Weak and sickly minds never meditate death, but up starts a king of terrors, a raw-head-and-bloody-bones, and a thousand other chimerical figurations: As childish people sit moping in a corner, and fancy they see strange things in the fire.

The soul is but a sojourner on earth; and nobody, you know, travels in his best apparel: Therefore, fair as it is, have we no occasion to lament, that so goodly a frame as the human body, should perish in the grave, and leave behind such pastime and convenience: No! That is an idea which, rightly applied, only serves to raise a more transporting reflection in the breast of a christian - O! What an home must that be, to which this world of wonders and beauties is but an inn on the road? And he who could afford such a rich and splendid covering of flesh and blood for immortality to perform her temporal work in, and then to be thrown off, and rot upon a dunghil; O! What a Robe must he have reserved for her appearance, at the nuptials of his son! The