rity, and religion, are therefore the three most important lessons to be learnt in the house of mourning, and whoever learns these, will be fully instructed in the whole duty of man.

The house of mourning, then, is the school of sympathy. This disposition is natural to man, and is the most lovely part of our nature. But in no particular are our hearts more liable to be corrupted and vitiated; as we proceed in the world, our affections are ever prone to be concentrated upon ourselves, and selfishness, that most fatal depravation of our nature, is at all times too ready to seize upon us. We are encouraged in it by many circumstances. Sometimes pride, or a high opinion of ourselves, renders us indifferent to the feelings of others; sometimes the pursuit of pleasure subjects all our affections to our own paltry gratifications; or the cares and business of the world occupy all our thoughts, and leave us no room for considering the desires and wishes of our brethren; or, finally, mere indolence may often indispose us from giving that attention to the concerns of other men, which may bring trouble and uneasiness to ourselves.

To put a stop to the course of this depravity, nothing can be more effectual than going to the house of mourning, than beholding the sufferings of our fellow-creatures, and permitting our hearts to be penetrated by the natural sentiments of humanity. It is owing to our ignorance, or our forgetfulness of the distresses which everywhere surround us, that we are rendered so indifferent as we often are to the feelings of each other, and wrap ourselves up in thoughtless insensibility. If we would inquire into them with diligence, and look at

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them with our own eyes, it is impossible but that our hearts must be affected, and that we must feel as it becomes men. There is no need, to be sure, for a weak and sickly sensibility; that disposition is more frequently employed in finding out food for the fancy, than in mending the heart. But a luxurious indulgence of the softer feelings is never produced by the sight of real misery. The sympathy which is drawn out by real suffering, is always accompanied by a sense of duties to be performed; it never stagnates in the breast idly inactive, but flows out in beneficent exertions.

In the second place: the house of mourning is the great school of charity, or of that love to our fellowCreatures which overlooks all distinctions, and views them in the single and endearing aspect of men and brethren. "For that is the end of all men."-These striking words level all disparities, and place every human being on a footing of equality. We are all weak, frail, mortal creatures: here is our point of union, in whatever else we may differ. One man is rich, and another is poor; one man sways the rod of empire, and another drags out his life in abject slavery; the mind of one glows with enlightened views and liberal attainments, while dulness and stupidity cloud the apprehensions of another. Farther still: one man is virtuous, and another is wicked; one bends before the throne of God, and acknowledges the power that made him, while another pursues his depraved inclinations, and thinks not of the account which he must render to his Judge. Such are the distinctions which prevail in the world; and men become elated with such distinctions, and grow vain in their own conceits," and their foolish

hearts are darkened." In consequence of these disorderly thoughts, want of charity prevails; men lose sight of the common tie which binds them together; and one half of the world looks down upon the other, as unworthy its notice and regard.

Hast thou lost sight of that common tie? Go then to the "house of mourning," and be no longer a fool. Those distinctions which excite thy pride, and lead thee to despise thy neighbour, what are they? They may serve thee to boast of through a short and fleeting life; but will they save thee from the common destiny, which marks thee out a frail and perishing creature? In "the house of mourning" thou wilt see that circumstance in which all men are assimilated; the bond of weakness and misery by which all are connected. Thy wealth, thy power, thy abilities, even thy virtue, and thy religion, are all subjected to the frailty of thy mortal state; an uncertain and precarious existence enters equally into the description of every man, and in this affecting circumstance we may see the true foundation of brotherly union and love.

I proceed, in the third place, to show, that, in the house of mourning, we learn the best lessons of religious wisdom; for that is the end of all men, and the living will lay it to his heart." Why should he lay it to his heart, unless there were something beyond this "end of all men?" If the curtain closed in the house of mourning for ever, it would be better to drive away from our hearts than to lay to them, a reflection which would only be melancholy, and could be productive of no good; and, accordingly, such is the use which some men of the gayer sort have made, from contemplating

the house of mourning. They have drawn from the consideration of the shortness of life, arguments for the freer enjoyment of it while it lasts: "Let us eat and drink (they say), for to-morrow we die." But this is vanity and delusion, and is never the voice of nature. The natural effect of the house of mourning is to throw us into sober reflection; to call back our scattered thoughts; to make us feel our present weakness; and to turn our eyes with serious apprehension to the awful events of futurity.

Two impressions particularly favourable to religion, humility and hope, are forced upon the mind on such occasions. When we contemplate some striking instance of "the end of all men," is it possible not to be impressed with a sense of our littleness, and of our entire dependence on the Almighty hand, by which we are raised or brought low? When power, or genius, or worth, submit to the common fate, and are swept from the earth, do we not immediately exclaim, What is man! and perceive but one Being whose operations are without controul? Must we not then be convinced, that all the occupations and concerns of human life carry in them an admixture of vanity, and that those circumstances on which we ground our self-consequence, are really futile and insignificant? We shall, accordingly, feel humiliated and astonished at ourselves, and shall bend beneath the fear of him who is the arbiter of our eternal destiny.

It is very apparent, then, in what manner humility and religious awe arise from the contemplation of human misery. That religious hope should flow from the same source, may not be so easily explicable; yet I

believe nothing is more true, and that celestial stream which bends its course into the regions of light, and waters the tree of life in the midst of the garden of God, rises in its greatest purity from the deep abysses of affliction. When every thing around us appears dark and cheerless; when all the world, with the whole race of man, seems a vain, fleeting, and disorderly scene; then it is that the light from above breaks through the clouds which envelope our souls. The suggestions of nature, and the boldness of faith, are supported by reason. When we behold man brought low, and his beauty laid in the dust, we cannot reasonably think that the great Parent has deserted his offspring for ever; and the greater his fall, and more complete his apparent degradation, the more reason, perhaps, have we to look for some splendid change from the wonder-working hand of Providence.

Such are the suggestions of religion on the view of any of the great calamities to which man is subject, particularly in the contemplation of death; and here, indeed, is the triumph of Religion! This is the province peculiarly subject to her command, and in which she moves with the dignity of a sovereign. In the heat and and hurry of the world; amid its business, its intrigues, and its pleasures; she may lift her voice, but it will not be heard. She will fly from the pride and the ingenuity of the sophist; she will avoid the questions and perplexities of the divine; and her simplicity may too often be lost or obscured in the ambitious eloquence of the preacher. But " go to the house of mourning," and there you will find her active and employed. In those secret retreats of sorrow, you may still hear the gentle