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a metaphysical proof would have been, of a truth which none but a "fool" can deny, and he only "in his heart," as what he wishes, says Lord Bacon, rather than what he believes! I like to read that the Prodigal, though he determined, when he was in a far country, to say to his father, Make me as one of thy hired servants," yet did not mention his refusal to expect a child's portion and place when embraced by his welcoming father. Why? Because, from this apparently fortuitous omission, "we may learn wherein the true growth in faith and in humility consists; how he that has grown in these can endure to be fully and freely blest; to accept all even when he most strongly feels that he has forfeited all; that only pride and the surviving workings of self-righteousnes and evil stand in the way of a reclaiming of every blessing which the sinner has lost, but which God is waiting and willing to

restore."

I like to sit at the feet of Paul, as he descends from the third heavens, and hear him say, he heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful or not possible for a man to utter. Some might be disappointed that he has nothing to communicate, but I am not. I like his silence far better than any description that could be given. This is, in fact, the most animating description that we could receive, just as we have the grandest conception of the mountain's loftiness because it is hidden in the clouds. "I wish to be defeated in every effort to understand futurity. I wish, when I have climbed to the highest pinnacle to which thought can soar, to be compelled to confess that I have not yet reached the base of the everlasting hills. There is something surpassingly glorious in this baffling of the imagination. That heaven is inconceivable, is the most august, the most elevating discovery. It tells me that I have not yet the power for enjoying heaven; but this is only to tell me that the beholding of God 'face to face,' the 'being for ever with the Lord,' requires the exaltation of my nature; and I triumph in the assurance that what is reserved for me pre-supposes my vast advancement in the scale of creation."

If

If I had been writing a book that I wished to be very popular, I should have been careful to do two things, or one of them. First, I would have ministered to human curiosity as much as was in my power. I would have made myself acquainted with the numerous strange and speculative inquiries which men are ever ready to propose, and have answered them. Or, if this could not have been done, I would not have touched any subject that I could not thoroughly handle and elucidate. But I find no such disposition on the part of God's amanuenses. we come to them with profitless questions, the oracle is dumb. Neither, on the other hand, do they shun a subject, though in presenting it clearly enough to be seen, they are to leave much of it in shadow. This independence is very significant. It indicates conscious strength. It is not, as is generally supposed, the man who talks much that is independent, but the individual who talks little or none. The former shows his felt weakness, by reaching out of himself by conversation to find some support the latter indicates, by putting forth no such effort, that he is self-reliant.

The "holy men of old who spoke" and wrote "as they were moved by the Holy Ghost," were not afraid to broach a theme, though aware

that many things concerning it could not be stated. They were bold to tell of Lazarus rising, without throwing in sketches of his appearance "out of the body." In this view, if it be necessary for men like ourselves to speak that we may know them, it is also true that it was neces sary for God's prophets, and evangelists and apostles to be, in a great measure, silent, that we might know them. Had they undertaken to tell us everything, what a different impression would they have made! And how much in harmony with our minds have they acted, by revealing to us all we need know about duty and destiny, doubtless all they knew themselves, and leaving-as we cannot but feel they ought to have left-infinitely more for the explorations, and discoveries, and delights, of the eternal future!

THE TURN OF LIFE.

Between the years of forty and sixty, a man who has properly regulated himself, may be considered in the prime of life; his matured strength of constitution renders him almost inpervious to the attacks of disease, and experience has given soundness to his judgment. His mind is resolute, firm and equal; all his functions are in the highest order; he assumes mastery over business; builds up a competence on the foundation he has formed in early manhood, and passes through a period of life attended by many gratifications. Having gone a year or two past sixty, he arrives at a critical period in the road of existence; the river of death comes before him, and he remains at a stand-still. But athwart this is a viaduct, called "The Turn of Life," which, if crossed in safety, leads to the valley of "old age," round which the river winds, and then beyond, without a boat or causeway to effect its passage. The bridge is, however, constructed of fragile materials, and it depends upon how it is trodden, whether it bend or break. Gout, apoplexy, and other bad characters, are also in the vicinity to waylay the traveler and thrust him from the pass, but let him gird up his loins and provide himself with a fitter staff, and he may trudge on in safety with perfect composure. To quit metaphor, "The Turn of Life," is a turn either into a prolonged walk, or into a grave. The system and powers having reached their utmost expansion, now begin either to close like flowers at sunset or break down at once. One injudicious stimulant, a single fatal excitement, may force it beyond its strength, whilst a supply of careful props, and the withdrawel of all that tends to force a plant, will sustain it in beauty and vigor until night has entirely set in.

