mind forever, he expressed warmly and emphatically his entire confidence, his gratitude, his affectionate interest in those most near to him, in all his friends, and commended them to God. From them his thoughts turned more particularly upon himself, his past life and present prospects. He said he had always felt that high trusts were committed to him, and that his was a solemn responsibleness. He had endeavoured to meet and faithfully discharge all his duties; and had been astonished often at the degree of light and satisfaction which were afforded him, as from above. His trust was in the mercy of God for the acceptance of his humble efforts, and the pardon of his remissness and sin. To God he appealed; and, as he spoke of his trust in him, of his firm faith in the religion of his Son, of the support he had derived from this religion through life, and its increasing power as life drew nearer its close, its power over all terrors of death and the dissolution of nature-there was a collectedness, a strength, an ardor, an eloquence, a sublime uplifting of the spirit far, far above the changing and passing objects of earth, which turned that chamber of death into a temple of calm and holy triumph. All tears were dried. The spirit of heaviness became indeed a garment of praise; the voice of weeping went up in the silent offering of gratitude and joy; every spirit was lifted with his who led the way, until they were rapt into the pure and full light of the world he was entering. That spirit in very truth is putting on its vestments of light, and returning to its native skies. It is, as it were, balancing its wings for its heavenward flight, to fold them not, till it shall bow before the throne of God!'

And when we see such a life closed and crowned by such a death, so entirely consistent, so delightfully consoling, we would not, we cannot conceal our satisfaction and gratitude. When we see a spirit like this thus awaking from the torpor of disease, praying earnestly for strength that it may spend its last breath here for the peace and virtue of those it had loved, then pouring itself out in strains of mighty eloquence for religion's cause, fervent yet collected, glowing yet rational, with repeated petitions for strength and direction, leaving its solemn testimony—a testimony which life had borne, and on which death was now setting its seal to the strength and victory of faith, to the power of that truth which came in no sudden flash, but had long guided and sustained—and at last soaring away in serenity and triumph on the wings of Jesus' own prayer-when we see this, we must express the joy that it imparts; for it is consoling above all things else; it is rich in consolation, it is strong in assurance, it

is full of hope, sublime, immortal hope. We mention it not as a proof of doctrine; we vaunt it not to the world as a cause of sectarian triumph. Never. It is the triumph of religion, not of a sect. It is the power of principle, the strength of faith, the reality and glory of virtue, that we would exhibit. It is the full, clear, unsolicited, unequivocal, irresistible proof, that Christianity is not a fable, nor the peace it gives a mockery, nor immortality a dream. Many have died thus, we trust, of every name. We thank God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, that it is so; and most fervently do we pray, that others may find the consolation that is given us. For now, in the recollection of this life and this death-and may they never be separated!-our murmurs are hushed, and gratitude mingles largely with the reverence in which we bow to the inscrutable decree. We feel that God has been good in giving and in taking away. We feel that much has been done for religion, for us, for all. We feel, in a word, that to die thus, is to live forever, receiving and dispensing blessing. It is not death, it is birth; the birth of the soul into its own bright and happy sphere. It is not the last, but the first hour of life and liberty. It is the dawn of immortality. The darkness of earth rolls away. The light of heaven breaks in upon the departing spirit, and the everlasting arms bear it home.

H.

HEAVEN.

THE earth, all light and loveliness, in summer's golden hours, Smiles, in her bridal vesture clad, and crowned with festal flowers, So radiantly beautiful, so like to heaven above,

We scarce can deem more fair that world of perfect bliss and love.

Is this a shadow faint and dim, of that which is to come?
What shall the unveiled glories be, of our celestial home,

Where waves the glorious tree of life, where streams of bliss gush free,

And all is glowing in the light of immortality!

To see again the home of youth, when weary years have past,
Serenely bright, as when we turned and looked upon it last;
To hear the voice of love, to meet the rapturous embrace,
To gaze through tears of gladness, on each dear familiar face-

Oh! this indeed is joy, though here, we meet again to part.
But what transporting bliss awaits the pure and faithful heart,
Where it shall find the loved and lost, those who have gone before,
Where every tear is wiped away, where partings come no more!

When on Devotion's seraph wings, the spirit soars above,
And feels thy presence, Father! Friend! God of Eternal love!
Joys of the Earth! ye fade away before that living ray,
Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse of pure and perfect day-

A gleam of heaven's own light-though now its brightness scarce

appears,

Through the dim shadows, which are spread around this vale of

tears;

But thine unclouded smile, O God! fills that all glorious place, Where we shall know as we are known, and see thee face to face!

A.

THE RITE OF THE LORD'S SUPPER A SYMBOLICAL

LANGUAGE.

