded him. The priest who attended him, unwilling to bruise a broken reed, endeavoured to cheer and compose his troubled mind, by consolatory views of the Divine mercy, and the assurances which the Gospel affords, of assistance to the weak, and of pardon to the penitent. At length, the alternate tumult of hope and fear, which had so greatly agitated his mind, subsided into a gentle calm, and he died peacefully, in the 43d year of his life, and the twenty-third of his reign.

5. TERRORS OF DEATH.

"Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all."-MILTON.

THE subject of this narrative was born of poor but honest parents, and was taught the first principles of religion in a Sabbath school. At the age of sixteen she engaged in service in her native village. At her first place she continued two years. In her eighteenth year she removed into a religious family: till then she had lived ignorant of the Gospel, and careless about her eternal state; but during her continuance in this situation she appeared deeply impressed with a sense of her sinfulness, and made an open profession of religion. In her nineteenth year she removed to a place much superior to the former, as it respects this world; but alas! the master of the house was a lover of pleasure more than a lover of God. Here religious duties were not only neglected, but even ridiculed. She met with no little persecution from her fellow-servants; this induced her to neglect private prayer and other means of grace.

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At length she was seldom seen at public worship. Christian friend perceived her declension, by her backwardness to discourse on religious subjects. She had previously been very forward to converse on the best things, but at this time was quite the reverse; yet she did not return back to the world without considerable checks of conscience. She knew that she was doing wrong, but became hardened by the deceitfulness of sin. About the twentieth year of her age, she broke a blood vessel. An apothecary was sent for immediately, but no relief could be afforded; her appointed time was now arrived. On the day after the circumstance took place, she was visited by the person who had observed her departure from the way of life, and who states the following particulars of different interviews with her :

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On asking her how she was, she said, 'Very bad, very bad.' I then told her I understood there was no hope of her recovery, and proceeded to inquire how it was with her in regard to her eternal welfare. She exclaimed, 'That is what I want; my life I care not for if my sins were pardoned.' I then spoke of the power and willingness of Christ to save lost sinners; but she answered, there was no pardon for her, she had been such a great sinner.' I then enlarged on the precious promises of the Gospel, and its invitations to miserable sinners; but all seemed to aggravate the feelings of her guilty conscience. She burst into tears, and said, ‘O that I had repented when the Spirit of God was striving with me!--but now I am undone!' I then offered up a prayer for her; and finding that talking to her was only sharpening the stings of her wounded conscience, I left her. I again visited her late in the evening of the same day. She was much weaker from the loss of blood, and her countenance bespoke the dreadful horror of her mind, which no doubt hastened her speedy dissolution. On asking her how she felt, she answered: Miserable!

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