perfectly acquainted with a thousand little matters, both do- career, from his birth to his departure from home; and those mestic and otherwise, which none, it seemed, but the original who best knew Martin Guerre declared that all the incidents actor in them could possibly have known. The marks and related had occurred to him to their certain knowledge, The scars, also, which had characterized Martin Guerre's counte- prisoner described his marriage with particular minuteness, nance and person, were all apparent in his representative. mentioning the name and even the dress of every important Accordingly, the latter was received with joy by the wife and individual then and there present, as well as many other miall her connections, and assumed the place which he was sup-nute points connected with the ceremony. Notwithstanding posed to have vacated eight years before. Bertrande de Rols these striking statements of the prisoner, and notwithstanding (or Guerre) had in times past shown the strongest attachment the doubts of the witnesses, the criminal judge of Rieux con to her husband, and her conduct in his absence was irre- ceived the charge proven, and pronounced the prisoner guilty. proachable. She now lived for three years in perfect concord But this only led to new investigations. The prisoner ap. and happiness with him who personated her husband, and pealed to the parliament of Toulouse, and by its orders inquibore two children to him, only one of whom survived for any ries were entered upon of a still more searching kind than length of time. formerly. To show how great were the difficulties in which this case was involved, it is only necessary to state a few of the facts that came out on both sides. Against the prisoner, it was averred that Martin Guerre was a taller man, and darker in hue; and that he had slender limbs, stooping shoulders, and a hanging under lip, whereas the prisoner had stout limbs, an upright person, and no particular mark about his lips. The shoemaker who had made shoes for the true Martin Guerre, also declared that the feet of the latter were of the twelfth size, while the accused person's were of the ninth. Martin Guerre, it was also proved, was skilled in wrestling and other sports, at which the prisoner could do nothing. Moreover, Martin Guerre, being a Biscayan, was thoroughly acquainted with the Basque tongue, of which the other knew only a word or two. These are specimens of the proofs against the prisoner. The opposite evidence seems almost equally strong, and this may be said of the personal resemblances in particular. A cicatrix above the right eye, the mark of an ulcer on the face, a drop of extravasated blood on the left eye, two peculiar teeth, a split nail on one of the fore-fingers, three warts on the right hand, and one on the little finger-all of these marks were on Martin Guerre, and all of them on the accused! Other witnesses in the prisoner's favor deposed to his having alluded to circumstances which had passed privately between them and Martin Guerre, ten, twelve, and fifteen years before. Above all, the bridesmaids of Bertrande de Rols declared that the prisoner had minutely described incidents which proved him to be no other than the man who was bridegroom on that occasion. This state of tranquility first received a check through an accidental discovery made by Pierre Guerre, the uncle of Martin. A stranger, passing through Artigues, expressed the utmost surprise on hearing it said that Martin Guerre was living with his wife and family, and unhesitatingly declared that there must be imposture in the case, as he himself had recently seen Martin Guerre in Flanders, and had been told by him that he had a wife and child in Languedoc, but did not intend to return home till a certain relation was dead. The stranger moreover stated, that the real Martin Guerre had lost a leg at the battle of St. Laurent, before Saint Quentin. The traveller's statement was heard by Pierre Guerre, and appeared to him so clear and distinct, that he began to entertain suspicions, which speedily spread from him to the relatives of Martin's wife. A number of little circumstances. all tending to strengthen the notion of imposture, were now gradually noticed by the uncle and friends, and at length they finally became so assured of the justice of their fears as to adopt the resolution of publicly punishing the villain who had so grossly deceived them. But they found very great difficulty in persuading the wife of Martin Guerre that the man with whom she had lived peacefully for three years was not her true husband. At length, however, the poor woman was brought to something like a conviction of the sad truth, and was induced to take steps for prosecuting the actor in this strange deception, who was taken into custody to wait his trial. On a day appointed, the prisoner was brought into court, where the chief criminal judge of Rieux sat as president, and where an immense crowd of people had assembled to watch Such were among the difficulties surrounding this question. the issue of a case which had already excited the deepest in- The confident bearing of the accused added to the general terest. Numerous witnesses were present to support the one perplexity, as he on every occasion assumed the part of