indeed, whom we call dead. They live in our thoughts; they live in our blessings; they live in our life; "death hath no power over them,"

who occupy such a Let us meditate upon ministry, to us. Let

Let us then meditate upon those the mighty company of our departed brethren space in the universe of being. their relation, their message, their us look upon ourselves in this relation, and see what we owe to the dead. Let us look upon the earth, and see if death hath not left behind its desolating career some softer traces, some holier imprint, than of destruction.

I. What memories, then, have the dead left among us, to stimulate us to virtue, to win us to goodness.

The approach to death often prepares the way for this impression. The effect of a last sickness to develope and perfect the virtues of our friends is often so striking and beautiful, as to seem more than a compensation for all the sufferings of disease. It is the practice of the Catholic Church to bestow upon its eminent saints a title to the perpetual homage of the faithful, in the act of canonization. But what is a formal decree, compared with the effect of a last sickness, to canonize the virtue that we love for eternal remembrance and admiration? How often does that touching decay, that gradual unclothing of the mortal body, seem to be a putting on of the garments of immortal beauty and life! That pale cheek, that placid brow, that sweet serenity spread over the whole countenance, that spiritual, almost supernatural, brightness of the eye, as if light from another world already shone through it, that noble and touching disinterestedness of the parting spirit, which utters no complaint, which VOL. XIX, -NO. 230.

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breathes no sigh, which speaks no word of fear nor apprehension to wound its friend, which is calm, and cheerful, and natural, and self-sustained, amidst daily declining strength and the sure approach to death, and then, at length, when concealment is no longer possible, that last firm, triumphant, consoling discourse, and that last look of all mortal tenderness and immortal trust;—what hallowed memories are these to soothe, to purify, to enrapture surviving love!

Death, too, sets a seal upon the excellence that sickness unfolds and consecrates. There is no living 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 "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 place never more to be changed, as a star to shine onward, and onward, through the depths of the everlasting ages!

say,

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 burden and toil of life, shall be an inspiring breath to the fainting hearts that are broken from them,a wafted odor 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