"Somewhere in death They sleep, with staring eyes and gilded lips, Surely this fond, anxious preparation must bode somewhat more than the thought that men lived and died-they lived again-immortally, and for ever. What was the Styx, Charon, Radamanthus, and the rest, but the type of man's idea, of which his reason furnished him with part, and a blind superstition the remainder? While the root of the tree is drinking into it life and beauty— while in dark cells, and by wonderful progressions, the particles are elaborated into a green and stately mass, in which the birds of the air find shelter, and whose bending tops sway in each gust, and "sing aloft in the wind"-even while this passes forward there is death in that which receives life: the caterpillar feeds on the leaves, and the larvæ of the ichneumon finds food and a habitation in the body of the yet living caterpillar; while there, it carefully avoids the vital part of the worm, until it is prepared to possess its inhe ritance in the creation. What, then, is Death? It is the returning of the spirit to God who gave it-it is the fulfilling of an immutable law, by which death becomes the handmaid of life-the once sentient mass (whose adapted totality, endowed with motion, formed life), but returns to the crucible to be remoulded, that the creative power may be exhibited in other and as wonderful forms. How wonderful is Death !-the coldness-the stillness; not injury, scorn, wrong, violence, can touch it. The spirit, that once shrunk with a sensitive pain from these, takes now no thought of them, neither deprecates nor resents them. How wonderful is Life! The congregated atoms infinitely combining, and all under the influence of a power--a will-a reason. "Life counteracts the laws of gravity;" and what can the pschychologist say more? But, again, what is Life and Death? What principle, or mysterious tie, can connect the body to the soul, or separate them?-for the same power must do both. What can make such opposite natures, so adapted, the one to the other? The same principle that keeps the harmonious system of the infinite universe ever-rolling through the vast immense ether-it is love, the Divine love. Lo! on the threshold of the two worlds the Psyche stands, gazing with seraph smile upon its earthly tenement, prompting it with pure, holy thoughts, and calm religious hope, to be prepared, to watch; yea, to anticipate the moment, when the office of the spirit closes for ever in this world--when the body, like one divested of his good geniusTelemaque without his Mentor-hastens "To join The innumerable caravan, that moves Weepeth the fair spirit, for a moment, a few starry tears over its old tabernacle-hath its mortal habitation, and the associations of a few brief moments, from its never-ending life, a hold upon it—doth the feeling of regret cling, like the memory of a home, when the child leaves it for ever? Why not?-human affections, the purest and the dearest, are of the spirit; that which prompts, should also feel the passion. Should we, then, look upon the article of Death as on a thing terrible and fearful? That which is not to be avoided should be thought upon more frequently-man should gaze upon it fearlessly, unflinchingly; and he who holds converse with his God feels that by this means he is but journeying onward to meet him. The human temple, after the pilgrimage of life, the toils and sorrows involved in a life of three score years and ten, looks anxiously forward to death as a time of rest as the evening of his day, when, as Jean Paul describes it, he sinks to his rest, like the setting of a glorious sun: he hails with joy the hand that passes him from a world of care and trouble into the starry halls of heaven; and while the darkness gathers thickly over the last moments of his waning life, the lips open, and the dying man murmurs in low faint tones-"I know that my Redeemer liveth." Lo! the sombre pall of the other world is lifting, and he gazes far, far beyond the mists of the shadowy valley, into the solemn glorious depths of the silent land: wrapt and ineffable are the peopled visions that float around him; forms robed in white, emblem of their purity and unspeakable beauty, are filling the silver air. The spirit struggles to join the gorgeous train; and while the vital flame is flickering, like the faint rays of the dying lamp, the pealing exody is proudly rising from the spirit harps, and the rest is " Silence." How beautiful is Death! Pale-yea, very marble, is the brow and cheek; a smile, calm and beautiful, dwells on the cold lip, and the hands are holily folded upon the bosom-expressing the intense repose. What is there terrible in this? Death destroveth himself. How grand and beautiful the moral of the ancient fable,when the mother, to reward the piety of her sons, prayed for the greatest earthly boon: it was granted-and they died, calmly smiling. Listen, reader-for the influence of a serious moment is upon us— listen, as though