Pardon this sudden warmth, my friend; my temperament must excuse me; but really at a bare mention of the subject, I feel whole temperance orations boiling in my veins. But we will dispense with their delivery for the present, if so please you, and turn our attention to that forest immediately before us on the mountain side, and to that concert of crows of which the air is full, observing how, in their glossy blackness, they rise and fall and mix in graceful confusion, as if they were leaves stripped by a whirlwind from the trees. Notice, too, how the foliage is already assuming the varied tints of the decaying year. Who ever saw, in all his life, the seven prismatic colors displayed so richly, so delicately, so tastefully? The red, the yellow, and the green predominate, but the picture is composed of an infinitude of hues, from the most brilliant and gorgeous to the most delicately dim. At the first glance a thrill of pleasure passes through the soul, and we yield involuntary assent to the supremacy of Nature over all the refinement of Art. But not in the leaf alone; a spirit of beauty is breathing from every object, as far as the eye can reach. The very air is full of a dreamy, hazy essence, as it might be itself the spirit of some dear friend passed away, yet come back to chasten and beautify the poor soul still dwelling on this earth. Oh! I always feel sad on such a day. It is not a miserable sadness, but one of pleasure of pleasure so intense that it is even painful. I know it is pleasure, for I love it. I linger and linger, yea, I could linger forever to enjoy it. I am standing by the tomb of the departed year, and I feel as when bending over the grave of one dear to me as my soul. It is sadness, it is sorrow, and yet it is joy-exquisite, intoxicating joy! The tears fall fast upon the fading turf, but they are not bitter; ah, no! they are sweet, dear drops, the jewel fruit of a melancholy joy! And no joy is purer, none more ravishing to the human soul than this. Compared with it, that is a mean joy which the world calls joy. That is joy of the body, of ease, of the gratification of the senses; or of the mind, of wit, humor, fancy; or of the heart, of friendship, love; but this is the joy of the soul; it is symphonious with the moral nature; it is a measurable gratification of our infinite desire for emotion. We have infinite capacities for feeling, and our happiness is greatest when that feeling is most intense, if so be it springs not from any wrong doing on the part of ourselves or others.

We are standing, let us suppose, by the open grave of one we fervently loved, who has just left us. We feel a sorrow that has opened every door of our heart, from which floods of feeling are bursting till that heart aches with emotion and the breast heaves with irrepressible grief; yet, if we are sure that bright angels have borne the happy spirit beyond the skies, and feel not regret at some unkind word or deed, or omitted act of affection of which we are guilty, there is no misery there. It is sorrow, but it is the spontaneous and natural action of that which we admire and love as the noblest and most beautiful part of our being, and therefore it cannot be distasteful. Nay, it is a privilege-we know and feel it to be a priceless privilege-to

weep and linger and still to weep! The soul delights to wreak itself upon sorrow, till earth and life are forgot in the all-absorbing emotion. We call to mind the beauty, the tenderness, the nobility, the kind words, the affectionate offices of the lost one, and a thrill of pleasure pervades the mind, though the eyes burst forth in tears. We dwell upon the thought that we shall behold the well-known face "no more, no more!" and with what power do those lone words fall down into the echoing chambers of the soul! There is no misery, for we ourselves (and who does not?) hope soon to join the departed in a brighter world. Nay, as the vast assembly stand around the grave, silent, save the suppressed sobbing of the mourner, and as the breeze rustles through the mourning weeds, and heads are bared while a few faint words fall from the lips of the holy man, who does not feel that he is even now near to heaven? that angels are hovering over, yea, are shedding the fragrance of their unseen wings even upon his own spirit? Who has not at such a time almost seen, through his tears, in the distant, hazy skies, the celestial choir, and caught the faint waftings of their jubilant melody? Such a burial scene brings us to the very door of heaven; and though we neither see nor hear, yet we distinctly feel upon our spirit, the genial influences of that cloudless world. Verily it is better, yea, pleasanter, to go to the place of mourning than to the house of mirth.

Such in kind, though less intense in degree, are the feelings which the dying year inspires. I gaze upon the landscape and the beauty I have loved is taking different forms and will soon pass from my sight forever! Where the foliage rustles, the green meadow extends, the wooded mountain rises, driving snow-clouds will soon sift along and wrap every object in their chilling folds. Hoary Winter will breathe upon the streams and chill them into motionless silence. Winds will howl among the rattling branches of the naked trees, oh, how drearily! Retreats where happiness has drenched my senses, will lie buried beneath the fantastic sculpture of drifted snows, and the soft, scented airs that soothed the fiery pulse, will flee southward before the pinching blasts of the north. It is sad to part with all these, yet we would not have them stay. The varying Seasons are the institution of a kind Being, and we would have them continue to roll. We drop a tear-a tear of deep emotion-yet gaze with a fixed and mournful pleasure,

"While Decay's effacing fingers

Sweep the lines where beauty lingers.”

There is something delightful, too, in finding that we do love Nature so devoutly, that we do thus silently worship at her altars. In the full enjoyment of her beauties we paused not, perhaps, to think whence arose our pleasure; but, now that they are fading, we are oppressed with a delicious sense of their preciousness; as, when an intimate friend is quitting our side, we are surprised at the strength of our attachment, and, though bathed in tears, feel a deep happiness in this

increased sense of our love. Do you not, my friend, as you recline on' this sunny hill-side, feel a kind of satisfaction with yourself in knowing that you are not insensible to the influences of the scene before you, that there is within your own individual being also that delicate chording which vibrates in fervent sympathy with the harmonies of Nature!

But the sweetest of all the sombre influences of this day is the tone they give to memory. Now is no time for bitterness. The calm beauty and soothing serenity of the day forbid it. Nor is it time for memory to rake over the cinders of the past for the burning coals of evil passions, of schemes frustrated, hopes crushed, trust betrayed and friendship turning to scorn-ah, no! all these, and every bitter thing she suffers to lie buried in oblivion, while arraying herself in the livery of Heaven, she darts with flashing wing not only through the passing year, but far down even into the dim shadows of childhood, gleans the many stainless pearls that gem our pathway, and, smiling, lays them at our feet. Oh! how the very air is ringing with the voices of early days! Passion kindles no blistering flames, Ambition wakes not her eternal fever, Guile plies no stinging goads, accursed Desire to please sets no tormenting vigils; but Sincerity, Innocence and Contentment are the true divinities of those blessed years. And what a trio! what security for blessing and being blessed! How tender and warm and pure the love of hearts under such auspices! And who that ever longs for a love that is pure, a heart that is sympathetic, a conduct that is guileless does not turn to his childhood and rejoice that he can say: "Once I loved with a simple heart-once I sympathized with no selfish reserve-once I acted at least as I felt?" The old haunts, the simple sports, the little thoughts and little friends of those days, pass before the mind with a beauty almost unearthly. And as we ascend from year to year, here a scene and there a scene, here a word and there an action, fall upon the thoughts with such vivid power and radiant loveliness as even to wake a sigh and start a tear. Nor do these images come and go and write no truth upon the soul. Let us raise a monument over the grave of the past, and with trembling finger and moistened eye record upon it the most pleasant and beautiful memories of the departed, as they float through the mind. What have we? Have we noted down the time when selfishness gained us the enjoyment of some coveted object, or when we tasted the hours of idleness, when rioting in gay scenes of mirth, the magnet of all eyes and hearts, or when wild and delirious with sensual indulgence, when wit dazzled and companions applauded, or when intellect had won the voice of praise? Ah, no! memories like these, if such there be, are cold, unsatisfactory, and powerless-they wake no chime of response, they stir no sympathetic string. Perhaps they were the most intensely pleasurable moments of life while passing, but they have left a strange, wild, restless impression which we wish were gone. We turn rather and cling with delight to the shade of youthful affection and innocence, when our pure hearts loved friends, birds, flowers, every thing, -loved and hated not!-and if we have wiped away one tear of bitter