an iror the other side. Out of nearly one hundred and fifty per-jured and persecuted man. He even made a solemn public sons examined, between thirty and forty gave evidence in favor of the accused, deposing that they believed him to be the real Martin Guerre, and referring to many circumstantial proofs in support of their belief. On the other hand, a still greater body of witnesses declared their impression that the prisoner was not Martin Guerre. Who the panel really was, was announced by various of these witnesses, but in particular by Carbon Barreau, who recognised the accused as his nephew, by name Arnaud du Tilh, a native of Sagias in Languedoc. The old man, Carbon Barreau, while acknowledging his nephew, wept for the disgrace he had brought on the family. While such testimonies were given by the witnesses for and against the prisoner, there was a third body of witnesses, more numerous than either of the others, who declared that the resemblance to Martin Guerre puzzled them so much as to render them totally unable to tell whether the accused was that individual or not. Much weight, comparatively, was of course laid on the evidence given by the relatives of Martin Guerre. Strange to say, these relatives were as much at variance as others. His four sisters unhesitatingly and unequivocally declared their belief that the prisoner was their brother, and none else, and by this opinion they held to the last. The uncle of Martin, again, and the wife's relations, maintained the opposite side of the question. As for the wife, whether from weakness or distress of mind, her evidence was not productive of much light in the matter. What she did say weighed in the prisoner's favor, as, on his being tested afterward, it was found that he knew all the little secrets of her wedded life as well as she herself did. He told of private occurrences of old date, that tallied in every point with her private revelations on examination. When the prisoner himself was asked to speak in his defence, he entered without the slightest embarrassment on a long narration, calculated to prove his claims to the character he had assumed. He began with ascribing avaricious motives to Pierre Guerre, as the cause of that person's animosity. He then related every particular step of his appeal to the wife of Martin Guerre, declaring that, as she believed in his identity or otherwise, he was willing to be held guilty or innocent. But the wife would not take an oath on either side, although she said that, under the circumstances, she could trust in nothing that he (the prisoner) could say. The Things were in this state of incertitude, when the real Martin Guerre, who had been fruitlessly sought for, appeared uddenly on the field, "as if (says Gayot de Pitival, in the Causus Celebres) he had dropped from the skies." judges ordered him into confinement before he had seen his relations or any one who was concerned in the cause. Martin Guerre, as had been stated by the traveler, was without one of his limbs, and had a wooden substitute. When privately interrogated upon some known facts in Martin Guerre's life, he answered freely and correctly, but did not give so many proofs of his identity as the prisoner had done under the like examination. Arnaud du Tilh and the lame Martin Guerre were then confronted with one another. Each treated the other as an imposter; but the first-mentioned of the two displayed far most confidence, and scornfully declared that he would consent to be hanged if he did not prove the whole to be a machination of Pierre Guerre, and the man with the wooden leg to be but a creature of his. The latter seemed to lose his presence of mind at the sight of the other's consummate boldness and effrontery. The judges were yet quite at a loss, but they resolved upon assembling all the relations of Martin Guerre, and all the principal witnesses in the case, with the view of leaving it to their decision on beholding both parties together. Accordingly, all the summoned parties made their appearance at an appointed day. The eldest of the four sisters so often mentioned was the first to enter the court, where the rival Martins already were, and her testimony was almost decisive. It will be remembered that she and her sisters were the most influential witnesses in favor of the impostor. Now, however, when her eye fell on the lame man, she sprang to him and embraced him with tears, exclaiming to the judges, "Behold my brother, Martin Guerre! I confess the error into which this abominable traitor," pointing to du Tilh, "has led me, and in which he has kept me for so long a time, as well as others." Martin Guerre mingled his tears with those of his sister, as he received and returned her embraces. The other sisters also recognised their brother at once, as did all the witnesses, in short, who had been most obstinate in favor of Arnaud du Tilh. As usually happens in cases of the closest resemblance of person, the confronting of the parties at once dispelled the illusion which had memory only to depend on.After other recognitions, Bertrande de Rols, the wife, was called into court. No sooner had she cast her eye timidly on the lame stranger, than the spell was at once broken in her case also. She became strongly agitated, trembling like an aspen leaf, and