thou wert standing among tombs at midnight, while faint stars are twinkling on the bending grass-listen, as if sweet and sorrowful voices came in low murmurs to thine ear. Like a cowled monk, looming in the darkness of some cathedral aisle, would we chant forth solemnly sentences that should penetrate through nave and pillar-through old walls; yea, to the halls of revelry and feasting the sounds should come like the rush of mighty winds; like the bray of trumpets, they should be heard in the pauses of the gushing music and the voluptuous dance. Listen! "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field." Through the crowded feast should the echoing responses pass, and the wail of the dirge should rise above the wild chorus of the bacchanals. Like a marble hand placed on a glowing shoulder, with a warning and a menace, so sounds the awful chant; and the distant winds, that peal like unearthly music, passing through broken towers in the still of night, sounding, as it approaches, like the mutterings of human voices, should bear part. "Remember, O man, that thou art but dust, and a shadow." The tones should roll in the vast arches and among the quivering pillars like the thunder of the organ-the stone tombs, with their marble lips, should reverberate the chant. Hath the voice reached the breathless dancer, that on a sudden he stops and gazes on vacancy? Is the cold influence felt in the arrested goblet? Is the song of the wassailer broken? Do they gaze, the one into the other's face, with wonder and dismay? Doth the check whiten and the lip turn pale? Still shall the voice be heard in the wild carnival of Moloch and of Mammon. Still over the Babel floats the awful words, felt by all like a very Presence: yea, it shall "peal like muffled thunder racking the solid earth :” "Ye shall be brought to the grave, and shall remain in the tomb." What do they tremble still? Fear not, for the voice beareth comfort-"the clods of the valley shall be sweet." But what is Death? "And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was DEATH, and Hell followed with him; and power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.” Who fears it? They who are cast into the wine-press of the wrath of God! Mark "And the wine-press was trodden without the city, and blood came out of the wine-press, even unto the horse-bridles." Now let the harp ring, and the cymbals sound, and the wild riot go forward. Why foams not the cup in the ruddy light? Why sounds not the dancer's heel? Why echoes not the loud unmeaning laugh of folly and of scorn? Is there a spell upon them? Yea, the voice is heard, and they dare not, and silently they depart. Silently and surely all are marching onward to join the august conclave. The king and the slave, the young and the old, all must go, and none shall be exempted. His summons "to come" is carried on every element, in sleeping or waking, in rising up or lying down it comes to the mariner in rocking ship on the heaving billow; it is belched by the flaming cannon; it is borne in the iron hail, in the flashing sabre, on the sunken rock, on the battle-field ; the mountain, the valley-in hill or dale, it overtakes the pilgrimnone shall escape. The anxious mother gazes on the face of her sleeping childthere is a sweat gathering upon the cherub's little face, and pain is writhing upon its lip. Alas! how she wrings her hands in agony, how the throbbings of her heart are sounding in the still room; with prayers and tears she entreats of heaven the little one's life 3 little longer-but a little longer-to gladden her eyes with its beauty and her heart with its jocund glee. It is not much, she thinks; such a little life as his, why should he yet depart? What feels she in the room?-not physically; she neither sees nor hears it, but feels it oppressively. A shadow, with felon visage, creeps to the little bed; the mother sees it not; but oh! the cry of the little one-the darling child-it is struck-aye, dead! The mother is wild with grief; but a moment's thought, a flash like light crosses her-the little child hath become an angel-he hath added one to the number of the choir of heaven. She opens the sacred page; there is her consolation-"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;" and she kneels, with hands uplifted to the heavens, to bless the name of the Lord. How have we loved to linger over the turf that lies lightly upon hearts that once were warm and glowing, and how the fond longing has arisen to behold once more the familiar faces which made the social hearth an altar of happiness, and made sacred the household compact that compact, unexpressed, but felt! How have we meditated on the vanity of all things-the thoughtless joy of childhood, the bright and golden-pinioned hopes of youth, and the stern realities of manhood! Those that shared our joys and our sorrows are gone. Man's grief is, after all, selfish. He would restore back the absent ones because there is a gap in his own