the conversation of that day could have been taken and printed from his lips, it would have conveyed to the world as striking a proof of his great powers, as anything that has ever proceeded from his pen.

I must not leave it to be supposed, that in all this there was anything of the lecturer, the speech-maker, the maker of orations by the fireside; any talking, as if it were a duty to talk, wisely, or gravely, or instructively, or as if he thought light and gay conversation a sin or an offence; nothing could be farther from the truth. His conversation was singularly involuntary. The stream flowed and flowed on, because there was a fountain behind; out of that abundance he spake. Or if he had any intent, his manner was as that of one who would clear up his own thought, or would submit it to the judgment of another. He never aimed apparently to be religious, or spiritual, or instructive; and yet he was all these in the highest degree. You have heard of persons of whom it was said, that they could talk of nothing but religion." The expression, you must have seen, was meant for praise; but it is a praise which I have no desire to claim for the subject of our present thoughts. And yet his conversation, though he never entered upon it with that view, was the very religion of life, the very religion of nature, the very religion of politics, society, business; the religion of every theme-that is, the highest and most sacred thought of every theme that he touched upon. So lofty, so commanding was his thought, so did it soar above all around it, so deep was its impression, that a conversation with him was often an event in life; a high beacon that shed its light over the track of future years. I remember conversations with him, I remember single phrases, and the tone in which they were uttered, as having made upon me an impression beyond the effect of whole volumes of moral disquisition. If I were asked to convey an idea of this impression, by repeating his words, the attempt were vain, because it would be impossible to give the manner and the tone. But those may imagine something of this, who remember the feeling awakened by him by his simple reading of a hymn; who recollect, how, to a dull and lifeless hymn, or to that which had been made so by ordinary repetition, he communicated a character altogether new; how it became, as it were, a new creation, beneath the breathing fervour of his touching emotion and utterance.

Indeed, there was this same singular impressiveness about his whole character. Let me attempt to speak of him in this larger view.

I have presented to you the picture of a man retired, reserved, isolated in appearance; of one who, for the most part, sat in his own dwelling, wrapped in meditation, or engaged in intellectual and elevated converse. But this was a being, though calm and reserved in exterior, all alive with energies, all alive with emotions, all alive with the feeling of what was going on in society around him, and in the whole wide world in which he lived. Calm he was in manner, self-restrained in fact, and in a degree as remarkable as his emotion was strong. Such was his self-control, that I thought at first it was coldness: the quiet and subdued tones of his voice, fell on my ear almost like tones of apathy. But I soon learned to correct that error. I soon perceived that he was accustomed to put a strong guard upon his feelings, precisely because they needed that guard. I saw that his self-government was the fruit of much discipline. I had no doubt, that, in the bosom

of his youth there had been a burning volcano. I had no doubt, though I never saw tears in his eyes, that there were tears in his heart. I know of nothing more touching than this restrained emotion of the strongest natures.

It

And thus it was with every trait in his character; there was something in it that laid a powerful hold upon all who came within the sphere of its influence. That which is often general in other men, came in him to a point that penetrated the heart.-His was a love of the truth. There was no more characteristic trait of his mind than a disinterested love of the truth. It was evinced by his espousing unpopular opinions in religion, unpopular opinions on other subjects. But then it was no abstraction of truth that he loved. His mind seized upon the vitality of the thing, pressed it into moral service, pressed it into the closest contact with living interests, brought it to bear upon every-day life. Many books teach essentially the same doctrines that he taught, and yet are perfectly dull and uninteresting, because they never reach that point, never touch that spot, where doctrine becomes experience, and truth, a living consciousness. It was not so with him, nor with his teachings.-His was a great and generous philosophy. But it was not the philosophy of books. It did not begin nor end in books. It was not occupied with dry analyses and classifications. It plunged into the busy and bewildering maze of human existence. grappled with misery, sorrow, want. It took the weary, wayfaring man by the hand and offered to help him. It strove after the solution of this life's mystery. It strove after self-interpretation. It descended into the bosom of experience with its deep meditation. Many hearers said of the preacher, Whence hath this man this knowledge? How knows he so well our trials and struggles, having never been in the same situations? How, from his calm, and secluded study, can he bring out the guage, which is to measure the waters that are sweeping and dashing around us?" It was because he read in his own heart, the heart of all men.-His was a religion, a devoutness, the most profound, and sincere, and habitual. It was what no one who was with him could fail to see. But it was not some remarkable thing about him; it was a part of himself. It was not a religion professional, nor formal, nor prescriptive; not acquired, I had almost said. It was a religion inborn; surely it was born in him by the power of God. How touching was his veneration for the Supreme Glory! How touching were his devotions in the sanctuary! I have sometimes thought his public prayers, if they had been taken down by some hearer, just as they were uttered, would have made the most perfect body of devotions on record. And I do not mean by this, to say that his prayers were unequalled, though they certainly were so by anything that I have ever heard; but because I think that all known books of prayers involve an essential and fatal mistake in the very mode of their production. That is to say, the writer of prayers, is in a false position, and cannot possibly succeed, so as to do justice to himself, or to the task he has undertaken. He either sits down to imagine a prayer - a method that promises little; or else he sits down to make a prayer, in order that he may write it. a kind of sacrilege, it seems to me, not only fatal to the end, but of which, certainly, I would accuse no good and devout man. But I wander from my subject. Alas! the voice, whose utterances,