weeping abundantly. Then she ran to embrace her husband's feet, and besought his pardon for the fault which the artifices of a wretch had led her to commit. She entreated him to remember that his four sisters and others had been deceived also, and reminded him that her very love for him had its influence in causing her to be misled. She declared that such was her grief and shame when the impostor was discovered, that she prayed for death, and, but for the commands of God, would herself have put an end to her days. "The touching air (says Gayot de Pitival) with which Bertrande de Rols spoke, her tears, and her beauty, which was still great, the expression of agony spread over her visage, pleaded eloquently for her." But her husband, who had appeared so sensible to the tokens of affection coming from his sisters, appeared insensible to those of his wife. He told her that she ought to have known her real husband from all others, although the whole world had been deceived; and he had the cruelty further to say to her, that he looked upon her as the cause of all the disgrace and wretchedness resulting from this affair. The judge checked Martin Guerre for this conduct to his wife, which came with an ill grace from the lips of a man who had deserted his family for so many years, and who was the true cause of all the mischief, by thus leaving them at the mercy of the designing. Moreover, had not Martin Guerre made revelations to the impostor Arnaud du Tilh, respecting his family affairs, his wife never could have been deceived as she had been. Such considerations, nevertheless, could not overcome the angry feelings of Martin Guerre, when he met his wife in court. But as we firmly believe in the wife's innocence, from an attentive consideration of all the minutiae of the case, we have pleasure in recording that the last words of the original narrative on this point are, "Time only caused Martin to change his sentiments." The court of Toulouse, also, took into consideration the question whether Bertrande de Rols was or was not an accomplice or Arnaud du Til', and decided unanimously in favor of her innocence. The communications of Martin Guerre to Arnaud du Tilh have been alluded to as the chief source of the latter's ability to accomplish his imposture. Du Tilh spent two years in the other's company in the military service, and was his intimate friend and confidant. On returning from the wars alone, he was mistaken for Martin Guerre by several acquaintances of that person, and this first suggested to him the idea of establishing himself comfortably in life by personating Martin Guerre, and becoming master of his property. Before attempting this, however, he secretly made himself acquainted with every possible particular, relative to the family and history of the man whose name he was about to assume. This step over, he boldly presented himself, and the issue was as we have seen. All these things Arnaud du Tilh confessed, after being sentenced to death for his crime. Previous to execution, he was doomed to walk through the streets of Artigues with his head and feet bare, a halter round his neck, and a lighted torch in his hand. As he performed this part of his sentence, having latterly become penitent, he sought pardon of Martin Guerre and his wife, the persons whom he had most injured. In front of their house he was hanged-a retributive compliment of the law which they would most probably have been willing to dispense with. September, 1560, was the date of this execution. MUSIC OF WINTER. I love to listen to the falling of the snow. It is an instructive and sweet music. You may temper your heart to the serenest mood by its low murmur. It is that kind of music that only intrudes upon your ear when your thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it if your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of another world, where music is intuitive like a thought, and comes only when it is remembered. And the frost, too, has a molodious minstrelsy. You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a clear night as if the moonbeams were splintering like arrows on the ground; and you listen to it the more earnestly, that it is the going on of one of the most cunning and beautiful of Nature's deep mysteries. I know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of crystal. God has hidden its principles, as yet, from the inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen in mute wonder to the noise of its visible workmanship. It is too fine a knowledge for us. We shall comprehend it when we know how the morning stars sang together. You would hardly look for music in the dreariness of early winter. But before the keener frost sets in, and while the warm winds are yet stealing back occasionally, like regrets of the departed summer, there will come a soft rain, or a heavy mist, and, when the north wind returns, there will be drops suspended like ear-ring jewels between the filaments of the cedar tassels, and in the feathery edges of the dark-green hemlocks, and, if the clearing up is not followed by a heavy wind, they will all be frozen in their places like well set gems. The next morning the warm sun comes out, and by the middle of the calm, dazzling forenoon, they are all loosened from the close touch which sustained them, and will drop at the slightest motion. If you go along on the south side of the wood at that hour, you will hear music. The dry foliage of the summer's shedding, is scattered over the ground, and the round hard drops ring out clearly and distinctly as they are shaken down with the stirring of the breeze. It is something like the running of deep and rapid water, only more fitful and merrier; but to one who goes out in nature with his heart open it is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stern character of the season, delightful. Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure to the seeker for hidden sweetness; but they are too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under their frozen surface; the ice in the distant river heaves up with the swell of the current, and falls again to the bank with a prolonged echo, and the woodman's axe rings cheerfully out from the bosom of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, but melancholy sounds; they but drive in the heart upon itself. I believe it is so ordered in God's wisdom. ENVY. Envy is the most base and grovelling of all the base passions, and the man in whose heart it holds a place knows not a moment of quietude. The miser feels a momentary pleasure in counting over his treasure; and he whose ruling passion is revenge, exults when his victim writhes before him, and looks complacently on his blood stained dagger; but the envious man knows not a moment's ease. His mind is on the rack, and his perturbed spirit conjures up a thousand things, as interfering with his plans or pursuits, which in the ordinary course of events would never cross his path. For all others there is a moment of sunshine, a gleam of hope, a bright side to the future; but a dark and impenetrable cloud settles on his mind. His thoughts give birth to calamities which never can befal him, and, anticipating evil, he prematurely undergoes the punishment of its consequences. Without an ennobling thought or a feeling of good will for mankind, he pines for others' property; while his narrow and contracted soul renders it impossible that he can better his own condition.His very nutriment turns to gall, and he wears an unhealthy, cadaverous and fiendish appearance. If he ventures into society, it is only as a thing to be instinctively avoided; for his basilisk-like eye betrays the poison with which his mind is surcharged. He is shunned and despised, and his presence looked upon as an omen of ill-fortune. Without the capabilities to advance himself, and wanting that straight-forward honesty of purpose which would secure him friends, he is seized with an unendurable torment on witnessing the prosperity of others, and lashes himself into a fury at their success. He likens the world to a nut-shell, and thinks if a diamond be found in the Indian ocean, or a rich fur secured at the north pole, it is an invasion of his vested rights. He would banish happiness and erect a temple to misery, himself officiating as high priest. If he ever smiles, 'tis when the world weeps; but the vicissitudes of others is the signal of his joy. The envious man is, in a word, the most wretchedly rancorous and miserable d-l that moves, breathes, or has a being. PUBLIC CALAMITIES; A DISCOURSE, Delivered on occasion of the loss of the Lexington, January 13, 1840. BY REV. ORVILLE DEWEY. P. 119, 75. I know, O Lord, that thy judgements are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me. 1 we may say indeed that it is an obvious inference that he must reign. If there is a God, he made all things-he made this world-he made all its elements and established all its laws; and this implies his dominion over it. But not to argue for this truth, I say that calamity is the last thing that should be permitted to drive us from it. For in calamity it is especially, that we cannot do without it. The fact being so, is, indeed, no weak argument for the truth. If man is so made that to consider himself the victim of chance, is to be whelmed in utter and hopeless misery-if the atmosphere of chance is one in which his mind cannot live-then as true as there is a God who made him, is there a Providence for him to rely on. And the fact in his mind is so. He has no resource but trust in God. Suppose that demons had wrought that awful catastrophe in yonder waters-had maliciously plunged helpless men and women into the cold waves, to die; or suppose that human error, uncontrolled and uncared for, had involved us in the calamities on land which we are enduring; what could men do but gnash their teeth in unavail An event has occurred in our waters within the last week, that has so occupied my mind, that I could not well have prepared to speak to you this morning, on any other subject. I feel, too, that I shall probably best consult the state of your minds, by making it the subject of your reflections-in a place too, where such reflections most naturally come for guidance and relief-the house of God. The house of God also mourns with many private dwellings of the land; the groan that arises by their desolate hearths, is echoed from the altar. The Church of God mourns the loss of one of its holiest, dearest and most devoted servants. Dr. Follen-alas! that I must say it, anding rage