SERMON XIX. REV. WILLIAM ADAMS, D. D. FEW are the words which are needed to-day. God has spoken, and we are dumb. These funereal emblems-this sombre, melancholy black-these pale faces of anxious, sorrowful men; this leaden weight at our hearts, announce the terrible affliction which has befallen the nation in the sudden and violent death of its honored President. I had expected to address you this morning, in a joyous strain, on the most joyous event in the history of our world. I had prepared a discourse on the resurrection of our Lord, and the rising of individuals and nations in him to a new life. But the circumstances in which we are assembled are so appalling that all ordinary topics are for the moment entirely superseded. When God speaks out of the whirlwind it would betray profane insensibility not to pause and consider. Never, I will not say in our history, but in the history of the world, was there such a conjunction of events as that which, in an instant, has thrown this nation from the heights of joy into profoundest mourning. This is not the first instance in which a public man has been assassinated to a nation's dismay. William the First, Prince of Orange, the founder of Dutch freedom, was shot, when fifty-two years old, in his own house by a young man, hired for the purpose by a Jesuit priest, with the promise of eternal salvation. The universal lamentation of Holland on that occasion is one of the great pictures of history. Henry the Fourth, of France, who, with all his faults and vascillations, was the best of all the French kings, in his fifty-seventh year, was stabbed in the streets of Paris when on his way to consummate alliances in favor of the Protestant interest against Spain and Austria. But these incidents furnish no parallel to the abrupt and terrible calamity which we deplore. Forty-eight hours ago we were in the highest exultation. Everything justified national joy. This Easter would have been celebrated as never before, amid spring blossoms and flowers, and doxologies, and anthems, and high throbbing hearts. The air was fanned with jubilant flags as the winter had passed and the time for the singing of birds was nigh. We were looking for the speedy termination of the war and the return of peace, when the plough would skip along the mellow furrow, commerce flap her long-folded wings, and the land would laugh with industry, plenty, and prosperity. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, we are brought down into the deepest affliction. A single night has wrought the greatest of changes. It was "a night long to be remembered." We have not yet rallied from the shock sufficiently to command thought or language. Our children and our children's children will speak of it, and read of it, as one of profound horror. The Chief Magistrate of the nation has fallen by the hand of an assassin. To lend all possible aggravations to the tragic event, an accomplice, simultaneously, with more than brut Condish violence, invaded the chamber of the Secretary of State, where domestic love was tenderly watching him, disabled and shattered by an accident, and endeavored to butcher him in his bed! It is, indeed, a time for lamentation and mourning. It is not to be wondered at that strong men among us, as they met each other yesterday, grasped hands in silence and sobbed. So to feel and act was manly. All political partialities, all differences of opinion in regard to modes and measures, are merged, ocean-deep, in the astonish,ment and grief which this event has produced. We cannot believe that throughout all the loyal States there was a single man or woman who heard of this tragedy without a shudder of horror. Consider the circumstances. Assassination even of a private citizen is frightful. To assault a man when unsuspecting, unarmed, defenceless, whatever motive may have prompted the crime, is cowardly and dastardly. But this was the head of the nation-the lawful, chosen President of the United States. This was a blow aimed at the very heart of the country. It was a blow which was intended to exterminate you and your children. It reminds us of the frenzied passion of Nero, who wished, on one occasion, that all Rome had but one neck, that he might sever it at one stroke. Consider the personal character of the man thus immolated. He was not a hard, rough-shod, truculent, stern, cruel man or magistrate. He bore no resemblance to Marat, gorged with blood, assassinated by Charlotte Corday. He was the mildest and most inoffensive of men. Called by Providence to solemn and painful duty, he was always inclined to leniency. He was most tenderhearted, as gentle, by nature, as a woman. I do not recall a word of his which was intended to insult, goad, taunt, or exasperate any man; not one act which looked like unnecessary severity, bearing any resemblance to cruelty. Many acts of kindness and generosity are reported of him; for he was benignant, honest, and thoroughly conscientious. Such were the qualities which met in our President. God is making us to feel, and many are astonished to discover it, how much of real tenderness is implied in that epithet. The Indian tribes in our territories call the President of the United States their "GREAT FATHER." It is a beautiful designation. Twice, during my professional life, have I officiated when death smote the President of the country, and distinctly do I recall, when Harrison and Taylor died, the depth of true and gentle affection which was developed out of that relation between the people and their chosen President. In times of political asperity, of free debate, of carnest discussion, this is forgotten. God intends that we should not forget it always. It is right and proper that we should feel it and express it now. The head is smitten and the whole body shudders. The father of the country is slain, and a whole nation are the mourners. There are many whom the world could easily spare. Some in conspicuous places, of whom to be rid would be a vast relief. There are others who are so related to good and great causes that their fall convulses the civilized world. Such was our President at the hour of his death. There is mourning to-day away on the shores of the Pacific. Something more than a profound sensation will be produced on the other continent. I know of more than one praying circle in the heart of Switzerland and Germany, where intercessions for a long time have been offered for the President of the United States. The event will be felt, for various reasons, throughout all Christendom. One thing is certain. They who plotted his death, and all who in any way sympathize with them may know it -his immortality is sure beyond all tarnish or eclipse. His name will live forevermore. By this very event he is secure of his place in the hearts of his countrymen, enshrined and honored, whatever becomes of the name of every other President since that illustrious man, who was the first and greatest of all. When faithfulness is crowned with martyrdom, there is no waning to renown, and oblivion never can reach his pure and exalted fame. "Follow now as ye list! The first mourner to-day The wantonness of this atrocious act is another feature of the event. What does it accomplish? What could they who instigated and perpetrated the deed expect to gain by it? It cannot help the rebellion. It is certain to consummate its overthrow. It cannot arrest or embarrass the lawful government of the country. That will stand. The Constitution provides for this very exigency, and when the bursts of tumultuous and vehement emotions which this calamity has occasioned have subsided into gentler reflection, men everywhere will admire the sublime ease and smoothness with which the lawful successor of the murdered President was inaugurated into office, government not intermitted, nor even in the imagination of a single citizen imperilled for a moment. Never did our government stand so firm, so strong, as at this very hour, notwithstanding the tremendous blow by which it has been struck. Millions of people, to-day, amid their |