dence send, to warn us of the approach of that awful event which, we ought habitually to keep in mind. The decays of nature, increasing infirmities, contagious distempers, the dead silence of the midnight hour, consciousness lost in sleep, thousands falling on our right hand and on our left, the graves on which we tread, the funerals which we accompany,-all these, and many more, even every pang that wounds the heart, proclaim, that the dust must return to the earth as it was, and the spirit unto God who gave it. Yet, notwithstanding all these, we think, and speak, and act, as if we had purchased an exemption from the common lot of mortals, as if we had made a covenant with death, and bound him to give us timely warning of his approach, and delay it to a far, far distant period. What then remains, to awaken thoughtless mortals from their fatal slumbers? The death of friends-dying or departed relatives—are messengers sent from heaven to earth, to summon the survivors. Hearken, ye careless sons and daughters, to the solemn warning. Prepare to follow. For you, also, the bed of death is spread. Ere long, to you also, time shall be no more. What has already befallen your friends, must soon befall yourselves. Can ye forget, with what heart-rending grief you saw your kinsman overwhelmed with sickness, racked with pain, pale and languishing, while nature struggled hard for life, but struggled, alas! in vain, Can ye forget the bloodless cheek, the fluttering pulse, the faltering voice, and the eye swimming in death? This is the common lot of humanity, and the lot with which we must all lay our account. Death, in this, or a more dreadful form, may soon approach us also,-destroy all hope of recovery, and present before us the alarming prospect of an immediate appearance before the judgment-seat of Christ. Let none, then, exclude from their thoughts these sad and solemn reflections. Let every one of us say, Where are the multitudes of my kinsmen and acquaintances, with whom I daily conversed? Once we were united in our habitations, in our devotions, in our schemes, in our labours, and in our pleasures. Ere long I shall be united with them in death. Soon shall my surviving friends pay to me that tribute of sorrow, which I have so often paid to those who have gone before me. Soon shall they lay my body in the grave, and, dropping a tear upon it, say, Alas! my brother. In the

Second place, The death of friends should teach us the transitory nature of all earthly enjoyments. Often have the poet, he philosopher, and the moralist, depicted, in lively colours, the vanity of this world with all its pleasures. But like the advices of the instructor, whose example does not correspond

with his precepts, their writings have had little effect upon the minds of the busy, the gay, and the dissipated. They themselves know, that it is not difficult to declain on the unsatisfactory and perishing nature of all sublunary enjoyments. Though these attempts are not entirely vain, yet they oftener please the fancy, and charm the imagination, than they better the heart. They have but little influence in bridling our unruly appetites and passions, or moderating our love to the objects of sense. A sight of the house appointed for all living, and its forerunner, a death-bed scene, have a force which few can resist. Here there is no deceit. Things appear as they really are. It is impossible to exaggerate; no description can do them justice. How many, from scenes such as these, mourn a husband lost,-their protector and their guide! How many at this stage, between time and eternity, have taken a long farewell of her who enhanced their joys, and alleviated their sorrows! On this Mount of Pisgah, from which the good man darkly descries the promised land, how many have, for the last time, beheld him who was the guide of their youth; and whose duty and pleasure it would have been to have introduced them into a world of care! From hence, also, the affectionate mother has, for the last time, beheld with an anxious look her disconsolate family; and here, also, the tender infant, and even the only child, has been torn from the embraces of its sorrowful and disconsolate parents. Scenes such as these, make an impression upon the mind which will not be easily effaced. They are eloquent and successful preachers. They shew, in the most satisfactory manner, the vanity of this world and all its enjoyments. They demonstrate that all flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it, surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of the Lord shall stand for ever. Which leads me to observe, in the

Third place, That the death of our friends demonstrates the worth and excellency of religion. The word of our God shall stand for ever.

In the day of prosperity we may be joyful; but the day of adversity forces us to consider our ways. It causes us to inquire whence we may look for aid. The world too often shuns the distressed. It looks on them, and passes by on the other side. It neither can, nor does it desire to administer consolation. How truly miserable, then, would be the lot of man, were there no friend on whom he could rely in the most trying scene. Blessed be God, however, that although we too often forget