and despair? dismiss all further hope-is among the victims of that dreadful catastrophe. That name, whose utterance now fills us with grief-I know not how it was-strangely almost it seemedstranger as he was-had mingled itself with the home sympathies of many hearts and of many of the best minds among us. Yet why should I say that I know not how it was-when the beauty and purity of his life, the unfeigned sincerity and affectionateness of his disposition, the enlarged and liberal views of his mind, and his martyr-like devotion to truth and duty, had naturally made him a home in that love which knows no boundaries of country or clime. God pity that nearer home, where that name is no longer the familiar utterance and bond of affection-where it is only a broken echo, from a living grave! God knows that our sympathies and prayers have hovered over it in agony; to bring, if it were possible to bring, relief and comfort. But I must not dwell upon this-it is too painful. Many other names, dear in their circles of home and friendship, are placed, in God's dread Providence, upon this mournful record. The groan that rises from this catastrophe, will spread itself over the world-to kindred in England and Germany, and to friends in France and Italy. I have spoken of the only one I knew in that fated company, and of him you will feel that it was proper that I should speak; though this is not the time to speak calmly and at length of the eminent traits of his ever to be valued and venerated character. I could have wished, indeed, that I might have been excused from speaking of this event at all. I feel that it does itself utter a stronger language than any I can use; that your own impressions are likely to be too vivid to need any excitement from public discourse; and that the event of itself, perhaps, teacheth more wisdom than any I shall take occasion to teach from it. Besides, it seems to me as if it were a kind of sacrilege toward such an awful calamity, to take possession of it at once, ere the immediate horror is well over, as a ground even for spiritual improvement. But my original reflection recurs to me, that this event does occupy the public mind to that degree that it can scarcely be excluded even from the sanctuary; and, therefore, I have thought it best to let it be the theme of our meditation, even though I should only express thoughts which are better conceived in your own minds. Perhaps I may, without impropriety, enlarge the ground of this meditation. This event is but the consummation of a series of calamities, which has made the present winter the most disastrous, perhaps, that we have ever known. Never, within my memory, certainly, have so many lives been lost by shipwreck on our coast. In our cities, too, the pressure of commercial difficulties, the frequent instances of infidelity to mercantile and public trusts, the torch of the incendiary, lighting flames by day and by night, throughout the whole line of our sea-board, have united to spread distress and distrust far and wide in the public mind. We are apt to feel as if never men fell upon such evil times as we have fallen. We are tempted to ask, Where is the good Providence? Where is the security of life and of its possessions? and, taking political considerations into view, Where is the security of nations? In this season of public calamity, when "men's hearts are failing them for fear," I deem it the duty of the pulpit to offer what it can, of guidance, comfort and admonition. This in my place, I shall humbly attempt. I. In the first place, let us not be driven by these calamities from the conviction that GOD REIGNS. I am not about to offer any argument to prove this truth. If there be a God, But no: there is a Providence over all things. There is wisdom in events, though we cannot fathom it. Divine Goodness does not forsake the scene of uttermost calamity. I doubt not there were hearts there, where our thoughts are now most turned, which felt that it was so-felt that God was near them in that scene of awful confusion-hearts that in their religious calmness and confidence, would rebuke our despondency and murmuring. We are apt to do injustice to the feelings of good men in such circumstances. Our imagination overspreads all with the apparent disorder. But I doubt not there were Christian hearts in that dread hour when death became inevitable, that said, "It is come!-it is come!-Father, thy will be done! Father, receive us!" And in that feeling there was a divine serenity, and the uplifted eye of triumphant faith that looked beyond the surrounding darkness and struggle, to the calm heaven-to the presence of God above. "Why," do you say, "did not Almighty Goodness interpose for them?" Had it been best-truly best in the whole view of things—can we doubt that it would have interposed?