the mourners go about the streets. If by our negligence or carelessness the death of a friend is hastened, we may well upbraid ourselves; and if by real, though well-intended, mismanagement we fail to prolong life, certainly we should learn wisdom from the sad mistake. Sometimes, however, in their agony of grief people reprove themselves for imaginary errors, especially for supposed mistakes in the employment of physicians and administering remedies. They think if they could do over again they would act more wisely. Perhaps they would, but what if with the same result? Would they be better satisfied? What is wisdom in such an hour? Why have we not infallible skill? Why can not physicians cure every sickness and banish all disease? By the progress of science the practice of medicine may indeed be improved, and the general average of life prolonged, but even in that happier day weeping Rachels will mourn for their children, and sons and daughters will lament the parental dead.

We cannot too kindly remember our dead, our dear ones gone before. Nor ought we to turn away from their mention as from something gloomy. They have but preceded us a little space. We shall go to them. to them. Will it afford us comfort when we meet them on the other shore that we drove them from our thought and allowed their memories to die away with the sound of their funeral bells? We forget that "a friendship which can be cut short by death never was one truly." Holy Scripture tells us that "love is stronger than death." If we justly praise our beloved dead, we shall not flatter them. If we make their virtues known and stimulate ourselves and others to imitate them, and do so in good taste, we shall perform only an act of respectful sorrow and loving piety. Certainly such afflictions, in union with grace, ought to work to our good. We think, if the dear deceased ones were alive again, what would we not do, or suffer, or forbear for their sake? but if we are not willing now to do as much for Christ, to deny ourselves as much for him, what can be the reason but want of love? If we seek relief from sorrow in any way but by resignation to the will of God, and a desire of communion with him for the remainder of our days, to serve him with all the loving fidelity we would show our friends could we have them back again, we take ourselves out of his hands,

suffer without improvement, are still at the mercy of events, and shall have no preparation for our own departure. Such is not true wisdom. The surest refuge for our souls in time of sorrow is in fundamental principles, such as these: "There is a God; he is careful of me; by asserting his sovereignty he is seeking my submission; he will ultimately take me as well as my loved ones; if I can bless his name in the very sanctuary of affliction and death, what rapture shall I feel in the heaven of unclouded and undying love! He who submits most lovingly and reverently on earth shall sing most sweetly in heaven." Bishop Heber's lines on the death of his brother are expressive:

"Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee!
Though sorrow and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

"Thou art gone to the grave, we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope since the Sinless hath died.

"Thou art gone to the grave, and its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long;
But the sunshine of heaven beamed light on thy waking
And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

"Thou art gone to the grave, but 'twere vain to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;
He gave thee, he took thee, and he shall restore thee,

And Death hath no sting since the Saviour hath died."

After all, the spectacle of true Christian grief is beautiful, and few things are more strikingly observable than the difference between the blessedness of religion and the feeble consolations of philosophy. "It is the pride and object of philosophy to render the human heart insensible to suffering: in this, however, happily for man, it seldom succeeds, and when it does, the character is brutalized, and more than half the benefit of life's discipline is lost, while, at the same time, the heart that has foolishly endeavored to harden itself against suffering, becomes also insensible to joy, and loses those fine transi

tions from darkness to light, and from light to darkness, which, like the beauties of opening and closing day, constitute the great part of the glory and brightness of the moral landscape. Christianity, on the other hand, which is addressed to us as creatures liable to sorrow, and which is offered to man as a means of alleviation, and as a remedy of woe, seeks not to harden the mind against feeling, but rather permits the full feeling of sorrow, in order that the heart may receive the benefit of this essential part of the discipline, wherewith Heaven in its wisdom sees fit to exercise the children of men. Herein is seen the excellence of Christian principles, in that they recognize the use of afflictions, and render them subservient to the purposes of good."

It is Christianity which, in the truest and best sense, can announce to the stricken heart, "The days of thy mourning shall be ended." Then

"Oh! weep not for the joys that fade

Like evening lights away;

For hopes that like the stars decayed,
Have left thy mortal day;

"For clouds of sorrow will depart,
And brilliant skies be given;

And, though on earth the tear may start
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart

Amid the bowers of Heaven!

"Oh! weep not for the friends that pass
Into the lonesome grave,

As breezes sweep the withered grass
Along the restless wave;

"For though thy pleasures may depart,
And darksome days be given;
And lonely though on earth thou art,
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart,

When friends rejoin in Heaven."

"This life," Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning suggests, "may be a condition only, and not a locality, and if we could see and hear with the subtlety of pure spirits the faces of our beloved might be

as close to us as the tears on ours, and their voices as audible as our own sighs for them. Sorrow, however, is one of the means of life, and we must needs endure it. It is good for us, like the cold which is seasonable. Perhaps if we did not know it, we should not know (being quite incapable of receiving such knowledge in the abstract) what the joy is which is to come."

In mourning for the dead, we should not forget the living. The Sage's advice to mourners has wisdom in it:

"I saw a pale mourner stand bending over the tomb, and his tears fell often. As he raised his humid eyes to heaven, he cried: 'My brother! Oh my brother!'

"A sage passed that way, and said:

"For whom dost thou mourn?'

"One,' replied he, whom I did not sufficiently love while living; but whose inestimable worth I feel.'

"What would'st thou do if he were restored to thee?'

"The mourner replied that he would never offend him by an unkind word, but would take every occasion to show his friendship, if he could but come to his fond embrace.

"Then waste not thy time in useless grief,' said the sage; but if thou hast friends, go and cherish the living, remembering that they will one day be dead also.'”

Margaret Eytinge, in Harper's Magazine, has written, gracefully, on this "Old, old question":

"A spirit that from earth had just departed
Lingered a moment on its upward way,
And looking back, saw, as though broken-hearted,
Its friends and kindred weeping o'er its clay.
'It seems they loved me dearly, Had I known it,
My life had been much happier,' it said.
'Why only at our parting have they shown it-

Their fondest kisses keeping for the dead?""

The following verses, suggested by those beautiful utterances of our Saviour, in that memorable sermon on the Mount, contain sweet consolation for all those whose pathway may be darkened by affliction and sorrow: