There is no living

sickness unfolds and consecrates. virtue, concerning which, such is our frailty, we must not fear that it may fall; or at least, that it may somewhat fail from its steadfastness. It is a painful, it is a just fear, in the bosoms of the best and purest beings on earth, that some dreadful lapse may come over them, or over those whom they hold in the highest reverence. But death, fearful, mighty as its power, is yet a power, that is subject to virtue. It gives victory to virtue. It brings relief to the heart, from its profoundest fear. It enables us to say, 66 now all is safe! The battle is fought; the victory is won. The course is finished; the race is run; the faith is kept: henceforth, it is no more doubt nor danger, no more temptation nor strife; henceforth is the reward of the just, the crown which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give! Yes, death, dark power of earth though it seem, does yet ensphere virtue, as it were, in heaven. It sets it up on high, for eternal admiration. It fixes its places never more to be changed; as a star to shine onward, and onward, through the depths of the everlasting ages!

In life there are many things which interfere with a just estimate of the virtues of others. There are, in some cases, jealousies and misconstructions, and there are false appearances; there are veils upon the heart that hide its most secret workings and its sweetest affections from us; there are earthly clouds that come between us and the excellence that we love. So that it is not, perhaps, till a friend is taken from us, that we entirely feel his value, and appreciate his worth. The vision is loveliest at its vanishing away; and we perceive not, perhaps, till we see the parting wing, that an angel has been with us!

Yet if we are not, from any cause, or in any degree,

blind to the excellence we possess, if we do feel all the value of the treasure which our affections hold dear; yet, I say, how does that earthly excellence take not only a permanent, but a saintly character, as it passes beyond the bounds of mortal frailty and imperfection! How does death enshrine it, for a homage, more reverential and holy, than is ever given to living worth! So that the virtues of the dead gain, perhaps, in the power of sanctity, what they lose in the power of visible presence; and thus-it may not be too much to say-thus the virtues of the dead benefit us sometimes, as much as the examples of living goodness.

How beautiful is the ministration, by which those who are dead, thus speak to us, thus help us, comfort us, guide, gladden, bless us! How grateful must it be to their thoughts of us, to know that we thus remember them; that we remember them, not with mere admiration, but in a manner that ministers to all our virtues ! What a glorious vision of the future is it, to the good and pure who are yet living on earth, that the virtues which they are cherishing and manifesting, the good character which they are building up here, the charm of their benevolence and piety, shall live, when they have laid down the burthen and toil of life, shall be an inspiring breath to the fainting hearts that are broken from them, a wafted odour of sanctity to hundreds and thousands that shall come after them. Is it not

so? Are there not those, the simplest story, the frailest record of whose goodness, is still and ever, doing good? But, frail records, we know full well, frail records they are not, which are in our hearts. And can we have known those, whom it is a joy as well as a sorrow to think of, and not be better for it? Are there those, once, our friends, now bright angels in some blessed sphere; and do we not sometimes

say, "perhaps, that pure eye of affection is on me now; and I will do nothing to wound it?" No, surely, it cannot be, that the dead will speak to us in vain. Their memories are all around us: their footsteps are in our paths; the memorials of them meet our eye at every turn; their presence is in our dwellings; their voices are in our ears; they speak to us-in the sad reverie of contemplation, in the sharp pang of feeling, in the cold shadow of memory, in the bright light of hope—and it cannot be, that they will speak in vain.

II. Nay, the very world we live in; is it not consecrated to us by the memory of the dead? Are not the very scenes of life made more interesting to us, by being connected with thoughts that run backward far beyond the range of present life? This is another view of the advantage and effect with which those who are "dead, yet speak to us."

If we were beings to whom, present, immediate, instant enjoyment were every thing; if we were animals, in other words, with all our thoughts prone to the earth on which we tread, the case would be different; the conclusion would be different. But we are beings of a deeper nature, of wider relations, of higher aspirations, of a loftier destiny. And being such, I cannot hesitate to say for myself, that I would not have every thing which I behold on earth, the work of the present, living generation. The world would be, comparatively, an ordinary, indifferent place, if it contained nothing but the workmanship, the handicraft, the devices of living men. No, I would see dwellings, which speak to me of other things, than earthly convenience, or fleeting pleasure; which speak to me the holy recollections of lives which were passed in them, and have passed away from them. I would see temples in which successive generations of

men have prayed. I would see ruins, on whose mighty walls is inscribed the touching story of joy and sorrow, love, heroism, patience, which lived there, there breathed its first hope, its last sigh, ages ago. I would behold scenes, which offer more than fair landscape and living stream to my eye; which tell me of inspired genius, glorious fortitude, martyred faith, that studied there, suffered there, died there. I would behold the earth, in fine, when it is spread before me, as more than soil and scenery, rich and fair though they be; I would behold the earth as written over with histories; as a sublime page, on which are recorded the lives of men, and empires.

The world, even of nature, is not one laughing, gay scene. It is not so in fact; it appears not so in the light of our sober, solemn, Christian teachings. The dark cloud sometimes overshadows it: the storm sweeps through its pleasant valleys; the thunder smites its everlasting hills; and the holy record hath said, "thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.” It has been said that all the tones in nature are, to use the musical phrase, on the minor key. That is to say, they are plaintive tones. And although the fact is probably somewhat exaggerated, when stated SO strongly and unqualifiedly, yet to a certain extent it is true. It is true, that that tone always mingles with the music of nature. In the winds that stir the mountain pine, as well as in the wailing storm; in the softfalling shower, and in the rustling of the autumn leaves; in the roar of ocean, as it breaks upon the lonely sea-beach; in the thundering cataract, that lifts up its eternal anthem amidst the voices of nature; and so likewise, in those inarticulate interpretations of nature, the bleating of flocks, the lowing of herds, and even in the song of birds, there is usually something

plaintive; something that touches the sad and brooding spirit of thought. And the contemplation of nature in all its forms, as well of beauty as of sublimity, is apt to be tinged with melancholy. And all the higher musings, the nobler aspirations of the mind, possess something of this character. I doubt if there were ever a manifestation of genius in the world, that did not bear something of this trait.

It can scarcely be the part of wisdom, then, to refuse to sympathize with this spirit of nature and humanity. And it can be no argument against a contemplation of this world as having its abodes sanctified by the memory of the departed, as having its brightness softly veiled over by the shadow of death; it can be no argument against such contemplation, that it is somewhat sober and sad. I feel then, that the dead have conferred a blessing upon me, in helping me to think of the world thus rightly; in thus giving a hue of sadness to the scenes of this world, while, at the same time, they have clothed it with every glorious and powerful charm of association. This mingled spirit of energy and humility, of triumph and tenderness, of glorying and sorrowing, is the very spirit of Christianity. It was the spirit of Jesus, the conqueror and the sufferer. Death was before him; and yet his thoughts were of triumph. Victory was in his view; and yet, what a victory! No laurel crown was upon his head; no flush of pride was upon his brow; no exultation flashed from his eye; for his was a victory to be gained over death, and through death. No. laurel crown sat upon his head-but a crown of thorns, no flush of pride was on his brow--but meekness was enthroned there; no exultation flashed from his eyebut tears flowed from it: "Jesus wept."

Come then, to us, that spirit at once of courage and