affections; he would restore for the soothing of his own wounded feelings; he would hold back the fiat, lest his own heart be struck; he feels not the pangs of sickness, because it pains the dying one; he cannot, but because it takes away one of the links of his human affections. How have we mourned over the dust that once moved with grace, beauty, and vigour, because there is a gap in our moral circle! Silent is the eloquent voice-closed is the eye that once beamed with high intelligence-locked, rigid as marble, are the lips, from which the stream of high inspiration came flowing. In the morning he was full of life-the body, the vital spirit, and the divine spirit, were in unison, in full tone and vigour-the triune harmonized together in each impulse and act: in the evening, the summons came, and he folded his garments calmly around him, and prepared for the death-angel's approach-"the silver cord was loosed," bowl was broken," and "the mourners go about the streets." Much in the Philosophy of Death consists in the manner in which it comes to us. All things conspire against the life of man: he lives in a perpetual warfare-a state of antagonism-life and death striving for the mastery. Some would suppose that it were better (we are begging the question, let it be understood) for man if he did know the hour of his death-if he knew the exact time, the how and the where. But this is open to many objections-first, man may have so many varied occupations, so much to do, and in so short a time, that he would be distracted with his own thoughts. It is the uncertainty that makes him engage with hope in the avocations of life. He lays up property by the industry of his youth and his manhood, that he may enjoy it in his old age. The whirl, the tumult, the excitement of life, have an interest to him by their instability, their uncertainty. Uncertainty is the zest of life: were he assured of things, the chase would be over; he would sit down in apathy and discontent, and murmur because life had no interest for him. Again, such a proposition would be hailed with joy by the reprobate, the sensual, and the fool; he would drain to the dregs the cup of mad intoxication-riot and excess would be to him the only study; how to vary and how to increase his enjoyments would be the only subject of his thoughts; when he did think, he would sin that grace might abound; and, at the last, he would repent, and die a good old This is too fearful. man. On the other hand, the uncertainty of death is to others a source of discontent. They know not the day, the hour, the moment, when they may be called: it may be at the feast-the gay, joyous revel, when every faculty of animal enjoyment is brought to playwhen friends are round the board, and festal lights are flashing upon joyous faces: it may be in the cold, silent night, when none are near to smooth the pillow: it may be on the plank of the foundering ship by accident, by design, fire may burn or the assassin may strike. All these considerations are, to such thinkers, oppressive. We say to them, "Be ye also ready !" and they will not fear death. The death of the criminal is one peculiarly revolting-hideous, horrible! We speak not of his crime, nor the principle of retaliation; we consider his life judicially forfeited to the broken laws— judgment hath been passed upon him. But how fallible is human judgment; say what we can of it, he dies by the hands of his fellowman. Oh! the last night of his life in the cold grey prison! The morrow comes-he dies at a stated hour. To make it still more terrible, it is done by form-punctilio is observed-it is considered to be a matter of mere business-all is done with the most methodical arrangement. But our question lies with the criminal: with a sickening soul he sees the hours, that once crawled slowly by, now winging speedily forward; nearer and more near comes the dread moment. He is brought out of the yawning prison, bound and helpless. What ghastly terrors cloud his erring sight! He sees the cold, blue axe, or the unsightly gibbet-all hath been done that could be done to prepare him to meet his fate. But the strong fear overcame all; he could hear nothing because he was to die-not by the hand of God, but of man; and this tremendous feeling absorbs all others. He knows the moment, and calculates that a moment after that he may be-where? What shall he see, do, think, or say?-it whirls through his brain. He hears the ribald sneer, the obscene jest, the reckless oath-the glaring eyes of a crowd are fastened upon him anxious for the spectacle, laughing with a cold human carelessness, almost amounting to scorn. It is soon over, and the crowd departs, without having gathered a moral from this fearful death. We hasten to leave this, not (we think) over-drawn sketch. On the other hand, the Roman (and many other nations in common with them) contempt of death amounted to a great crime. Life is to be preserved by the very instincts of man's nature, which |