— Then it was not best. Then all was well; though in some order of things which we cannot scan. But you say, perhaps, "This was not the work of Providence, but the fruit of error." Let us consider it. Error is every year exacting of the human race thousands of lives. Error, perhaps, has exacted these. But error is not a wild and ungoverned power, that has broken into the domain of Providence. It is a part of our nature-a part of our discipline-a part of our progress and improvement. We are not made perfect. We are not trained to exactitude in our medical systems, in our mechanic inventions, in our influence upon one another, in our processes mental or moral, in any thing that appertains to us. We take our part with weakness and imperfection; we struggle with them; we are their victims. Of almost every human being that dies, we may say that he would have lived longer had he been wiser, or had others been wiser. The agonies that surround every leath-bed might make the same complaint that rises over the most awful catastrophe brought about by human imperfection. So is our lot bound up with others, and bound up with infirmity and error. If the soul perished in this alliance, there were no comfort; but the soul it is that is trained up by it to virtue, to fortitude, to sanctity, to heaven! When we look at the martyr's soul, and see how by persecution, by sorrow, and by the last dire extremity, it is borne up to the noblest heroism and triumph-how by the flame which consumes the body, the soul is borne to heaven-there is something in this contemplation which supports us. And yet the martyr is sacrificed to the most enormous error of which the world can be guilty. But he dies, we say, for a princi ple; he dies for human progress. But so does every man, who falls a victim to human imperfection, mechanical, medical or political, die for human progress. Thousands of lives are annually sacrificed on the altar of human improvement—a fact which shows that life itself in this world, is not an end but a means. The Providence that is carrying every thing forward as it marches in the greatness of its might, crushes millions with its step, mows down generations with the scythe of war dashes in pieces the time-founded structures and empires or the world, and sweeps all earthly weal and wo from its awful path. The dispensation indeed is awful; but it is so in part, let me further observe, because we look at it too much as a general picture. It is after all but the picture of individual life-of your life and mine. It is more or less the lot of us all; and it is not hurled upon us as a mountain to crush us, but it flows All that dread dispensation which we deplore, to a better life, Did I, at present, address any one of those to whom this af- But you say, "it is such a sad thing; it is such a horrible thing!" and I feel what you say. "That they should have gone forth, so thoughtless of what that very day was to bring forth!" is your reflection-"gone from the social board-perhups from the table of feasting-gone with a smile, perhaps, saying, "such a day I shall return '-or gone after a long voyage at sea, feeling as if they were already at home! and then that four or five hours after they set foot on that deck, they should have been dead!-that it should all have been so sudden-in a moment-one moment sitting and conversing with a friend, and the next moment meeting death face to faceand, above all, to think, if we must think, that a little calmness, a little deliberation, might have saved them-that such valuable, such precious lives should have been sacrificed, if there were any possibility of their being saved-is it not dreadful?" I know it-I feel all this; but still I cannot rest here. I must reflect upon it. I must meet that darkest mystery in Providence, the problem of human error. I must see that error is inevitable, and that it is one of the elements of human improvement. If Providence interposed to save us from the results of every mistake, the human race would be held in perpetual childhood. In the way of life, the foot slips, and plunges us into distress, into calamity, into the jaws of untimely death. Was the foot to blame? or its construction? Its very power to move, its very flexibility, the very formation that fitted it for its purpose, made it liable to slip. Missteps are its teachers; pain is its teacher. And thus all evils are the mind's teachers. Death, which cannot on earth benefit the individual subject, is yet the world's teacher. Untimely death teaches it prudence; and all death teaches it virtue. This is the great doctrine of a Providence; and all experience-the world's experience, vindicates it. Shall this event shake our faith in that Providence? The principle that would allow it to do so, would drive all faith in Providence from the world. Can we give up that faith? It is our only refuge from the overwhelming ills of life. We must cling to it. Suffering, struggling, bereaved, broken-hearted, we niust cling to it, for it is our only refuge. And for my own part, as clearly do I see it, and as truly do I believe in that wise Providence reigning over life, as I see and believe that I live at all. And could one of those who have passed through with the prayer, "Thy will be done!" And may every one who is stricken and smitten to the dust by this heavy visitation, find strength and support in that humble trust! II. I have dwelt longer than I intended upon this consideration of the Divine Providence. I have been led on, almost without regard to any order of thought-which I find it, in deed, difficult to preserve amid the agitations of a time like this. Let me now lead you to a different point of view, from which we may take a wider survey of the general calamities that press upon us : for I would willingly take refuge, for a few moments even, in the contemplation of wide-spread evils, from the immediate disaster that fills us with distress and horror. I have said that the present is altogether a season of unpre cedented calamity. But I must pray you not to yield to a view of these evils which shall overrate their magnitude or overlook their uses. We have lived so long in this country, in a state of peace and plenty, that we have almost forgotten through what sorrows and conflicts the human race has passed, to reach its present condition. We have been raised to a high level, like some of those which are found upon the mountains of this new world, till we have lost sight of the great plain of the world where the fortunes of men are wrought out with bitter toil and sorrow-where their rivers have run blood, and their fields have been fattened with slaughter. The exiles who flock to us, from many a country and clime, might well be tempted to say, "The ways of Providence are not equal." They have come from lands where liberty has been crushed down in the blood of their children, or where the dungeon has been exchanged only for exile; where famine has stalked through the dwellings of thousands, and the faces of men have grown pale, and their limbs have tottered beneath the awful Scourge. Within the period of our existence as a nation, what wars have desolated the fields of Europe; what bloody battles have been the epochs of her history; what groaning hospitals have tracked the steps of her armies; what shrieks of widowhood and orphanage have risen upon the air, laden with the accumulation of her calamities! Compared with this, let us not forget that our condition, with all its trials, is one of high prosperity. I would not speak lightly of these trials. I know' that they are great. I know that they eat deeply into the heart of domestic happiness; that there is more suffering among us, and that, not alone in the hovels of indigence, than most men are aware of. But, one week of famine in the land, one wide sweep of the wings of pestilence over us, one cannonade from a single ship in yonder harbor, pouring its storm of hail-shot and fire upon this city, would make us feel, that to step from that, into the midst of all our present trials, were a blessed exchange. I say that our condition has been, and is, comparatively a favored one. But I cannot yield to the common readiness and easiness of inference, by which this sense of our happy fortunes is made to extend to our national character. We are in our condition, I believe, the most favored people on earth-i. e. as a people as a mass; but I am far from saying that we are the wisest and most virtuous people in the world. We have heard but too much of this boasting. We have talked about the slaves of despotism, till we have apparently forgotten that there may be a worse bondage-to private ambition, to wearing anxiety, to envy and self-will. And therefore that distrust which has entered in among us-distrust about the securities of property -distrust about the tendencies of the national characterthough it be one of the most painful trials of the time, is not, I think, without its uses. It may do us good. It may impart a sobriety to our thoughts of the public welfare. It may turn our thoughts from our private interests to the common weal-a direction of mind greatly needed among us. It may put a salutary fear in the place of our rash confidence. It may put us upon thinking more deeply upon those deepest foundations of our welfare-virtue, simplicity, soberness of mind and a reverent and humble piety. can you feel, amidst your blessings-what can you be, but thankful? No murmurer, methinks, is here to-day. But if there be, I say to him-You did not set your foot on that fated deck! And as your shuddering thought draws back from that fearful idea, let it retreat for ever into the sanctuary of thanksgiving. III. Again, my brethren, am I brought back to this mournful theme. Let me say a word or two more to you, and I shall have discharged the sad duty which I thought it called for at my hands. Life is dear, and it is justly of great account with us; but can it be of that supreme account which we make it? When we see it the sport of every event, of every inadvertence; when we see it extinguished by a mote of the air, or a ray of the sun; when we see that it depends upon a step, more or less; when multitudes sink to an untimely death; when the life of a whole breathing generation is swept away before us like a cloud from the earth; can such a life be the thing on which it was intended that man should set his whole heart? Can it be any thing in the divine economy, but a means to something beyond? The animal dies for the advantage of a su perior being; or for his own advantage, by the decay that has ended the enjoyment of his life, or by the violence from his kind that saves him from that decay, neglected, untended. Does man die for nothing-neither for his own, nor for others' advantage? But if he does die for some ulterior purpose, then his lite is instrumental; and whether he continues for a term longer or shorter, is not the ultimate, the main thing. We say this of animal life: is it not just as true of human life? But the ulterior end for man-what and where can it