and well-grounded confidence of acceptance with Heaven, be the soul's incorruptible armour, as

we

"Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore,

Of that vast Ocean we must sail so soon."

LETTER XXIV.

DEATH.

THERE is a subject, which, perhaps more than any other, is presented to children errroneously and injuriously. It is that of the exchange of worlds. They see it surrounded with every accompaniment of gloom. They may be told that the soul of the departed friend is in a happier world. But they witness bitter and uncontroulable mourning, and the evidence of their senses overpowers the lifeless precept. Fear of death takes possession of them, before they can comprehend the faith which looks beyond the coffin, the knell, and the tomb: so, that "all their life-time they are subject to bondage."

Christians err in not speaking to each other more frequently and familiarly of death. Teachers of youth, and mothers, should not hesitate to make it the theme of their discourse. And when they do so, let them divest their brow of gloom, and their tone of sadness. While they mingle it with solemnity, they should soften it from terror, lest they bow down the tender mind, like those

heavy rains, which wash away the bloom of the unfolding flower.

I once attended a funeral in a remote village of Moravians. It was in the depth of summer. Every little garden put forth beauty, and every tree was heavy with fresh, cool verdure.

It was a Sabbath afternoon, when a dead infant was brought into the church. The children of the small congregation wished to sit near it, and fixed their eyes upon its placid brow, as on a fair piece of sculpture. The sermon of the clergyman was to them. It was a paternal address, humbling itself to their simplicity, yet lofty, through the deep, sonorous tones of their native German. Earnestly and tenderly they listened, as he told them how the baby went from its mother's arms to those of the compassionate Redeemer. When the worship closed, and the procession was formed, the children, two and two, followed the mourners, leading each other by the hand, the little girls clothed in white.

The place of slumber for the dead, was near the church, where they had heard of Jesus. It was a green, beautiful knoll, on which the sun, drawing towards the west, lingered with a smile of blessing. The turf had the richness of velvet, not a weed or a straw defaced it. Every swelling mound was planted with flowers, and a kind of aromatic thyme, thickly clustering, and almost

shutting over the small, horizontal tomb-stones, which recorded only the name and date of the deceased. In such a spot, so sweet, so lowly, so secluded, the clay might willingly wait its reunion with the spirit.

Before the corpse, walked the young men of the village, bearing instruments of music. They paused at the gate of the place of burial. Then a strain from voice and flute, rose, subdued and tremulous, like the strings of the wind-harp. It seemed as if a timid, yet prevailing suppliant, sought admission to the ancient city of the dead.

The gate unclosed. As they slowly wound around the gentle ascent, to the open grave, the Pastor, with solemn intonation, repeated passages from the Book of God. Thrilling, beyond expression, amid the silence of the living, and the slumber of the dead, were the blessed words of our Saviour, "I am the resurrection and the life."

He ceased, and all gathered round the brink of the pit. The little ones drew near, and looked downwards into its depths, sadly, but without fear. Then came a burst of music, swelling higher and higher, till it seemed no longer of earth. Methought it was the welcome in heaven, to the innocent spirit, the joy of angels over a new immortal, that had never sinned. Wrapped, as it were, in that glorious melody, the little

body was let down to its narrow cell. And all grief, even the parent's grief, was swallowed up, in that high triumph-strain. Devotion was there, giving back what it loved, to the God of love, not with tears, but with music. Faith was there, standing among flowers, and restoring a bud to the Giver, that it might bloom in a garden which could never fade.

Will those children ever forget the lesson learned at that infant's grave? When I looked on their sweet, serious faces, as they walked lovingly from the place of tombs, I thought they felt, what those of grey hairs are often "too slow of heart to believe," that in death, there is victory.

In order to give to those whom we instruct, cheering and consoling views of Death, we must correct our own. We must make it the subject of daily contemplation, praying for divine grace, to consider it as the consummation of our highest hope, the end for which we were born, the summons to arise, and take upon us the nature of angels. We have seen, or read, with what calmness the righteous have passed away. Sometimes, scarce a feature has been changed, a thought ruffled, in the transition. Beda, while dictating from the Bible, to his disciples, put his hand into the hand of death, and scarcely felt its coldness. Herder was writing a hymn to the