"There are some moments in this lone
And desolate world of ours that will repay
The toil of struggling through it, and atone
For many a long sad night, and weary day.
They come upon the mind like some wild air
Of distant music, when we know not where."

THE GUARDIAN:

A Magazine Devoted to the Interests of Young Men and Ladies.

VOL. VIII.

DECEMBER, 1857.

No. 12.

THE TEACHINGS OF THE DEAD.

BY REV. THOS. SMYTH, D. D.

The clay that is moistened sends back no sound. Yes, Death is silent to the ear, but it ever speaketh to the heart.-HERVEY GILES.

The good and the true,

Never die-never die;

Though gone they are here
Ever nigh-ever nigh.

There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the Living. These we would not exchange for the song of pleasure or the bursts of revelry.

CHRISTIANITY is distinguished from all other forms of religion in all that is essential both to the well being of the life that now is and of that also which is to come. But in nothing, perhaps, is this contrast more striking than the aspect in which it regards sorrow, bereavement and death. These constitute the mystery of life, and the mastery of all human wisdom and philosophy; hovering over humanity in fearful darkness; terrifying us by the loud and incessant crashes of their thunder; and ever and anon bursting in storms of devastating fury. And as all other religions have stood aghast, mute and motionless before such appalling phenomena, christianity demonstrates its inspiration and divinity by at once resolving the mystery, and imparting peace and consolation to the troubled spirit.

The earth, as christianity teaches us, is now enveloped in a murky atmosphere of cloud and sunshine with its ever varying lights and shadows, as emblematic of the blighting curse of sin, of which all sorrow is the shadow and all death the penalty. The present dispensation and government of the world is therefore, christianity teaches us, temporary and not final, partial and not complete, preparatory and not perfect, probationary and not retributive. It is purely a disciplinary dispensation, where everything is made to work together so as to form, develop, and mature character, whether evil or good, in view of a state,

The

and life, and world, everlasting. The race of man is not now in its pristine and perfect condition. The earth is not what it first was. relations between God and man are not those of a father infinitely wise and benevolent rejoicing over his children in whom He sees everything good. Men are now fallen, sinful, guilty, imperfect and helpless creatures; and God is now revealed, as having in Christ, devised a scheme of infinite mercy, whereby He is reconciling sinners unto Himself, reinstating them in holiness, and fitting and preparing them for full and final happiness in His heavenly kingdom.

All events are therefore subordinated to this gracious purpose, and to be interpreted by this light. And is it not a blessed light? Does it not at once dissipate all darkness, bring order out of confusion, impart joy to sorrow, hope to despair, life in death, and brighten every cloud of grief with a tinge of heavenly wisdom and unspeakable tenderness. Sickness and sorrow now become hand-maids to virtue; tutors and governors training and educating immortal minds for the maturity of perfect men in Christ Jesus. Death is not an end. It is only a transition, a stage in our journey, a step on the onward march to immortality, a halt in the pilgrimage through the desert on our way to the heavenly Canaan, a passage over the Jordan, or a transformation out of this earth-worm, chrysalis condition, to the seraph-winged beauty ofa spiritnal and angelic nature.

All other religions have considered death as an end, a cessation of existence, an awful catastrophe, the annihilation of the body, and the vanishing of the soul into thin air-to roam in dreary sadness through the gloomy shades and by the turbid waters of some unknown region of the dead.

