question seems to be whether the society shall first quarrel with its preacher, or the preacher fall out with his society.

But not merely the members of his own society or denomi nation were thus attached to him. His love knew no such limitations as these, and it awakened a corresponding sentiment all around him. His servants, his poor neighbors-members of other churches, Baptists, Methodists, Calvinists,-all loved him like a brother. I may mention among his particular friends, the present Catholic Archbishop of Bourdeaux, and the Father of the Protestant Episcopal church in the United States, Bishop White of Philadelphia.

Such being the character of him who is gone, I should be much to blame did I not state the fact, that he was blessed in his deed-that he was happy in this course of conduct. No self-seeking can ever give such unalloyed delight as he enjoys, who forgets himself in a Christian interest for others. Singularly was it exemplified in the present case, in the cheerfulness and the halo of joy which hung around that venerable brow-those lips and eyes, in which dwelt an almost angelic expression of serenity and peace. His life was not without its trials. The very quickness of his sympathy for others, caused him frequent pain in the sight of misfortunes which he could not relieve, and especially of ill-conduct, which he felt to be the worst of all misfortunes. The loss of his early friends, his parents and sisters, was the snapping of ties which never re-united, and which caused him to look with an earnest hope for a re-union beyond the grave. But though troubled on every side, straightened, persecuted, cast down-he was never in despair, never forsaken, never destroyed.

During his last years, he suffered dreadfully from bodily pain-but he was always cheerful and happy. As he had never sought his own joy, so his own sufferings could not conquer him. He could go away from them into the concerns of others. It was always delightful to visit him-his sick chamber was a place attractive even to the young and gay-and I have frequently heard young persons, whose minds were agitated and unhappy, declare that nothing soothed them like a conversation with him. I have seen something of gaiety and excitement of the excitement not of weak and jaded, but of fresh spirits sparkling up from the well just unsealed by Nature's hand. I have been where wit flashed and intellect blazed, and knowledge and refinement poured out their rich colored gems-while genius shook the atmosphere like thunder-but never have I seen Joy so genuine, so deep, so pure, as danced in the eyes of that old man in his sick chamber, in

I

the midst of many annoyances, and some sharp pain. Here is religion-here is its power-not of a gloomy religion—there is no gloom, no severity about it. It is the religion of goodness-the religion of self-denial-the religion of love. Here, say, is the power of religion. Many, as I think, confine the power of religion too much to the death bed. They watch the last moments curiously and anxiously, and if they be triumphant or composed, they speak in raptures of the supporting power of religion. Its highest power is not put forth here. There are many other things which will carry us calmly through the valley of death. The Indian at the stake is supported by pride of character, which is his religion, and laughs and sings in the midst of torture. Religion shows more power sometimes in helping us to live, than in helping us to die. When it enables the poor, forsaken sufferer to stand and wait God's time-when it sheds cheerfulness and joy over the couch of pain-when it enables one thus tried, to preserve an equal temper, a sweet and loving disposition, to exercise patience, kindness, humility, hope, faith. Here, I say, are the triumphs of religion.

But if you consider the death-bed triumphs the greatest, these were not wanting. It is sometimes said with a sneer, that Unitarianism is a good religion to live by, but not a good one to die by. This sneer is as unphilosophical in principle, as it is false in fact. Unitarianism cannot be a good religion to live by except it makes men righteous, for the righteous only have joy in this life-and it is surely well to say, "May I die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.” But in point of fact, this is an ignorant calumny. For many years back has this good man been waiting for his master's knock, and his call to come away. Willing to live, he was wishing to die-because he thought he could no longer be of use to the living. When I was with him this summer, he was at one time expecting death every day, and spoke of it to me with a smile, and with as little anxiety as he would have mentioned his intention to go into another room. It has been a familiar thought to him for years. It found him not unprepared. Yet he did not speak of it with indifference, but as a solemn change, and when he was unable to attend to anything else, desired to hear prayers. But the source of his trust, you may learn, from what he said to a niece of his, who told it to me. "Helen," said he, "I shall die in a day or two, I think." "I hope not uncle;" said she, "I think you are better." "My legs are swollen, and I know that is a sign that the hour is near. Now, Helen, when I am gone, you will hear them say I died

trusting in my own works. Tell them when they say that, it is false. I die, trusting in the love of God and his mercy." That love and mercy he had copied and imbibed, he might well trust to it-he knew what it was.

But he has left us-he has gone, and now do we first rightly feel how much he was to us-how much we leant on his character. God has beautifully arranged it, that we should all lean-that we should need something to rest upon. In some respects the discipline of life teaches us to stand alone, and we learn how to do so. But if independent in some things, we are always dependent in others-and the whole system of life is a mass of dependencies.