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could they have been preserved, might help and comfort us now, is gone -is gone from among us; and shall never more be heard in our sorrowing churches!-Once more, and to finish this lame and imperfect sketch of what he was-alas! is it all the offering that we can make to his memory!his was a goodness of heart the most gentle, tender, and considerate. I do not believe that one unkind action can be found in his life. I never heard him utter a harsh and hasty word concerning any human being. But here I must still discriminate. In some respects, he was a severe judge of men. Calmly and considerately his opinion was expressed; but it was strong, and clear, and, doubtless, unsparing. He seemed at times a rigorous censor. Especially towards sensual aberrations he was so, and had some right to be, since he showed no indulgence towards himself. But his rigour was always tempered with pity. Informed on an occasion of a person who had fallen in this respect, "Yes," he said, "I know that he has dishonoured himself," with such a tone of rebuke and sorrow united, as I can never forget. That was doubtless an awfully severe moral judgment which he once pronounced on the nature of retribution, but it was not harsh nor cruel. A representation of the pains to be inflicted by conscience in another life, having been mentioned as very impressive," Yes," he said, "and it is all true; but, after all, does not the heaviest retribution for sin lie in the sin itself-lie in being a sinner-lie in the darkness and moral annihilation which sin causes, although the offender be unconscious of it?" Terrible thought! but one breathing lenity and compassion, while, at the same time, none but a mind awfully impressed by the evil of sin, could have suggested it. But so were all things tempered in him. He was, doubtless, from the very elevation of his sentiments, a strict and fearful judge of the characters of men; but how candid, considerate, and forbearing he was, all who have conversed much with him must know; how heartily he espoused every good cause, and every good work, the unequalled beneficent institutions of the city of his residence, must always proclaim; how sympathising and tender he was in his intercourse with the people to whom he ministered, they can never forget; and what was the gentleness, the sweetness, the loveliness of his life in his own home — but let the veils of domestic affliction cover and hallow, as they for ever will, those silent fountains of mingled, ever-remembered joy, confidence, and affection.

The thought admonishes me how much of such a mind and heart must ever lie in "dread repose," beneath veils that may never on earth be lifted; and I turn away disheartened from the work I have undertaken. Let me pause a moment to make one reflection on the great and good life upon which I have been meditating, and I will finish this sad and sorrowing tribute to the memory of Channing.

It is often said, that in the lives of literary and studious men, of scholars and authors, there is no action to signalize it, and to draw upon it the admiring gaze of the world; and that their memorial, instead of the shouts and triumphal arches that rise in the track of the conqueror, must shrink to the few pages of a cold and silent biography. It is often said, I repeat; so constantly indeed as to have passed into an uncontradicted adage; and yet, after all, is it true? What more significant action of a man is there, than the conversation he holds, and especially than the book he writes? What more significant is there in battles, in