Christianity alone has brought man's immortality to light, revealed and illustrated it, and endeared it to us by bright and beautiful descriptions of it. Christianity alone has demonstrated that death is a portion, not the end of life; a change, not the destruction of the earthly house of this tabernacle; a development, not a decay of strength and beauty; or to employ its own peculiar and exquisitely attractive represensation, a sleep from which the weary and troubled spirit shall awake refreshed and invigorated, rejoicing in the clear dawning of a celestial day. All other religions also consecrated pride, passion, stoical indifference, insensibility to grief and pain, and forgetfulness of the dead. It was only thus they could, in any measure, escape from the power of these evils, and blunt the point of their severity. And hence, while ordinarily, they carefully concealed and ignored their existence, we find that on occasions of social festivity, they were wont to introduce them in their ugliest form of represnetation, in order that by the combined hilarity and excitement of the company, they might triumph over their awful power, and make them subservient to their greater excess of riot.

Christianity, therefore, consecrates sorrow, and leads us to the house of mourning. It quickens and refines our sensibilities, that we may be the more susceptible to their hallowed influences. It opens up to them the deepest recesses of the heart, and every principle in our nature. It eliminates from these scenes of trial and these pangs, of nature, an elevating, refining, purifying alembic, with which to restore health to the soul and comfort to the disconsolate. It crowns with the diadem of

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valor patience in tribulation, and fortitude in adversity. It exalts as the greatest hero the greatest sufferer, who is made perfect through manifold afflictions, and who in hopeful confidence presses on to the kingdom of God. Instead of hopelessly drawing from these sufferings and sorrows provocations to abandoned self-indulgence in present pleasares, christianity regards them as incentives to self denial, humility, activity in well-doing, and a hearty consecration of the life that now is, to a fitting preparation for the great hereafter.

Other religions buried their dead out of sight that they might soon pass out of mind; covered them with the pall of silence, and left them in eternal darkness.

Christianity on the other hand, cherishes the dead. She keeps them alive in undying memories. She communes with them spirit with spirit. She consecrates their graves, adorns and beautifies the place of their repose, and plants it with flowers and trees of heaven. This is to her a place of frequent resort. She loves to wander there, to read the past, to bring up the dead, to converse with them, and though dead, to hear them speak in the still small but thrilling voice of sainted purity. Here in her earliest times, she was sure to be found when hunted by the bloodhounds of persecution, and how often did the christian mourner. water with her blood as well as tears, the grave of departed piety. And when driven from the face of the earth by relentless and inexorable inhumanity, christianity took refuge within its bosom, and there amid the labyrinthine passages of catacombs, buried her dead, and amid their corpses slumbering peacefully in the surrounding niches of those subterranean walls, worshipped their common Saviour, sung praises to Christ as God, and made the caverned vaults resound with the songs of glory to Him who had abolished the reign of death, disarmed it of its sting, and the grave of its victory, and united the living and the dead who die in the Lord, in inseparable, blissful union.

And so it is now, and every where, and always. Satisfying every natural instinct and affection of the heart, christianity recognizes and sanctifies our yearning for our departed friends. How beautiful is the memory of the dead, as seen in her mellowing light! What a holy and. chastening influence does it exert upon the human heart! Is there one who has not some loved friend gone to heaven, with whom he delights to live again in memory? Does he not love to sit down in the hushed and tranquil hour of silent meditation, and bring before him the face and the form so familiar and cherished-to look into the eye which mirrored not more clearly his own face, than the soul which he loves, and to listen to the tones that were once melody in his ear?

Yes, let us, as we may well do, talk pleasantly of the pious dead, as of those who no longer suffer and are tried. With them the fear and the longing, the hope, the terror, and the pain, are passed. The fruition of life has to them begun. How unkind, how selfish, how unnatural, were it, when we inter their bodies to cease the utterance of their names -the tender-hearted dead, who so struggled in the parting from usand more for our sakes than their own-why should we speak of them with awe, and remember them only with sighing! Very dear were they when hand clasped hand, and heart responded to heart, and why are they less dear, because grown perfect in loveliness and in loving kindness?

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