sent, it is easy to perceive how detrimental would be the effects to the religious discipline of mankind. Give to every man a stronger assurance than he now possesses that his life shall be prolonged to a full and mature old age-that the pestilence that walketh in darkness, and the arrow that destroyeth in the noon-day shall not come nigh him till his head be grey, and the harvest of a long life be fully ripe and ready for the gathering-and what would be the natural effect on his conduct but unlimited license, and unbridled crime? The young man would then indeed "rejoice in his youth, and let his heart cheer him in the days of his youth," well knowing that a long period must elapse ere "for all these things God shall bring him into judgment." On the other hand, make the duration of life more uncertain than it is at presentlet there be no probability that youth will ripen into manhood, and manhood slide gradually and easily into old age, and you destroy all stimulus to exertion, and all ground of hope; and a principle of listlessness and of indifference to the things of this life would be introduced, which would check the progress of every useful design, and spread a feeling of gloom, anxiety, and utter selfishness, over the whole surface of human society. Wisely, then, in this, as in all other respects, has the

Almighty provided for the spiritual benefit of his creatures; and even out of circumstances which, at first sight, appear to contain nothing but evil, does he always bring consequences which are essential to their eternal welfare. Still, though it is thus certain that the Almighty has equally balanced instability and security in arranging the issues of life and death, it is not less so that the corrupt heart of man has perverted our human view of this gracious provision; and habitually looks with more confidence and complacency on the prospect that we have here, in some degree, a continuing city, than on the momentous truth, which even the strongest and most healthy ought never to forget, that "in the midst of life we are in death;" that our time is alway ready; and that youth, strength, celebrity, or fortune, are no bar to the final summons-"this night shall thy soul be required of thee." The constant warnings which are afforded in the untimely deaths of the young, the useful, and the strong, produce but little permanent effect on the public mind: they are confined to the narrow circles of the respective friends of the deceased; the influence of them on the community, passes away with the pomp that follows the dead body to the grave; and the impression, even on immediate connexions, is soon defaced, by their own once

more mixing with the world around them, and seeing the thoughtless and careless avidity with which that world is still pursuing the vain and empty bubbles of which all earthly interests are composed. It is only when some event occurs of such general notoriety as to strike forcibly on the public mind, and to exempt no class or station from the knowledge at least of the occurrence, that an impression, at once deep and lasting, is likely to be produced on the broad mass of the community: deep by the interchange of sympathy between man and man, and lasting, if the grace of God be with it, by being fixed in the heart as a perpetual incentive to Christian diligence and godly fear. Such an event, I need not add, has lately occurred to ourselves; and one which, as we cannot pass it by without notice, so we ought not to pass it by without improvement. For if God speaks to his people in even the most common events of life-if a spiritual lesson is written on every page of each man's daily experience-surely when the book is opened to the gaze of a whole community, and written in characters so broad and deep that "he may run that readeth them," it is the duty alike of ministers and people correctly to interpret the handwriting, and carefully to transcribe it in their hearts. When were joy and sorrow more nearly

allied when was the proudest triumph more closely followed by the deepest mortification? During two brief weeks impressions and feelings have crowded on the minds of many among us which might have spread themselves over years of common life. A vast assemblage has been congregated within these walls, for an object, which, however it may have been perverted to evil by our corrupt nature, was yet in itself in the highest degree elevating and praiseworthy. That object was, to listen to the noblest sentiments of religious fervour, conveyed in the sweetest strains of melody, and expressed with the most consummate skill to which human science has yet attained; the whole to be crowned with one of the best tests of sincere Christian devotion-charity to the poor. How fully all these objects have been achieved, it is unnecessary to state. Religious feelings have doubtless been excited in many a bosom, by the celestial accents in which the expression of them has been clothed; and our public charities bear witness, that the enjoyments of the rich have not led them entirely to overlook the necessities of the poor. Yet, with what a drop of bitterness has this cup of joy been mingled! She, to whom this success is in no small degree to be attributed, has since passed away from among us; in the very hour of her triumph, and in the meridian of

her day. In the words of the Preacher,―" The daughter of music is brought low, the silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is broken." And what a lesson of the instability, and unsatisfactory nature of all human things, has been afforded us by her concluding scene! Look back but a few brief days, and we behold her, in the pride of her fame and the bloom of her youth, standing up in this place amid admiring thousands, to magnify the name of the eternal Jehovah, in strains which few human tongues could rival, and with an intense expression of devotion, which, as it went to the hearts of those who heard her, we may now sincerely hope and believe, came directly and warmly from her own. Europe was then too narrow for her fame, and wealth too contemptible for her ambition. A few days more, and all this is passed away! Once more she enters these walls; but not amidst an admiring audience, but a train of solemn mourners-not in the pride of life, but the sable garniture of death. Public admiration of her talents is succeeded by public lamentation for her fate. The funeral dirge is sung-the last service of our church is read over her remainsthe body is consigned to the grave, and the once tuneful tongue is mute for ever!

The warning here afforded, is too obvious to require the preacher's application; doubtless it

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