ness, if we have taught the sad lip to smile, the mournful eye to beam with joy; if we have made one heart, however poor and lowly to bless us for a kind word, or look, or action, we grasp and cherish and dwell upon the thought as a priceless gem, and rejoice to grace the tombstone even of our early years with an ornament which the marble herald of many a rich and great and hoary-headed mortal's dust can not boast. This, then, is the truth which is taught that no thought or feeling or action that has not its end in something external to ourselves can afford us any satisfaction in the review. Pleasure may pour her sparkling gems in our path, Beauty and Loveliness may yield us homage, Wealth may add her costliness, and Fame wreath us with the evergreen of immortality; yet, though we be intoxicated with them as they pass, like the sateless flame of the prairie, we can not pause and look back, for all is ashes there, but keep grasping forward with delirious eagerness for objects precisely such as those that have proved so unsubstantial. There are no beings on earth, I believe, so intensely wretched as many of those we call the greatest and most fortunate of mortals. Some, I know, for they have confessed it, of the most illustrious orators and statesmen of our own land, though they conceal it from the general eye, have a hell of torment within them, which even their mighty spirits can hardly bear. Oh, my friend, let me be the humblest and most obscure of men, if only my spirit breathe out benevolence and my life be radiant with charity, rather than be cursed with that greatness which shall redound but to my misery and reproach. It is the distinguishing characteristic of that holy faith, which is at once the source and preservation of all that is or has been lovely and disinterested in human character and conduct, that it abolishes the distinctions of wealth, rank, and intellect, and puts it in the power of the meanest beggar to rise as high in true dignity on earth, and in the honors of Heaven, as the most gifted genius or exalted potentate; that he who conquers and rules his own spirit and life, is more worthy of homage than the most successful warrior or magistrate; in short, that goodness and not greatness, is the true standard of human excellence. This truth, eternal and almighty for good when universally felt, is rapidly operating and becoming effectual among all enlightened nations. It begins to appear strangely preposterous and unreasonable, that one man, having no more clay in his construction than another, and possessing no different capacities for happiness or suffering, should move in splendid equipage, no matter how obtained, and yet be adored by the multitude, while his honest but unaided neighbor can flaunt only in rags, and drags out a sad life unnoticed and unknown, but to starve at last at the rich man's door. It is becoming more and more difficult to see why he whom God (not man) has endowed with uncommon intellect, though he use it to enfeeble human virtue, and assail human interests, should be deified by his fellow-men, while the faithful but less gifted laborer for his kind, is either wholly beneath notice or is greeted only with a sneer; that mere genius or conferred power should lift its possessor to favor, while the character and life of which alone man is the author, and for which alone therefore he

should be honored, are matters of little estimation. Give a man the genius of Shakespeare, and it is not his honor, but his shame-his burning shame-if he does not work wonders for the welfare of his race. He may exhibit the wonderful power and brilliancy of his talents for the astonishment of beholders, as the volcano plays with its lava and its flames, but for this, like the burning mountain, he is to be dreaded and not esteemed by all in the scope of his influence. He is unworthy our respect, much less our praise, till, like the summer cloud, he darts his lightnings of truth at ignorance and prejudice, utters his thunders of rebuke in the ears of tyranny and crime, and by the constant and more gentle droppings of his great mind, invigorates the growth of beneficence and piety.

Hitherto the world has been manifestly all wrong in the bestowment of its favors. It has honored intellect and fortune, while modest worth, divine moral beauty, has been despised. It has worshiped more of pride, lust, cruelty and depravity, bedizened by the accidents of genius and rank, than even itself has ever dreamed. Intellect is, indeed, admirable; so is the volcano, as the creation of God, as possessing wondrous power to dazzle and terrify. And intellect may be properly admired, but not man, because he possesses it. "Worth makes the man," and intellect without moral beauty, is like clouds without rain, serving only to shut out truth's genial sunlight from the minds it overshadows. It is not strange that the heart has suffered so much under human treatment. It is a dark thing to look within. There are numerous leathsome and dismal nooks which it is pleasanter not to introduce the lamp of righteousness into. There are many telegraphic dispatches to the brain from those unexplored recesses, which the depraved will is well pleased to execute without inquiring the character of the operators. They might wear so fiendish an aspect as to haunt the conscience unpleasantly! Moreover, it is thought undignified and little, to be too scrupulous, but that a man to be great and admirable must be, like the devil, all intellect and no heart! It is a weakness to be too good, to love and not hate, to forgive and not revenge, to sympathize with the abused and friendless, to have a heart gushing with feeling on every fitting occasion! Manly dignity, forsooth, is stoical hardheartedness! Again, it is harder to admire others for moral qualities in which we ourselves are inexcusably deticient, than for genius, which we know (though we do not acknowledge the fact) is purely a gift, and entitles the possessor to no thanks. Therefore, I say, it is not strange that the heart has been left out of the account in the world's estimation of merit; but it is strange and deeply lamentable, that even the truly good have been generally guided by the same false maxims. Under a blind impulse they have even huzzaed the conqueror, and made obeisance to the gifted as devotedly as the most unprincipled worldling. That the Christian is guilty of this conduct, is not owing to any error in his creed. The Gospel is full of purity, and its principles radiant with moral beauty. According to it, this is a state of probation, not the arena of ambition. Moral cultivation is the end, mental and physical but a means. Charity is the