Him in the day when His candle shines upon our tabernacle, and all our ways are prosperous, yet He does not desert us in the day when His chastening hand lies heavy upon us. There is no help, then, can come to us but out of Zion. How great, then, is His goodness, not only in supporting those whom we hold dear in the day of death, but also in supporting us when they are withdrawn. Surely if men viewed the Saviour as an ancient prophet long before His appearance described Him, as binding up the broken-hearted, proclaiming liberty to the captives, giving to the mourner in Zion beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness,-as comforting all that mourn,-they would prize Him more highly. It is because we have not faith in God, faith in His Son, faith in the efficacy of His atonement,-faith in His promises as our deliverer, the Lord our righteousness,— faith in the Holy Spirit, the applier and comforter,-in one word, faith in the Father, Son, and Spirit, one God, that we esteem Jesus so lightly. The death of our friends causes us to cling to Him. Then we perceive His worth; He is a friend indeed, a friend who loveth at all times,—a friend who sticketh closer than a brother. When husband and wife, when kinsman and friend, when father and mother, forsake us, then we look up to heaven, and claim kindred with the Father of our spirits. Then we have recourse to our Friend who is seated at His right hand,-to our brother who is born for adversity,through whom alone we dare claim kindred with His Father and our Father, and His God and our God. He presents instantly our case to His Father, and sends to us His reviving promise, a promise that deserves to be graven with an iron pen and lead in the rock for ever. For thus saith the high and holy One, who inhabiteth eternity and the praises thereof, to every disconsolate son and daughter who put their trust in Him, O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted, fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee by the right hand of my righteousness. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shall not be burnt, neither shall the flames kindle upon thee. For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord, that hath mercy on thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the holy One of Israel, thy Saviour. I gave my Son for thy ransom, my well-beloved Son for thee.

In the Fourth place, From the death of our departed friends, let us learn to discharge our duty to those who survive. So long as no change takes place in our domestic circle, but we have an uninterrupted tenor of health and prosperity, we forget ourselves, and do not sufficiently prize the privileges we enjoy. But when disease invades our tender frame,-when the clouds of adversity begin to gather around us.-then the slightest ties of friendship are recognized, and we become sensible of the blessings we have undervalued. Thus, when the circle of private friendship is contracted,-when we are sometimes separated from the friends whom we loved, then we see our conduct in another light than when we were insensible of any change. Then, if there is any friend, however far removed, within our reach, we cling to him with double ardour. How much more shall we cleave to those who remain, after death has made an inroad upon our little society. Then the trifling animosities which we are all too apt to indulge too easily, are, or, at least, should be laid aside. Then we ought to unite with one heart and one mind, that a father's house and family may not be lost in Israel. If any animosity has subsisted between us and our friends, how will it pierce us to the heart, to think how little could divide our affection. We will see the cause of our discord in quite a different light, and the injury committed against him in a new point of view, our ingratitude will appear pourtrayed in the most lively colours. Then many proofs of his affection will appear which before were unobserved. If our conduct has hurt him in his temporal estate, in his character, or his worldly interest, which we can never redress, how will it augment our grief. But especially, if we have, in any manner or degree, damped his spiritual joy, nay, if we have not done all that was in our power to promote his spiritual interest, we will scarcely ever be able to forgive ourselves for our neglect. The son will bewail his infatuation, who, by a course of disobedience, folly, and wickedness, has embittered the life of a worthy parent, and, perhaps, contributed to bring down, with sorrow, his grey hairs to the grave. The parent will regret that ill-judged indulgence, or undue severity, that neglect of religious and moral instruction, and that improper example by which he has contributed to hasten a child's destruction. The surviving husband or wife will recollect, with sorrow, all those little harsh words or deeds which tended to embitter the life of those whom they ought to have reverenced and cherished, and whose happiness, by all lawful means, they should have endeavoured to promote. Nay, even the master and servant, if they have obtained the love of God,

will recall, with regret, all the varied times and places in which they have done what they ought not to have done, and neglected what they ought to have performed. The circumstance which adds poignancy to all these reflections is, that they can never be redressed; and the services which they were bound by the strongest ties to perform, can never now be performed. How powerful a stimulus should reflections such as these prove, to cause us to perform our duty to those that survive! Let us do therefore now, what we would wish we had done when our days are drawing toward a close. Let us perform every kind office while it can be accomplished. Let us beware of doing that injury to another, which his death may make it impossible for us to redress. The pretext for treating with cold indifference, and neglect, and severity, our friend, may then appear to have been really frivolous; and our reflections on our folly and guilt, may then fill us with regret and remorse. Whatsover then our hands find to do for the good of our friend, let us do it with all our might; for our friends may be taken from us, or we may be snatched from them, to that place where there is neither work, wisdom, knowledge, nor device. Our own friend, and our father's friend, let us not forsake. Let the ties of nature be strengthened by the ties of grace. Let the love of Christ not only constrain us to love Him, but also to love all those for whom He died,-all those who are of the household of faith; and that we may overlook none of them, let us cherish a brotherly affection to all mankind, even the unthankful and the evil, in meekness, instructing those that oppose themselves, if God, peradventure, will give them repentance to the acknowledging of the truth; and that they may recover themselves out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will; and, particularly, let our best, our fondest regard, rest on our brethren,—our kinsmen according to the flesh.

Lastly, The death of our friends should kindle within us a longing desire after immortality.

Cold and unfeeling must be that heart which does not wish to be re-united to those it once held dear. Is it possible, that the things of this world can so totally engross all its affections, that it will never cast a wishful eye to the port where its friend is safely landed? There is a haven of rest for every weary and heavy-laden soul. There is a city of the living God, where all who have laid hold on the hope set before them, -all who have been sanctified by grace, shall enter. When we, by daily experience learn, that this is not our rest, ought we not, with eagerness, to prepare for that rest which remaineth