THE WITHERBLOG

February, 1771. Last night a person was removed by death, who, though feeble and infirm, had fond expectations of recovery, and strong desires to live. O what is it in this world, that is so bewitching; and what in the eternal world that is so forbidding—that we recoil from that, and cleave to this? If life is sweet, and if a man will give all he has for his life, should not living in the presence of God be a thousand times more welcome? It is a moving spectacle to see malefactors, being banished to foreign climates, taking the last look of their native land, with weeping eyes, wringing hands, and broken hearts. But it is a joyful parting, when some illustrious and agreeable stranger is taking his last farewell here of all his friends, being recalled to his native country and his prince’s court. With heartfelt joy, he loses sight of the shore, to reach the nobler climate. Let me never look, then, on the approach of death, like a rebel banished to some inhospitable isle—but like a son going to his native country, and his Father’s house.