THERE are those who affirm that none but the wicked are subjected to unpleasant thoughts. I have been acquainted with many persons, but I could never find one who was not ready to confess, there were moments of sadness that invaded the soul, the cause of which they could not explain. These spring, sometimes from a vicious temperament: the humours mixing themselves with the blood, carry to the brain those spirits that trace upon the imagination frightful and whimsical figures, from whence come those disagreeable dreams and visions that surprise us in the night. Dreams proceed often from heaven, often from the devil, and frequently from natural causes; thus we have thoughts of death, after conversation on the subject, or having read a book that treated of it. To speak plainly, it seems that Providence sends us such dreams, for the purpose of forcing our attention to the consideration of those subjects we are generally reluctant to reflect upon. Such is, without doubt, the origin of this I have had concerning death. I read one night before retiring, the verse of Lucretius, one of the most learned men, and best poets of antiquity. I found an eminently beautiful passage, where he says, that all nature, with one consent, elevating her voice, speaks thus to mankind:—“Why, O mortals, do you groan for such a length of time, and why are you so sharply afflicted? Why do you submit to the slavery of flying from death, and the fear thereof? Why do you continually reflect upon the pleasures of youth? The enjoyments of this season have passed with the days you regret, as grain escapes from a sack, from whence it finds an issue. You are fatigued with the world; why do you not quit it, as one who returns satisfied from a feast, where the viands were exquisite, and the pleasure of the highest flavour? You are convicted of a strange folly: it is in your power to enjoy tranquillity; why not, then, seize upon possession? Why fear death, that will render you invulnerable?” Such are the sentiments of the poet, and they appear like those of a saint; but this is nature, or rather, natural reason, teaching us that death is not so frightful as we are apt to imagine; and I am not therefore surprised, that heathen philosophers have exhibited so constant an example of exalted morality. Likewise I remember what Job has said upon the brevity of human life, and the swift arrival of death. “The life of man,” says this illustrious patriarch, “is of short duration: it is a flower, that before it is scarcely blown, is despoiled of its leaves: it is a shadow, which flies with the rapidity of the wind, without remaining stationary a single moment;” and yet, in spite of its brevity, life is subject to so much calamity, that it is doubtful whether it should not rather be called misery, than life.