forgetfulness of them; and it was, perhaps, to catch our wandering eye that the Creator has written on the trees, inscribed on the ground, and scattered in the field so many emblems of our mortality. The fleeting flower, the fading grass, the impetuous flood, the transient sleep, and "the vapor that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away," are each of them pointed to in the Word of God as singularly expressive of human frailty. And at this season when the hectic flush which so lately was seen on the face of nature, in the deep red gorgeousness of autumnal foliage, has passed away, we

"See the leaves around us falling,
Dry and withered to the ground:
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,
In a sad and solemn sound."

But the misfortune is, brethren, that, in the face of the evidence of our own senses, and in opposition to the conviction of our reason, we learn no wisdom from these instructions. We see the leaves fade, without being reminded by it that we are fading ourselves. The men of this world are so busy, they form such an animating spectacle, such a bustling crowd, the thought never occurs to us that they are not the same crowd who thronged the streets some years ago, nor the same who will throng the streets some years hence. The dead are buried out of our sight; the dying are languishing on their beds; the infirm and the aged are shut up in their habitations; our eyes rest upon little else than what is green and flourishing, and so we forget that what is faded now was green formerly, and that what is flourishing now will fade speedily. But admitting that the proofs of this are too evident to escape observation, is it not true that we contrive to persuade ourselves that what happens to others will not happen to us? That we are exempted from the law which consigns others to the grave, so that, in the house of mourning and the chamber of death, instead of saying to ourselves, "The lot of my departed friend will soon be mine," we lament death as his misfortune, but never likely to become ours; we speak of him as having been subjected to a hard fate, which we, however, never expect to share.

And as men are too apt to shut their eyes in this manner to the conclusion of life, so are they loth to believe that it is hastening

away.

Although every day they live abstracts something from the sum total of their existence, and although those daily abstracts have been going on for years, it never occurs to them that their lives, in consequence, have diminished in length. They seem not to regard life as a sum of gold, which every purchase lessens, until at last it is all expended, but as a mine which no expenditure can diminish and no prodigality can exhaust. They do not seem to regard life as a journey, which becomes shorter and shorter by prosecution, but as a road upon which a person may

travel, and be always as far from the end as when he first set out. You may have observed that the schemes which men form at forty years of age, are not more limited on that account. Whatever disappointment they may fear from other causes, and whatever precautions they may take to prevent failure, they never think of abridging their views because of the uncertainty of human life. They have attained an age which is an important deduction from the longest term allotted to man, and yet they give no weight to that in their calculations. Now when you consider that the average duration of human life is well ascertained, such conduct is like that of a man who, having provision for seven days, without any possibility for procuring more, should persuade himself that he had sustenance for an indefinite period, and act accordingly. And if such is the conduct of men in the prime of life, what shall we think of those who, although they are bowed down with the infirmities of age, try to flatter themselves that they are still young; who make themselves ridiculous by affecting the dress and tone of the youthful, and to whom you can give no greater offence than to insinuate that they are far in the decline of life? Melancholy, indeed, are these evidences of the insensibility of man to his present condition, but more melancholy because exhibited in the face of such pathetic proofs of it. As many years as have passed over your heads, as many autumns as you have seen come and go, as many leaves as you have seen fall, so many times have you been warned, that we all do fade as a leaf." As many infirmities as you have felt in yourselves, as many signs of decay as you have observed in others, as many friends as you have followed to the grave, so many times you have been warned that "we all do fade as a leaf." The leaf broken from its parent stem, whilst yet green, should have reminded some of you of the dismemberments they have witnessed in their own circle, of the soft eyes of childhood which they have seen closed, of the blooming cheek of youth which they have seen whiten, and of the strong arm of manhood which they have seen paralyzed. Yes, during the year which is hurrying to its close, other flowers than those of the field have faded, other leaves than those of the forest have fallen-the bright and beautiful of men have dropped from the parent tree, and thousands, like the woods, have been rendered leafless. What then must be the infatuation of those, who in the face of evidence like this that "we all do fade," persist in believing themselves to be unfading. Strong indeed must be the delusion which no argument can break-no bereavement dissolve, no sermon dispel, no warning overcome. It is not that we are naturally indifferent about the future. Men are continually providing against the future, laying up money for their future wants and laying out plans for future enjoyments. Their anxieties, their toil, their speculations, their hopes, are all looking forward. But it is the future decay, the future death, the future judgment which they disregard.

This indifference to their highest interests, this apathy so injurious to themselves and so inconsistent with their usual habits, convinces me that we are all under a sort of enchantment, and that the spell cannot be broken by anything short of a divine power. Otherwise, how could it be possible for men to see everything around them going to ruin, and to feel the worm gradually devouring their own strength, without forseeing and preparing for their latter end?

