October 19

"Seeing many things, but thou observest not." Isaiah 42:20.

THIS charge is as applicable to us as it was to the Jews. Nothing is more common than the want of wise and proper observation. The ob- jects and events adapted to excite it, and which would also reward it, are various and numberless. And some of them daily and hourly strike our senses, yet they engage none of our notice and attention as rational and moral beings. From an immense multitude, let us select two of these occurrences by way of example: the birth and the death of our fellow-creatures.

How little attention is excited by the birth of a child. It may per- haps, if it takes place in respectable life, be announced in the paper; inquiries may be made concerning its sex and form; it may be viewed and embraced by the friends who call ceremoniously on the mother who has been delivered. But what moral or religious reflection is ever in- dulged by those who are informed of the event, or even by the parents themselves? The interesting sufferer herself may be pleased with the congratulations paid her, and forget her anguish for joy that a man is born into the world, and feel a lively gratitude for the mercy she has experienced; but no one thought may arise in the mind respecting the all-important result in the production of a new being, and such a being too.

Yet the birth of a child can scarcely be deemed less than a miracle of nature and providence. That child is a piece of divine workmanship, fearfully and wonderfully made, and as fearfully and wonderfully preserved and endowed. When the Creator made it, he did a far greater thing than when he made the sun. The sun is a mass of unintelligent matter. It sees not its own light; it feels not its own heat, and is not destined to shine and burn for ever. But there is a spirit in that child, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him understanding. He is a moral being. He is the subject of reason and conscience. These principles are not yet developed, but they are lodged in him. They are in him as the flower is in the seed, and the oak in the acorn. He is an heir of immortality; and though his existence began yesterday, it will never, never end. He will hear the heavens pass away with a great noise, and see the elements melt with fervent heat. He will stand before the judgment-seat of Christ, and go away into everlasting punishment or into life eternal.

He is also to be viewed relatively as well as personally. And what an awful interest does he acquire from the evil he may occasion as well as suffer, and from the good he may produce as well as experience. He may prove a viper in the bosom that feeds him, a disgrace to his family, a curse to the nation. Many may be vitiated by his example, and led into hell by his influence. One sinner destroyeth much good. Or he may make a glad father, and prove a blessing to the neighborhood, and serve his generation by the will of God, and levy a tax of gratitude on future ages. Who that had seen Isaac Watts in the arms of his mother, sitting at the door of the prison in which his father was suffering for conscience' sake, could have divined that this precious babe was the sweet psalmist of the Christian Israel, and that the little hand that stroked her cheek was ordained to hold the pen that should instruct and edify the world to the end of time. Had we heard when the babe wept, and looked into the ark of bulrushes, we should have seen the scholar learned in all the wisdom of Egypt, the scourge of Pharaoh, the deliverer of the Hebrews, the king in Jeshurun, the lawgiver and the prophet of the Lord, with whom he spoke face to face. What says the Lord of all? "Despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my heavenly Father."

Let us pass to the second article, death. This is perpetually taking place around us; yet how little it is noticed was long ago remarked by Eliphaz: "They are destroyed from morning to evening: they perish for ever, without any regarding it." This indifference is one of the most astonishing things in a world of wonders, especially when taken in connection with those consequences that, in general belief, are supposed to result from it. If a tower fell, if a mountain was swallowed up by an earthquake, we should notice, and make it the subject of conversation for days and weeks. Yet, what is this compared with the removal of a fellow-creature; detached from all union with visible nature; excluded from every thing that once pleased or engaged him below the sun; severed from all his endeared connections; his flesh seeing corruption, while his soul has entered into an entirely new state of existence, in immediate and perceptible communion with the Lord of all? Death is the most serious and momentous event that can befall the children of men. For it is not the extinction of being, but only the termination of one mode of it, and the commencement of another; the transition from time to eternity—from a course of action to the sentence of retribution. When the dust returns to the dust whence it was, the spirit returns to God who gave it; and then the divine fiat runs, 'He that is unjust, let him be unjust still; and he that is filthy, let him be filthy still; and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still; and he that is holy, let him be holy still.'

And yet who considers it? When the bell tolls, we hardly ask whose doom it announces. When we see a funeral in the street, we scarcely look towards it, unless it be accompanied with the pomp of mortality. We see new names on the doors of the houses, but we pass without thinking that the places which once knew the owners know them no more for ever. A neighbor dies, and from civility we attend the burial, and lend him our last assistance, but return into the busy or trifling concerns of life as careless as before. Death enters our own dwelling; we feel deeply, but we reflect slightly. We mourn our loss, but the heart is not made better; we miss them for a time, but we soon furnish substitutes, or grow insensible to the want of them. When every duty the utmost decorum can exact, or the most perfect affection dictates, is discharged towards the deceased, where is the concern of the living to derive from the decease itself the spiritual profit which it is designed to yield? Where is the earnestness of the prayer, "So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom?"

Every death—the death of the young and the death of the old, the death of the rich and the death of the poor, the death of the saint and the death of the sinner—has something not only serious, but appropriate to impart. But to the generality of mankind, each of them says nothing, or speaks in vain.

Much of this disregard is from the frequency of the occurrence. Nothing seems to affect us strongly, but what is sudden or rare. The most important object, and the most interesting events, when they become familiar, awaken neither wonder nor attention. Yet, if we cannot regulate our impressions, we can govern our ideas; we can apply our thoughts to any subject we please, and we should not suffer what is so full of instruction to pass without just reflection. We cannot be always thinking of death, but we should never be so absent from a proper condition of mind as not to be easily recalled to the improvement of an event which must soon happen to all, and for which we may prepare, though we cannot prevent.

It is not only the commonness of the subject, but our aversion to it that keeps us from attending to it. It is, above all things, irksome to flesh and blood; we therefore are always endeavoring to put the evil day far away. But since we cannot put it off, let us pray for that grace which will turn the enemy into a friend, and the curse into a blessing. Then to die will be gain; and we may live rejoicing in hope of the glory of God.

"If there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."