As soon as he had ended his discourse upon the vanity and uncertainty of
human life, he looked steadfastly upon her. Sister, says he, I conjure
you not to be disturbed at what I am going to tell you, which you will
undoubtedly find to be true in every particular. I perceive my glass is
run, and I have now no more to do in this world but to take my leave of
it; for to-morrow about this time my speech will be again taken from me,
and, in a short time, my fit will return; and the next day, which I
understand is the day on which I came into this troublesome world, I
shall exchange it for another, where, for the future, I shall for ever be
free from all manner of sin and sufferings.
The good woman would have made him a reply, but he prevented her by
telling her he had no time to hearken to unnecessary complaints or
animadversions. I have a great many things in my mind, says he, that
require a speedy and serious consideration. The time I have to stay is
but short, and I have a great deal of important business to do in it.
Time and death are both in my view, and seem both to call aloud to me to
make no delay. I beg of you, therefore, not to disquiet yourself or me.
What must be, must be. The decrees of Providence are eternal and
unalterable; why, then, should we torment ourselves about that which we
cannot remedy?
I must confess, my dear sister, I owe you many obligations for your
exemplary fondness to me, and do solemnly assure you I shall retain the
sense of them to the last moment.
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