How could "all men think all mortal but themselves," if it were not that the god of this world had blinded their eyes in order to make them his certain prey. I am convinced, then, that nothing short of divine power-that no weaker influence than heavenly grace that no agent inferior to the Holy Ghost can break the spell and dissolve the incantations beneath which we lie. Nature and revelation point, indeed, to the fallen foliage which now lies scattered around your dwellings, and say in a solemn tone, "thus you fade;" but as this admonition has proved unavailing in years past, so it will prove, I am persuaded, in years to come, unless the God of nature and revelation bring it home irresistibly to the human heart. We have heard men talk sentimentally enough of the fallen leaf, of its striking analogies, its affecting lessons, and wholesome warnings. We have seen men weep bitterly enough over the body and the grave of a departed friend. But where is the evidence that this is real? We see it not. Sentiment is nothing, and the lessons of affliction are soon forgotten. What we want, is not to be persuaded that the leaf fades, or that our friends fade, but that we are fading ourselves. I admit that it is a gloomy fact; but when the neglect of a gloomy fact is dangerous, we must look it in the face. If there were any antidote against disease, any refuge from decay, any escape from death, it would be different-but since they are inevitable, inconsideration can only make them come upon us unawares. And do you ask me what danger will arise from neglecting this fact? I answer that there is the death of the soul as well as the death of the body, and that he who is unprepared for the first death, will be sure of incurring the second. Not, as it has been well observed, "not a death which consists in the extinction of consciousness, for the consciousness of guilt will keep by us forever-not a death that implies the cessation of feeling, for that feeling will continue to the last, though the feeling of intensest suffering-not a death by which all sense of God, will be expunged, for the sense of God's offended countenance will prey upon us and agonize us forever," but a living death, my hearers, an endless death, which the poor soul shall have as little prospect of escaping after the lapse of ages as it had at first. This is the danger, and the melancholy thing is not that we must die and return to dust, but that, forgetting that fact, we trifle away the short space assigned us to prepare. The flowers, so to speak,

have been made to fade, and the leaves have been made to fall, and the grass has been made to wither in order that we might be reminded every autumn, that we have so much less time to prepare for eternity. And how are you to do this? In the first place by recovering the image you have lost. This leaf can never regain its beauty, but the soul of man which was created in the image of God, can be renewed. Sin has defaced the image-disobedience has marred the resemblance, but there is such a thing as being made a new creature-there is such a thing as being "created anew in Christ Jesus"-there is such a thing as obtaining, through faith, an imputed righteousness and a real sanctification, and if you will be transplanted from this wilderness world into the paradise of God, you must, by being spiritually transformed, recover that image which has been lost through sin, and so be made meet for the inheritance of the saints in light. I acknowledge that you have no strength of yourselves to do this. Spiritually as well as physically, this leaf is an emblem of your weakness; but as God preserved the leaf upon the tree, until it had fulfilled the end of its existence, so, if you are in earnest about your salvation, he will secure its accomplishment. But if you go about the work in dependence upon anything less than divine strength, you will fall, be assured, to the ground and perish.

if

Again, you must have the life of God in the soul, and "this is life eternal to know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou has sent." We are, indeed, poor dying creatures; "all flesh indeed is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field." But if you have Jesus as your Saviour, your body will rise again" if it be sown in corruption, it will be raised in incorruption; if it be sown in dishonor, it will be raised in glory; if it be sown in weakness, it will be raised in power; it be sown a natural body, it will be raised a spiritual body." There is implanted in the child of God an immortal principle, an imperishable seed! United to Christ as his head, death cannot dissolve the union! It may dissolve, and does, all earthly relations-husbands and wives, parents and children, brethren and sisters must say farewell. But the union of the believer to his Lord is indissoluble; his present body being earthly and mortal must die; it has in it the very element of dissolution, sin-and who would not be freed from sin, although he must die to obtain his freedom? But this body Christ "shall change and make like unto his glorious body according to the working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself." And thus the believer, secure of immortality, both in body and soul, has nothing to fear either from death or the grave. He can challenge the first with, "Oh! death, where is thy sting ?"-he can smile at the last with, "Oh! grave, where is thy victory ?" and he can triumph over all with, "Thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through Jesus Christ."

And now, my hearers, will you allow me to ask, then, what preparation you have made for death? Have you experienced the beginning of God's work in the soul of man in your scals? Have you been counseled by the decay of nature to prepare for your own decay; to seek after that new birth and that sanctification which can alone fortify you against the fear of death, and take away the terrors of the grave? If not, what time have you to lose? "We all do fade as a leaf."

Let not nature, then, hold up in vain this emblem of mortality. She is now burying her fair sons and daughters and summons you to the funeral. May the affecting spectacle lead you to seek an interest in Him who "is the resurrection and the lite in whom whosever believeth, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth shali never die."

And now, to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, be ascribed all praise, might, majesty and dominion, for ever and ever. Amen.

SERMON DCLXI.

BY REV. EDMUND NEVILLE, D.D.,

RECTOR OF ST. THOMAS CHURCH, NEW-YORK.

THE DUTY OF THANKSGIVING.*

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise be thankful unto him, and bless his name."Ps. c. 1, 4.

THE annual observance of a day of Thanksgiving to Almighty God, may now be regarded as an established custom of the American people; nor am I aware that it is adopted by any other. For the commemoration, indeed, of great political events a!! countries have days set apart in their respective calendars, but a day of thanksgiving is our peculiar and honorable characteristic among the nations. How solemn and affecting is the contemplation of an entire people thus offering up unitedly their acknowledgments to the Supreme Being. The public worship of Almighty God at other times is less imposing. It is associa ted in our minds with sectarian selfishness, party fends and denominational animosities. Although men are so evidently sprung from a common parentage, yet such is the effect of surrounding influences, that even among the inhabitants of the same country * Preached at St. Thomas' Church, New-York, Thursday, Nov. 24, 1853.