LETTER XXIII.

SICKNESS AND DECLINE.

THOSE who are subject to varieties of physical infirmity, should study the philosophy of sickness. They should not only learn a fitting deportment under it, but seek those spiritual benefits which all afflictions are intended to produce.

Patience and fortitude, when we suffer, founded on the consciousness that we are in the hands of our Heavenly Father, whose love will not fail, and whose wisdom cannot err; a docile trust in the physician to whom we have confided our case; and that cheerful hope which can find the bright side of even unfavourable symptoms, or unpleasant occurrences, are among the first lessons in the science of salutary endurance. We should be careful to cultivate good feelings towards all who are around us, and to overrule the irritability which sometimes arises from obstruction in the paths of our accustomed usefulness. While by promptness in adopting appointed remedies, we voluntarily co-operate with every sanitary process, we should guard against that

undue haste to recover, which plunges ardent natures into baneful, and even fatal imprudences.

Sometimes, a reluctance, and depression of spirits, are indulged by those who have the prospect of becoming mothers, which are both injurious and unchristian. One of the weapons with which to repel this want of reconciliation, is drawn from the armoury of common sense. Is not the state of matrimony that, in which the Almighty has decreed our race to be perpetuated? Those, who have an unconquerable aversion to its results, ought not to place themselves in peril. If these results were not sufficiently obvious, if they "had not been told us from the beginning, and understood from the foundations of the earth," if changes and sorrows had happened to us, which had never befallen others, we might be more justified in complaining of a state which had caused them. At present, there is neither room for surprise, nor right to murmur. As well might the voyager, who enters a ship, with full knowledge of its destination, complain of arrival at the port.

"Did I but purpose to embark with thee,

On the smooth surface of a summer sea?

But would forsake the ship and make the shore,
When the winds threaten, or the billows roar?"

The state to which we allude, involves inconveniences and sufferings, but it should be sufficient

for a christian, that Divine Wisdom has both ordained and illumined it. And how much better is it, for the individual, and for all around, how much more generous to those most interested in her welfare, that instead of yielding to lassitude, or low spirits, she should cultivate cheerfulness, and gratitude.

How sweetly do the Germans speak of a friend, with such expectations, as being in "good hope." The mothers of our American forests, that redbrow'd and almost forgotten race, passed with the same meek brow, and sweet-toned voice, on their life of hardship, scarcely pausing, as they planted the corn, or gathered in the harvest, or steered the canoe, or snared the habitant of the deep, until the cry of the new-born was heard. History teaches us that the Romans, and other ancient nations, laboured to make a state of gestation one of cheerful exercise, both to the body and mind. The mother of Buonaparte, for several months before his birth, was much on horseback, with her husband, entering into those military plans and details which occupied his mind. Napoleon, who greatly respected her, sometimes intimated that his own structure of character had been modified by her heroism, and often repeated emphatically, as a maxim, "the mother forms the man."

The state which we mention, is doubtless a

discipline of character. Its temporary renunciation of the world's pleasures, the apprehension which it often creates, and the danger with which it may be connected, are themes for communion with Him, who alone has power to strengthen, to save, and to put into the heart a song of new joy. It adds force and tenderness to the aspirations of the Psalmist, "Let me now fall into the hand of the Lord, for his mercies are great." Is it not a holy state? Should it not therefore be happy? Does it not call up an irrepressible courage, to know that we guard the destinies of a being never to die? Were there no physical ills connected with the name of mother, her lot would be one of too unmingled felicity, for a mortal. Other sicknesses have only the hope to recover. But in hers, there is hope both of recovery, and of gain; the great gain of adding another loving and beautiful being to the circle already so dear; a circle, which it is her prayer may be unbroken, in a home of glory.

The care of the sick, is a science to which time and attention should be devoted. It is a part of the business of our sex. Appointed as we are, to varieties of indisposition, we are the more readily "touched with the infirmities" of others. Let us see that our daughters are early versed in those details, by which suffering is alleviated. It is not enough to carry a nursing-kind

ness in the heart. Many do this, who yet seem unable properly, or effectually, to express it. While performing services in the chamber of the sick, they perhaps forget to shade the light from the enfeebled eye, or to soften the footstep, or tone, for the trembling nerve, or to prepare properly the little nourishment that impaired digestion can admit; so that with the most laborious efforts, and kindest sympathies, they fail to administer comfort.

It would seem that slow, wasting sickness, was a severe trial of the passive virtues, and the christian graces. Yet how often do we see it calling forth the most affecting patience and resignation. Among many such instances, I think now of a friend of early days, who was appointed to the debility and weariness of a long decline. Her social feelings, and her warm sympathies for others' sorrow, seemed to act as remedies for her own. Without complaint, she resigned the intercourse with Nature, which had been to her inexpressibly dear; the walk, the ride, the sight of the fresh-smelling buds on her favourite trees, and the first, soft grass, stealing with early violets, over the walks that winter had embrowned. Gradually, her books, companions from the cradle, and her pen, so prized in her hours of intellectual musing, were resigned. Still, there was no murmur. And when the fearful cough, in