"The flowers, still faithful to their stems

Their fellowship renew,

The stems are faithful to the root

Which worketh out of view,

And to the rock the root adheres

In every fibre true.

Close clings to earth the living root
Though threatening still to fall,
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all."

And so human beings lean on each other-we depend on the knowledge of the physician-on the skill of the surgeon, -the wife leans on the strength of her husband-the infant leans on the love of its mother-and we all lean upon Godthe centre and source. But, on the moral and religious character of Dr. Freeman, all who knew him, depended. He was truly a spiritual father to many, who felt they knew where to learn wisdom and goodness while he lived. Though sick, and feeble-weakened in body and in mind-a power went forth from his sick room, to support many in their walks of duty. This we now feel that we have lost.

But not wholly lost. He being dead, yet speaketh to us. We who have fully known his doctrine, manner of life, purpose, faith, long suffering, charity, patience, and persecutions,

we hear his voice saying to us, Continue ye in the things which ye have learned, and have been assured of, knowing of whom ye have learned them.

Blessed spirit! we will not forget them. If thou art now leaning down from thy throne of light, and if God permits thee to be conscious of these poor words spoken by one whom thou didst wonderfully love when on earth, hear him promise not to forget thy doctrine, thy spirit, thy Christian example. Thou hast not wholly gone-not altogether hast thou left us.

*Wordsworth.

We will strive to walk in thy path, and gaze as thou didst, on the face of thy Father and our Father, of thy God and our God-till we are changed into the same image from glory to glory.

We cannot mourn over such a life, or such a death. "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord;" a voice was spoken in heaven and heard on earth to teach us this. "Blessed are they, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." Why should we mourn? or, to use words which seem to have been written expressly for this occasion:

"Why weep ye then, for him, who, having run
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done,
Serenely to his placid rest has passed-
While the fair memory of his virtues, yet

Lingers, like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?

His youth was innocent, his riper age

Marked by some act of goodness, day by day;
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage,
Faded his late declining years away.

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest which waits a life well spent."

Yes; here was one who looked for himself into the perfect law of liberty, and continued therein. Who was not a forgetful hearer, but a doer of the work-and who was truly blessed in his deed-blessed in this life, and inheriting a greater blessing in the future life-receiving an hundred fold more in the present time, and in the world to come, life everlasting.

TO A WORLD REFORMER.-FROM SCHILLER.

"I will sacrifice everything," thou sayst, "to help human na

[ture,"

"Vain shall be persecution, opposition, and hate."
Shall I tell thee, friend, my opinion of man?
Trust my word! never has this rule deceived me.
Of human nature thou can'st never think too highly,
As thou feelest in thy breast, so express it in action,
And to the man, who meets thee in thy narrow life,
Extend, when thou cans't, a friendly helping hand.
But as to rain, and dew, and the good of the human race—
Let heaven take care of them, friend, to-day as it did yes-
[terday.

THOUGHTS

ON SUNDAY MORNING WHEN PREVENTED BY A SNOW-STORM FROM GOING TO CHURCH.

Hark! the church-going bell-but through the air
The feathery missiles of old Winter hurled,
Offend the brow of mild-approaching Spring:
She shuts her soft blue eyes and turns away.
Sweet is the time passed in the house of prayer
When, met with many of this fire-fraught clay,
We, on this day-the tribe of ills forgot
Wherewith, ungentle, we afflict each other,-
Assemble in the temple of our God,

And use our breath to worship Him who gave it.
What though no gorgeous relics of old days,
The gifts of humbled kings and suppliant warriors
Deck the fair shrine, or cluster round the pillars;
No stately windows decked with various hues,
No blazon of dead saints repel the sun;
Though no cloud-courting dome or sculptured frieze
Excite the fancy and allure the taste;

No fragrant censor steep the sense of luxury;
No lofty chaunt swell on the vanquished soul!

Ours is the faith of Reason-to the earth

We leave the senses who interpret her;

The heaven-born only should commune with heaven
The Immaterial with the Infinite.

Calmly we wait in solemn expectation,
He rises in the desk; that earnest man;
No priestly terrors flashing from his eye,
No mitre towers above the throne of thought,
No pomp and circumstance wait on his breath.
He speaks, we hear, and man to man we judge—
Has he the spell to touch the founts of feeling,
To kindle in the mind a pure ambition,
Or soothe the aching heart with heavenly balm,
To guide the timid and refresh the weary,
Appall the wicked and abash the proud?
He is the man of God. Our hearts own him,
He needs no homage paid in servile forms,
No worldly state, to give him dignity-
To his own heart the blessing will return
And all his days blossom with love divine.

There is a blessing in the Sabbath woods,
There is a holiness in the blue skies,

The summer-murmurs to those calm blue skies,