be enclosed by the Temple of Concord, that it may never more be entered through any portal of War; the horn of Abundance shall overflow at its gates; the angel of Religion shall be the guide over its steps of flashing adamant; while within its happy courts, purged of Violence and Wrong, JUSTICE, returned to the earth from long exile in the skies, with equal scales for nations as for men, shall rear her serene and majestic front; and by her side, greatest of all, CHARITY, sublime in meekness, hoping all and enduring all, shall divinely temper every righteous decree, and with words of infinite cheer inspire to those deeds that cannot vanish away. And the future chief of the Republic, destined to uphold the glories of a new era, unspotted by human blood, shall be first in Peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.

ever.

While seeking these fruitful glories for ourselves, let us strive for their extension to other lands. Let the bugles sound the Truce of God to the whole world forNot to one people, but to every people, let the glad tidings go. The selfish boast of the Spartan women, that they never saw the smoke of an enemy's camp, must become the universal chorus of mankind, while the iron belt of War, now encompassing the globe, is exchanged for the golden cestus of Peace, clothing all with celestial beauty. History dwells with fondness on the reverent homage bestowed by massacring soldiers upon the spot occupied by the sepulchre of the Lord. Vain man! why confine regard to a few feet of sacred mould? The whole earth is the sepulchre of the Lord; nor can any righteous man profane any part thereof. Confessing this truth, let us now, on this Sab

bath of the Nation, lay a new and living stone in the grand Temple of Universal Peace, whose dome shall be lofty as the firmament of heaven, broad and comprehensive as earth itself.

TRIBUTE OF FRIENDSHIP:

THE LATE JOSEPH STORY.

ARTICLE FROM THE BOSTON DAILY ADVERTISER, SEPTEMBER 16, 1845.

I

HAVE just returned from the funeral of this great and good man. Under that roof where I have so often seen him in health, buoyant with life, exuberant in kindness, happy in family and friends, I stood by his mortal remains sunk in eternal rest, and gazed upon those well-loved features from which even the icy touch of death had not effaced all the living beauty. The eye was quenched, and the glow of life extinguished; but the noble brow seemed still to shelter, as under a marble dome, the spirit that had fled. And is he dead, I asked myself, whose face was never turned to me, except in affection, who has filled the civilized world with his name, and drawn to his country the homage of foreign nations, who was of activity and labor that knew no rest, who was connected with so many circles by duties of such various kinds, by official ties, by sympathy, by friendship and love,—who, according to the beautiful expression of Wilberforce, "touched life at so many points," has he, indeed, passed away? Upon the small plate on the coffin was inscribed, JOSEPH STORY, died September 10th, 1845, aged 66 years. These few words might apply to the lowly citizen, as to

the illustrious Judge. Thus is the coffin-plate a register of the equality of men.

At his well-known house we joined in religious worship. The Rev. Dr. Walker, present head of the University, in earnest prayer, commended his soul to God who gave it, and invoked upon family and friends a consecration of their afflictive bereavement. From this service we followed, in mournful procession, to the resting-place which he had selected for himself and his family, amidst the beautiful groves of Mount Auburn. As the procession filed into the cemetery I was moved by the sight of the numerous pupils of the Law School, with uncovered heads and countenances of sorrow, ranged on each side of the road within the gate, testifying by silent and unexpected homage their last reverence to their departed teacher. Around the grave, as he was laid in the embrace of the mother earth, were gathered all in our community most distinguished in law, learning, literature, station,-Judges of our Courts, Professors of the University, surviving classmates, and a thick cluster of friends. He was placed among the children taken from him in early life. Of such is the kingdom of heaven were the words he had inscribed over their names on the simple marble which now commemorates alike the children and their father. Nor is there a child in heaven of more childlike innocence and purity than he, who, full of years and honors, has gone to mingle with these children.

There is another sentence, inscribed by him on this family stone, which speaks to us now with a voice of consolation. Sorrow not as those without hope were the words which brought solace to him in his bereavements. From his bed beneath he seems to whisper thus

among his mourning family and friends, most especially to her, the chosen partner of his life, from whom so much of human comfort is apparently removed. He is indeed gone; but we shall see him once more forever. With this blessed trust, we may find happiness in dwelling upon his virtues and fame on earth, till the great consoler, Time, shall come with healing in his wings.

From the grave of the Judge I walked a few short steps to that of his classmate and friend, the beloved Channing, who died less than three years ago, aged sixty-two. Thus these companions in early studies — each afterwards foremost in important duties, pursuing divergent paths, yet always drawn towards each other by the attractions of mutual friendship-again meet and lie down together in the same sweet earth, in the shadow of kindred trees, through which the same birds sing a perpetual requiem.

The afternoon was of unusual brilliancy, and the fullorbed sun gilded with mellow light the funereal stones through which I wound my way, as I sought the grave of another friend, the first colleague of the departed Judge in the duties of the Law School, Professor Ashmun. After a life crowded with usefulness, he laid down the burden of disease which he had long borne, at the early age of thirty-three. I remember listening, in 1833, to the flowing discourse which Story pronounced, in the College Chapel, over the departed; nor can I forget his deep emotion, as we stood together at the foot of the grave, while the earth fell, dust to dust, upon the coffin of his friend.

Wandering through this silent city of the dead, I called to mind those words of Beaumont on the Tombs in Westminster Abbey: