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CHAPTER I.

THAT this life is a mixed scene of joy and sorrow is acknowledged, and has been experienced by almost all men. It is indeed a great proof of the Divine mercy, that the condition of no man is so utterly void of comfort, as not to afford at least occasional gleams of sunshine to cheer what otherwise might well be called a dark and lonesome path! And it is beyond a doubt an equal proof of Divine mercy, that the condition of no man is so absolutely exempt from disquietude, as not to be disturbed sometimes by circumstances of a nature sufficiently adverse to rouse the mind to serious consideration, and to make it confess that uninterrupted happiness is not to be commanded by any of the sons of men.

Convinced, then, that even under the most favourable circumstances, this world can give no security for permanent enjoyment, every man who ever thinks seriously must be led to look forward to some other state of being, in which more perfect happiness may be found. Yet he knows that all merely bodily happiness will be terminated by

death. The body will then be destroyed, and for an indefinite time can have no farther conception either of joy or sorrow. Hence he will be led to consider his own nature, and he will soon perceive that he is compounded of two parts, a soul and a body. The constitution of the latter evidently proves that it is not calculated, at least in it's present form, for any great length of existence. But what of the soul? Is that too of a perishable nature? "Will my soul (we may suppose such a person to ask), will my soul die when my body dies? Certainly not; otherwise man would be no better than the beasts that perish. But my body must die! then, when my body is dead, what will become of my soul? It cannot die; can it sleep with my body? but my body does not sleep in the grave; it perishes and moulders away into corruption and dust! While my body lives indeed in sleep, my soul may appear to sleep also; because the bodily faculties by means of which, while united to the body, it has it's power of perception, are for a time suspended; but the case is very different in death. Death is not merely a suspension of bodily faculties; my body will then be destroyed and incorporated with common earth. A spiritual soul cannot thus be destroyed and mixed with earth. From the nature of the soul, then, it is plain that it cannot find a place in the grave. But

if it is not destroyed, it must exist; if it exists, it must BE somewhere; it cannot be in the grave; where then will it be? evidently it will be in some other place! some place unknown to it now, but appointed by God for the place of its separate abode, till the body shall be re-formed, and raised and re-united to it.

"But while thus existing in a state of separation from my body, what will be the condition of my soul? will it sleep, or be conscious of it's own existence? What reason have I to believe it CAN sleep, when not clogged by a body which, from it's gross material substance, now causes it to be comparatively dull and inactive? My soul is spirit; spirit cannot sink to sleep, unless weighed down by matter. But why should I suppose it will sleep? When there is no evidence of it's dormiency, but every proof to the contrary, why should I try to believe that it ever can lose its inherent self-consciousness? When I look into a dark and cold grave, and know that my body must be buried and perish in it, can I find any comfort or pleasure in the prospect of my soul's being reduced to the same sad and helpless state? On the contrary, does not the greatest happiness of the soul now consist in activity, and in the acquisition of knowledge? and is it not, therefore, more agreeable to look forward to a state when the

highest degree of knowledge will be attainable without all that toil and tedium with which even a slight degree of it must now be purchased? Can there be any pleasure in what may not unfitly be called temporary annihilation? Then why should I incline to believe that my soul will be insensible? I can find no proof of it; why then should I gratuitously assume that it will be so? Let me rather believe that of which there is abundant proof, viz. that my soul will never either die or sleep, but that on the death of my body, it will pass into another unknown region, where it will still enjoy and exercise it's intellectual powers, in a degree infinitely more active and excellent, than it can do now, whilst impeded in it's operations by a mortal, hebetating body.”

Beyond a doubt no inquiry can be more awfully interesting than this,-what will be to us the immediate consequences of death? The possession of the highest bodily health and worldly comfort, will not prevent a thinking mind from often dwelling on this subject. But how much more highly important will the question appear to him, who from sickness or any other cause shall find all worldly pleasure peculiarly tasteless and unsatisfying! who, unable, like others, to derive ease and enjoyment even from the most abundant worldly advantages, looks forward with a yearning heart to