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compliment each other, and gloss over thő ; intermediate gradations from thirty to forty with the name of youth; but that forsook us; never to return again, when we were' acquainted with the age of twenty-five! .:

If the aggregate mass of human existence were put together, and every individual had his share equally apportioned; it might not exceed the pittance of thirty years! but not insisting on this calculation, we will allow, what in nature we know is not to be allowed, that to every person, the age of sixty, or even of seventy were granted; yet surely he cannot be said to be young on his journey, who has already reached the half of it: a middle age is all the compliment that can be due to him. It is then downright mockery to say the same of one, who has completed Half a Century!

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It is not to produce the hoary veteran of eighty, or it may be of ninety, who, on pur

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pose. to excite astonishment, will crack his joke, and laugh at the wrecks of time; such rare characters ought no more to be quoted as a general estimate of longevity, than others, who not having run the half of that race, are so often to be opposed against them,

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The ancients marked six different stages of life.- Pueritia, which commenced at the fifth year, they called Childhood ;Adolescens tia, Youth, which was understood by them to be from the eighteenth, and even to the twenty-fifth year ;-Juventus, the age from twenty-five to the thirty-fifth year;Virilis Ætas, Manhood, from the thirty-fifth to the fiftieth year ;-Senectus, Old Age from fifty to sixty ;--Crepita Ætas, Decrepit Age, which ends in death!

Well was the question put; "What is life." and well was it answered by the same inspired author, in these words: “It is even a vapeur,

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that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

« Life glides away, Lorenzol like a brook,
“ For ever changing, unperceived the change."

Not any thing but the closest appeals of affection, and the offices due to surviving friends, could damp the good man's desire of death; these indeed, while filling the eye with sympathetic tears, convey to the heart a longing wish, to have a respite, even from his sublimest joys, to mourn a little longer, in this vale of sorrow and of tears, to sweeten, if he can, the journey of his fellow flesh and blood; but as a writer truly observes, “when such friends part, it is the suroider dies."

The Gentoo's have a proverb which runs thus : “Sitting is better than walking, sleep is better than sitting, but death is better than either."

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As in vegetable life, so it happens to us : there is a seed time, a spring, a summer, an autumn, and a winter of our existence; and like unto the crops of the field and

garden, generations of men and women, by an invariable law of nature, in the same manner succeed each other.

But since we came into life progressively, it seems congenial with the feelings of nature to be dismissed from it in the same leisurely manner; and hence, in addition to other cansiderations; is a reason, why sudden and violent deaths, usually affect the mind with most awful sensations: to escape however a tedious and very painful separation of matter and spirit, a quick release were most devoutly to be wished; but not otherwise.

If death were to commit such ravages on the soul, as utterly to destroy it from the capability of future existence, dismal truly would be that extinguisher which degraded

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it into annihilation : but blessed be God, for informing the conscience, by the secret whispers of nature, and the clear light of Revelation, that death is only the passport to another life, and while the resolutely wicked have every thing to fear in it, those, who are not

weary in well doing," have every thing to hope!

In the last conflict of nature, comfortably will they feel the sentiments of an admired poet, who represents the language “ of a dying Christian to his soul,” in these animating and celestial words:

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, ob quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,

Oh the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be death?

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