speaker, an elegant writer, with a natural playfulness of thought and manner which made him dear to friends and agreeable to all, through the whole man shone the spirit of evangelical charity, and made his gentleness and refinement seem what they really were, a growth from, or a graft upon, that pure harmony of soul which is a supernatural gift. He and his patron the venerable Dr. Walsh, the late Vicar-Apostolic of this district, fellow-disciples of Dr. Milner, entered into the intimate heart of that remarkable man, and made themselves heirs of its truest characteristic in perpetuating his devotional spirit. It was Dr. Milner, the sharp controversialist, as the world has often considered him, who set himself to soften and melt the frost which stiffened the Catholicism of his day, and to rear up, safe from our northern blasts, the tender and fervent aspirations of Continental piety. The small chapel at Maryvale, which is so well known to us all, contains the first altar dedicated in England to the Sacred Heart of our Lord *.

Well did those two servants of God, his pupils, continue the work of Milner ;—and now the last of the three has been taken away from us, and we are left to follow out the lessons and the patterns which they have given us. We do not lament their departure; we thank God that He gave them to us, and continued each of them to labour through a sufficient length of life for His glory and our edification. We do not lament their loss; for they are gone to their reward, and can do more for us by their intercessions before the Eternal Throne than by their prolonged presence on earth. We do not lament

4 Vide Note at the end.

their absence; for they have done their work. Every one is made for his day; he does his work in his day : what he does is not the work of any other day, but of his own day; his work is necessary in order to the work of that next day which is not his, as a stepping-stone on which we, who come next, are to raise our own work. God grant that we too may do our own work, whatever it may be, as perfectly as he did his, whom we are now consigning to the grave! God in His great mercy grant, by the sacrifice of the Immaculate Lamb, once made on the Cross, daily renewed at the Altar, through the intercession of His dear Virgin Mother, for the merits of all Saints, especially those connected with this Diocese and College,-God, the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, grant us, with unselfish hearts and pure love of Him, ever to aim at His glory, and to seek His will, and to ask for His grace, and to obey His word, labouring according to our strength, labouring to the end, as he did, the dear friend whom we have lost,-labouring to the very end, in humility, diligence, and love!

SERMON XIV.

IN THE WORLD, BUT NOT OF THE WORLD.1

(Preached in the Church of the Jesuit Fathers, London.)

EP. 1 JOAN. ii. 17.

Mundus transit et concupiscentia ejus : qui autem facit voluntatem Dei, manet in æternum.

The world passeth away, and the desire thereof: but he that doeth the will of God, abideth for ever.

I

HAVE been asked by those whose wish at such a

moment is a command, to say a few words on the subject of the sorrowful, the joyful solemnity, which has this morning brought us together. A few words are all that is necessary, all that is possible;-just so many as are sufficient to unite the separate thoughts, the separate

1 The following sermon, I know well, is quite unworthy of its subject; moreover, when read, it will, I much fear, come short of the expectations both of those who heard it delivered and of those who have heard of it. Words spoken by mourner to mourners, when hearts are open and sensibilities awake, have a life in them which departs with their utterance; and, on being written down and read, are but memorials of their own tameness and impotence.

Those, however, who so lovingly asked me to speak, now ask me to put on paper what I said. They have the best right to decide in this matter; and, in complying with their wishes, at least I have the mournful pleasure of recording the long friendship which it was my joy and pride to have with one who was beloved and is lamented by so many.— Advertisement to First Edition.

memories, the separate stirrings of affection, which are awakened in us by the presence, in our midst, of what remains on earth of the dear friend, of the great soul, whom we have lost,-sufficient to open a communication and create a sympathy between mind and mind, and to be a sort of testimony of one to another in behalf of feelings which each of us has in common with all.

Yet how am I the fit person even for as much as this? I can do no more than touch upon some of those many points which the thought of him suggests to me; and, whatever I may know of him, and say of him, how can this be taken as the measure of one whose mind had so many aspects, and who must, in consequence, have made such distinct impressions, and exercised such various claims, on the hearts of those who came near him?

It is plain, without my saying it, that there are those who knew him far better than I could know him. How can I be the interpreter of their knowledge or their feelings? How can I hope by any words of mine to do a service to those, who knew so well the depths of his rare excellence by a continuous daily intercourse with him, and by the recurring special opportunities given to them of its manifestation ?

I only know what he was to me. I only know what his loss is to me. I only know that he is one of those whose departure hence has made the heavens dark to me. But I have never lived with him, or travelled with him; I have seen him from time to time; I have visited him; I have corresponded with him; I have had mutual confidences with him.

Our lines of duty

have lain in very different directions. I have known him as friend knows friend in the tumult and the hurry of life. I have known him well enough to know how much more there was to know in him; and to look forward, alas! in vain, to a time when, in the evening and towards the close of life, I might know him more. I have known him enough to love him very much, and to sorrow very much, that here I shall not see him again. But then I reflect, if I, who did not know him as he might be known, suffer as I do, what must be their suffering who knew him so well?

1. I knew him first, I suppose, in 1837 or 1838, thirty-five or six years ago, a few years after he had become Fellow of Merton College. He expressed a wish to know me. How our friendship grew I cannot tell; I must soon have been intimate with him, from the recollection I have of letters which passed between us; and by 1841 I had recourse to him, as a sort of natural adviser, when I was in difficulty. From that time I ever had recourse to him, when I needed advice, down to his last illness. On my first intimacy with him he had not reached the age of thirty. I was many years older; yet he had that about him, even when a young man, which invited and inspired confidence. It was difficult to resist his very presence. True, indeed, I can fancy those who saw him but once and at a distance, surprised and perplexed by that lofty fastidiousness and keen wit which were natural to him; but such a misapprehension of him would vanish forthwith when they drew near to him, and had actual trial of