TILL men arrive at a certain point in the progress of the mind, mysteries are, perhaps, necessary in religion. Beyond this point, nothing can be more injurious than mysteries. Up to this point, that is to say, while men are in a barbarous, or partially enlightened condition, reason is not sufficiently developed, and is not strong enough, to be the guide and controller of men's actions. The aid of imagination is needed; perhaps it would not be too much to say that superstition is needed. Beyond the point in question, when men are enough enlightened to be spiritually, rationally, heartily interested in religion, mysteries are hostile to these characters of religious sentiment. They tend to make religion unreal and mechanical, or else to make men skeptical and distrustful about it. The mind demands to be satisfied on other subjects, and if it is turned away with unintelligible dogmas and ordinances in religion, it will be liable to relapse into indifference or infidelity. It may be laid down as a general principle, indeed, that the mind cannot be truly interested in what it does not understand. It may be interested about it; it may have the most eager curiosity and desire to comprehend the mystery; but this is not the rational and hearty interest in religion which may be expected of an improv

ed age. Not, however, that any man can expect to understand everything in religion, everything concerning God, and futurity; but, in order to be rationally interested, he must comprehend something; and he cannot be rationally and truly interested in that part which he does not comprehend.

With these views I think it the duty of a religious teacher, among an intelligent people, to carry explanation as far as he is able. And, on this account, I propose to offer a few observations on the distinctive character and peculiar import of the Lord's supper. This, together with the general design of our Saviour's death, probably, remains in deeper mystery to most persons, than any other part of the christian ritual or doctrine.

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In the first place, then, the rite of the Lord's supper is a language; it is a symbolical language, and nothing else. It is simply and only a means of conveying certain ideas to the mind, and of awakening correspondent emotions in the heart. It is a 'showing forth of the Lord's death.' This,' says our Saviour, this is, this represents my body broken for you; this represents my blood shed for you.' That is to say, these symbols are a showing forth, an emblematic communication of these facts.

I know that it is common to say in general, that the communion service is significant of the death of Christ. But I must desire the reader to enter into some more careful discrimination of this assertion.There are several kinds of language, or modes of expressing ideas. There is the expression of the countenance and gesture; there are words, arbitrary or conventional signs of thought; there are words taken in their simple sense; and again there is a figurative language, the language of comparisons, analogies, images; and in fine there is the language of symbols or emblems. This last, I have said, is the mode of communication adopted in the rite of the Lord's supper. It is a language, I repeat. It is no more mysterious than any other language. It is, in itself considered, no more solemn ; that is, unless it be for conveying more solemn thoughts.

But again, I say, that it does not convey more solemn thoughts, than those words which declare the passion, the patience, the meekness, and compassion of Jesus Christ. There is therefore no more reason, in the mode of communication, why we should have a feeling of constraint, or awe, or mystery, or seriousness, when we partake of the communion, than when we recount, in ever so simple and ordinary terms, the history of our Saviour's crucifixion. So far as the instrument is considered, it is just as solemn to read in the evangelist, the account of our Saviour's

passion, as it is to show it forth in the service of the communion; I say, so far as the instrument of thought is by itself considered. Partaking of the communion is regarded in the light of a profession, I know, and in this view, it is more solemn. But it is not more solemn, regarded as a language, a showing forth of the Lord's death. That is to say, the bread and the wine, are no more solemn or mysterious things, than the words of the evangelical record, which declare the same matters of fact and faith. On the one hand, are emblems of thought; on the other, are signs of thought.

Whoever looks for more than this, in the rite of the Lord's supper, I cannot hesitate to say, approaches it superstitiously; for I desire any one to consider, what more there can be. Is there any secret virtue or efficacy in these emblems? Certainly not. Does the use of them constitute any man a Christian? Assuredly not. Does it tend to make any one a good man, or to procure for him the favor of God, but from the natural impression which it conveys of certain facts and truths to his mind? Still we must answer, no. A man might as well imagine that, by partaking of one of our civic feasts, he were made a good citizen; or by joining in the domestic festival of our Thanksgiving, he were inspired with the virtue of religious gratitude.

I say again, for I would fix this point, it is just as solemn, so far as the instrument of thought is concerned, to have the evangelical narrative of our Saviour's sufferings read to us, as to have it set forth in the Lord's supper. Why is it not? The words of the narrative convey certain facts and truths to us; the emblems convey no more. There are two kinds of communication, but the same subject matter. The vehicle of communication is not the great thing; but the truth, the subject, the meek example, the heavenly patience, the divine forgiveness, the love stronger than death, that is set forth. These are the great things, the affecting matters, that are placed before us. And yet, I am afraid, there are many who look upon these symbols, weak and beggarly elements' as they are, in comparison with the solemn and glorious truths that are hidden under them-who look upon these external symbols with the chief awe, and who, although they have the gospel in their hands, and may at any time read and meditate on the glorious example and patient suffering of Christ, never think it necessary to be so solemn, or so much affected as at the communion. Ah! the virtue is easy that is required to be in exercise but once a month, or during a few brief hours in the year. An easy thing it is, in these brief seasons, to lay up the merit, that shall last for days