voyages, or in the public works that spread health, fertility, or wealth, through a country? Does he who fights the battle with error and vice, does he who brings to light the far distant and before undiscovered lands of thought, ay, and regions of imagination like the heavens in splendour, does he who causes streams of healthful and fertilizing wisdom and gladness to flow through nations and through ages-does he nothing for note and admiration? Nay, what statesman or conqueror, what Cæsar or Napoleon, ever had his actions and his deeds actually commented upon, like those of Plato, of Dante, of Shakspeare, or of Milton? And many are the writings of a kindred genius, that deserve to be as thoroughly examined, as largely discoursed upon, as fully held up to the notice of the world, and will be, as any other series of remarkable actions. And so I believe will be the writings of Channing. They are models in style for our youthful scholars; and in matter, they are enterprizes of pith and moment." They spoke to the time, to the country, to the world in which he lived. Every book, every essay that he published, was as a battle. Alas! it was a battle within, in which infirmity, ill health, sore and wearied nerves, went up to fight with the hosts of error, sin, and misery.

And when he fell in the conflict, when he died; true, there were no loud notes lifted up of wailing trumpet behind his bier, nor funeral guns to break the hushed repose of death, nor arches of marble, nor columns of brass, to speak to the passing ages; but what was the feeling that burst forth in the places that knew him-in the entire country that venerated him? No conqueror's wreath should be taken in exchange by me, for that simple feeling. The whole country felt, all sectional and sectarian prejudices forgotten, that a great man was fallen; that one who sat higher than in seats of office, had fallen; that a light which shone long time in our firmament, purely and brightly, was gone down; and that the land was left darker for its mournful departure. And those who knew him and loved him, looked on aghast, scarce receiving what they heard; scarce believing what they saw, deeming it strange, if possible, that such a one should be dead! I know not but I am uttering what is more personal than I ought to suppose to prevail far; but I am tempted to say,was there ever a feeling so singular, so peculiar, so sad and wondering, as that which we have felt about the death of Channing! as if his life were a part of our daily light, and could not cease to shine upon us! as if his wisdom was a part of our daily food, and could not so fail us! as if his influence upon us had become one of the fixed ordinances of our being, and could never pass away!

Oh! in that feeling methinks there is an augury and an oracle. He is not dead to us, nor we to him. His words are still in our ears. We still walk in his light, though sorrowing now for a while-sorrowing most of all, that we shall see his face no more!

ERRONEOUS VIEWS OF DEATH,

WITH SUGGESTIONS TOWARDS THEIR REMOVAL.

CHRISTIANITY was designed to introduce into the world new views and feelings concerning death. We seem to see its character and office typified in the visit of Jesus to the house of Mary and Martha, on occasion of the death of their brother. It was a house of affliction. Wailing and lamentation were heard in it, as they are, at one time or another, in all the dwellings of this world. But our blessed Saviour approached it in the calm consciousness that he was commissioned with a doctrine, and clothed with a power that would triumph over death; that death, in fact, was not the end nor the interruption of existence; that death, indeed, was only death in appearance, while, in reality, the spirit's life is progressive, ever-continued, immortal. What less do his words import, than the annunciation to the world of this new view of mortality? I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die"-shall die not at all, for ever! The apostles, in like manner, evidently considered themselves as commissioned to teach new views of death. They taught the Christian converts to sorrow not as others who had no hope.' They represented the coming of Christ as designed to "deliver those, who, through fear of death, were all their life-time, subject to the bondage.

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The severity of this bondage in the ancient world, is sufficiently apparent from its funeral customs, and the whole tenor of its writings, and from the very terms by which they represented death as the great calamity of human existence. That language which has conveyed to us the largest portion of ancient literature, contains more than thirty epithets, all indicative of the deepest dejection and dread, which were familiarly and constantly applied to this event. Death was denominated the terrible, the mournful, the inexorable, the insatiable. It was cool, cruel, bitter, merciless death. It was represented as deaf to the cries of mortals, unpitying to their miseries. It was the dire necessity, the dark day, the fatal calamity, the iron sleep, the eternal night. Imagination can scarcely conceive of anything more appalling than the scenes of lamentation to which this event gave rise among heathen nations; which came to be a matter of custom and form, indeed, but which could never have been a matter of custom and form, without having originated in the most horrible ideas of the reality. In the houses of the deceased, for days together, their relations set up the most