be, but in a future life. Yet if man's essential life be thus continuous, can it be so material as we make it, when the form of this life changes? Is it not like passing from infancy, to youth, or from youth to manhood? Is it not being upclothed of one form, to be clothed upon with another? The form changes-the being lives. What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue," I feel as I stand in imagination, and behold, beneath the veil of night, a hundred fellow beings perish before my eyes_and pass away like a dream. I cannot help saying, when I see so many valued lives thus cast away like an evening vapor upon the waters-how little can it matter after all, in the great account, when we die-this year or next year; to-day or to I cannot help saying, as I look around me, " My companions, my friends, are but shadows; we all are but shadows; like shadows we alight upon the shore of time, and the breath of that shore, will soon sweep us away into the habitations of eternity." Truly is ic written, “Thou carriest them away, as with a flood; they are as a sleep.' One word more I must say, lest I fail to interpret the most solemn language of this solemn evert; and that is upon the duty of being ever prepared for death. There are character istics of that event which show that this is no mere matter of professional admonition, proper for the preacher to insist upon, but for ao one to take home as a living admoni, tion to his own heart. The event took place near us-on the great highway of our constant travel-and in a mode of conveyance to which we are continually resorting. And the frenzy that seizes men's minds at such a moment, must show the most thoughtless and irreligious among us, that, whatever we may think now of being prepared for death, we shall feel no We know that the same indifference when the hour comes. fate may, in any month, overtake us; and we see, as in a glass, what we shall then feel. No blessings are to be kept, and least of all those that are enjoyed in the midst of freedom and abundance, but by a jeal-morrow. ous fear and vigilance. Was not this truth in a measure for gotten in our prosperity? Did it not seem as if life, in this New World, was to take on quite a new character? For myself, I confess that I was deceived by the aspect of things around me. When I had looked upon the humble traders, and the hard and unrequited toilers of the Old World, and then saw many of the same classes here rising rapidly to wealth and splendor, I felt as if a new age had come as if a new world here, were indeed opening its portals to crowding and happier generations. And I hope now that it is not altogether untrue. But I confess that I have been brought to so berer thoughts of our condition, and of the very condition of humanity. I see that life is not to be, to any people-that it must not be, a dispensation of ease and independence. I see a sublimer law revealed than that of prosperity-the law of wisdom-a higher end proposed by the Providence of Heaven than success-even virtue. I see that the old, the eternal, the Christian law, still presses upon us-that through much tribulation we must enter the kingdom of heaven-that we must learn and not forget, that we are pilgrims and strangers on earth, having here no continuing city nor abiding place. Public calamities, then, amidst all their severity, are yet teachers of wisdom. I speak not of individual instances. I say not, it is best that those calamities should have fallen here or there. I am not obliged to say that it is best that it should have fallen any where. But since they have come, they may be turned to some wise account. He who can cause the wrath of man to praise him,' can cause even these things to praise him, in our growing wisdom. May he cause us to praise him, and be thankful. You speak, my friend, of the disasters that have befallen you. You did not set your foot on It is stated as a singular fact, that of four female sove that fated deck! Who of you now, would not have given millions, if he had them, rather than have been there? How reigns who have occupied the throne of England, not one was ever a mother. Three out of the four were married; the first many survivors would give all that is left them, if they could bay back that irrevocable step. You did not take it. You Mary, married to Philip of Spain-the second Mary, joined in were not there. Your husband, your brother, was not there. the sovereignty with her ever to be remembered husband, the He might have been. Some of you thought of it-intended it, hero of the Boyne-and Anne, married to prince George of and were saved from it, as by miracle. Life is still yours- Denmark-Elizabeth never was married. None of the three, What then however, left a child to inherit her crown. the warm fireside, the happy home, is still yours. Pardon me, my friends, but I cannot pursue the theme. I cannot utter common-place warnings, in the presence of that awful Admonisher. Alas! that all that I can do is to speak when others have died! Alas! that I can only meditate here-when the hearts of many are rent with agony! Oh! poor and unavailing it seems, only to take part, in weak sympathy, with their bitter sorrow. But human help cannot avail, and we can only say in our impotence and grief-May God com fort them! |