houses shall then be left without a tenant. The owl, at noon-day, may roost on the high altar of devotion, and the fox look out at the window,' on the utter solitude of a NewEngland Sabbath. 6 New-England shall, indeed, under this proscribing policy, be what Switzerland was, under that of France. NewEngland, which, like Switzerland, is the eagle nest of freedom; New-England, where, as in Switzerland, the cradle of infant liberty was rocked by whirlwinds, in their rage;' New-England shall, as Switzerland was, in truth, be ‘the immolated victim, where nothing but the skin remains unconsumed by the sacrifice;' New-England, as Switzerland had, shall have nothing left but her rocks, her ruins, and her demagogues.' 6 The mind, Sir, capable of conceiving a project of mis. chief so gigantic, must have been early schooled, and deeply imbued with all the great principles of moral evil. What, then, Sir, shall we say of a spirit, regarding this event as a 'consummation devoutly to be wished?'—a spirit without one attribute, or one hope, of the pure in heart; a spirit which begins and ends every thing, not with prayer, but with imprecation; a spirit which blots from the great canon of petition, 'Give us this day our daily bread;' that, foregoing bodily nutriment, he may attain to a higher relish for that unmingled food, prepared and served up to a soul hungering and thirsting after wickedness;' a spirit which, at every rising sun, exclaims, Hodie! hodie! Carthago delenda!' To-day, to-day! let New-England be destroyed!' Sir, Divine Providence takes care of his own universe. Moral monsters cannot propagate. Impotent of every thing but malevolence of purpose, they can no otherwise multiply miseries, than by blaspheming all that is pure, and prosperous, and happy. Could demon propagate demon, the universe might become a Pandemonium; but I rejoice that the Father of Lies can never become the father of liars. One 'adversary of God and man,' is enough for one universe. Too much! Oh! how much too much for one nation. 6 EXTRACT FROM A SERMON, ON THE DEATH OF HON. WILLIAM PINCKNEY. BY JARED SPARKS. No object is so insignificant, no event so trivial, as not to carry with it a moral and religious influence. The trees that spring out of the earth are moralists. They are em-: blems of the life of man. They grow up; they put on the garments of freshness and beauty. Yet these continue but for a time; decay seizes upon the root and the trunk, and they gradually go back to their original elements. The blossoms that open to the rising sun, but are closed at night, never to open again, are moralists. The seasons are moralists, teaching the lessons of wisdom, manifesting the wonders of the Creator, and calling on man to reflect on his condition and destiny. History is a perpetual moralist, disclosing the annals of past ages, showing the impotency of pride and greatness, the weakness of human power, the folly of human wisdom. The daily occurrences in society are moralists. The success or failure of enterprise, the pros perity of the bad, the adversity of the good, the disappointed hopes of the sanguine and active, the sufferings of the virtuous, the caprices of fortune in every condition of life, all these are fraught with moral instructions, and, if properly applied, will fix the power of religion in the heart. But there is a greater moralist still; and that is DEATH. Here is a teacher, who speaks in a voice, which none can mistake; who comes with a power, which none can resist. Since we last assembled in this place as the humble and united worshippers of God, this stern messenger, this mysterious agent of Omnipotence, has come among our numbers, and laid his withering hand on one, whom we have been taught to honor and respect, whose fame was a nation's boast, whose genius was a brilliant spark from the ethereal fire, whose attainments were equalled only by the grasp of his intellect, the profoundness of his judgment, the exuberance of his fancy, the magic of his eloquence. It is not my present purpose to ask your attention to any picture drawn in the studied phrase of eulogy. I aim not to describe the commanding powers and the eminent qualities, which conducted the deceased to the superiority he held, and which were at once the admiration and the pride of his countrymen. I shall not attempt to analyze his capacious mind, nor to set forth the richness and variety of its treasures. The trophies of his genius are a sufficient testimony of these, and constitute a monument to his memory, which will stand firm and conspicuous amidst the faded recollections of future ages. The present is not the time to recount the sources or the memorials of his greatness. He is gone. The noblest of Heaven's gifts could not shield even him from the arrows of the destroyer. And this behest of the Most High is a warning summons to us all. When death comes into our doors, we ought to feel that he is near. When his irreversible sentence falls on the great and the renowned, when he severs the strongest bonds, which can bind mortals to earth, we ought to feel that our hold on life is slight, that the thread of existence is slender, that we walk amidst perils, where the next wave of the agitated sea of life, may baffle all our struggles, and carry us back into the dark bosom of the deep. When we look at the monuments of human greatness, and the powers of human intellect, all that genius has invented, or skill executed, or wisdom matured, or industry achieved, or labor accomplished; when we trace these through the successive gradations of human advancement, what are they? On these are founded the pride, glory, dignity of man. And what are they? Compared with the most insignificant work of God, they are nothing, less than nothing. The mightiest works of man are daily and hourly becoming extinct. The boasted theories of religion, morals, government, which took the wisdom, the ingenuity of ages, to invent, have been proved to be shadowy theories only. Genius has wasted itself in vain; the visions it has raised have vanished at the touch of truth. Nothing is left but the melancholy certainty, that all things human are imperfect, and must fail and decay. And man himself, whose works are so fragile, where is he? The history of his works is the history of himself. He existed; he is gone. The nature of human life cannot be more forcibly described than in the beautiful language of eastern poetry, which immediately precedes the text: "Man, that is born of woman, is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down; he fleeth as a shadow, and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet, through the scent of water, it will bud and bring forth boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?" Such are the striking emblems of human life; such is the end of all that is mortal in man. And what a question is here for us to reflect upon ! giveth up the ghost, and where is he?” "Man Yes, when we see the flower of life fade on its stalk, and all its comeliness depart, and all its freshness wither; when we see the bright eye grow dim, and the rose on the cheek lose its hue; when we hear the voice faltering its last accents, and see the energies of nature paralyzed; when we perceive the beams of intelligence grow fainter and fainter on the countenance, and the last gleam of life extinguished: when we deposit all that is mortal of a fellow-being in the dark, cold chamber of the grave, and drop a pitying tear at a spec tacle so humiliating, so mournful; then let us put the solemn question to our souls, Where is he? His body is concealed in the earth; but where is the spirit? Where is the intellect that could look through the works of God, and catch inspiration from the Divinity which animates and pervades the whole? Where are the powers that could command, the attractions that could charm? where the boast of humanity, wisdom, learning, wit, eloquence, the pride of skill, the mys tery of art, the creations of fancy, the brilliancy of thought? where the virtues that could win, and the gentleness that could soothe? where the mildness of temper, the generous affections, the benevolent feelings, all that is great and good, all that is noble and lovely, and pure in the human character, where are they? They are gone. We can see nothing: the eye of faith only can dimly penetrate the region to which they have fled. Lift the eye of faith; follow the light of the Gospel; and let your delighted vision be lost in the glories of the immortal world. Behold, there, the spirits of the righteous dead rising up into newness of life, gathering brightness and strength, unincumbered by the weight of mortal clay and mortal sorrows, enjoying a happy existence, and performing the holy service of their Maker. Let our reflections on death have a weighty and immediate influence on our minds and characters. We cannot be too soon nor too entirely prepared to render the account, which we must all render to our Maker and Judge. All things earthly must fail us; the riches, power, possessions and gifts of the world will vanish from our sight; friends and relatives will be left behind; our present support will be taken away; our strength will become weakness; and the earth itself, and all its pomps, and honors, and attractions will disappear. Why have we been spared even this time? We know not why, nor yet can we say that a till |