manifold labours of his profession; and in the spring of the year after his settlement, he found it necessary to take a journey, for the benefit of his declining health. In the month of April he left Boston, travelled through Worcester and Hartford to New Haven, and thence to New York. From this place he took the steamboat to Albany, and continued his journey to Saratoga Springs. A free use of the waters was so beneficial to him, that after remaining there for some days, he set out on his return to Boston, with renewed strength and hopes. But the heat of the weather, and the fatigue of riding, proved excessively injurious to his weak frame. On the morning after arriving at Worcester, he was attacked with a raising of blood from the lungs, which immediately reduced him to a state of extreme debility.

This attack confined him in Worcester nearly a month; and when at last he resumed his journey, he could only travel at the rate of a very few miles a day. He did not return at once to Boston, but was detained by the hospitality of Gorham Parsons, Esq. at the neighbouring village of Brighton; where every attention and comfort was ministered to him, which his situation could require, or kindness could suggest. Here he gradually recovered, so far as to believe himself able to recommence his ministerial duties in November. A few extracts from the first sermon which he preached, on again addressing his society from the pulpit, will give some idea of his character and feelings, and cannot be otherwise than accepta

E

ble to the friends who heard, and who will doubtless re

collect them.

The title of the sermon was, On recovery from dangerous sickness; and its subject, the duties of the sick. The following notice of his own situation, toward the commencement of the discourse, must have sunk deeply into the hearts of his hearers.

"Brought by the goodness of God from the borders of the grave, I cannot better use the strength which is restored to me, than by endeavouring to gather instruction for you, as well as myself, from the scene through which I have passed. And if by this experience I should be enabled to suggest any considerations with regard to the duties of the sick, which may contribute to make any of you prepared for the hour of trial, I shall think that much greater danger and pain would not have been too dear a price for such a privilege."—"I propose to speak of the duties of those who are assailed by painful and lingering sickness; whose powers of exertion are impaired, but not destroyed; to whom a breathing time, as it were, is allotted, between the summons and the execution of that sentence, which is upon the life of us all; over whom

Death his dart

Shakes, but delays to strike."

The conclusion of the sermon is so affecting and eloquent, that I need offer no apology for presenting it entire.

"The last duty to which I have either time or strength to call your attention, is the duty of complete trust in God, and resignation to his will. And here, my friends, is the reward, the triumph, of a life of religion. The time to try the value of the maxims on which our lives have been formed, is the hour of severe sickness. The animating bustle and contentions of life no longer engage our attention; our ambitious hopes are over; the sound of fame grows dull to the ear; the voice of flattery no longer soothes us, and "all the worshipped pageantry" of pride is fled from before our eyes. Then it is that we

fall back on the resources of our own minds. The world deserts us, and we feel, as it were, alone in the universe with our God. How miserable is that man, who feels himself for the first time in this dread society; whose life has been past in shaking off the thought of futurity, till the voice of death now forces it in thunder on his ears! How blest is he, whose life has been made a scene of preparation for such an hour; spent in habitual communion with his God, in humble desires to gain his approbation, and in forming himself for that pure society to which death is about to introduce him; and who, now that flesh and heart fail him, can stretch his feeble hand, and lift his languid eye to heaven, and say, "God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever.”

"Such, my friends, is an imperfect outline of some of the most obvious duties of the sick. You, I am sure, will not consider it as intended for an exhibition of what I have myself performed, but merely as an illustration

of the views and feelings which every Christian, under such circumstances, would desire to cherish. The trial through which the goodness of God has carried me has not been the most severe; and it has been lightened, believe me, very greatly, by your sympathy and kindness. I fear I must still have to ask a continuance of your indulgence; but I shall always endeavour to feel that such powers of usefulness as I can command, are altogether yours. Indeed I have learned nothing from this visitation, if I have failed to be impressed with the necessity of using my utmost diligence in performing the work which is given me to do. If I needed another admonition, I am furnished with it, while I write, when I find the lips of him* who charged me to be faithful to you, closed forever, and himself called into the presence of his God, to give an account of his own stewardship. What then remains for me, what remains for us all, but to endeavour to fill up the various duties of life with fidelity, and in the fear of God? Let us defer nothing which Heaven enables us now to perform. Let us guard against the fatal belief, that by a few formalities at the close of life, we can atone for habitual and presumptuous vices. Believe me, we deceive ourselves. It is the righteous man alone, who can have peace in death. And he can pass through the dark shadow of its valley, and fear no evil; for the rod and the staff of the Almighty, they shall comfort and sustain him."

*His uncle, the Rev. Mr. Thacher, of Dedham,

While Mr. Thacher was absent on his journey, he met with a severe trial in the death of Mr. Buckminster, his fellow-traveller in foreign lands, his brother in the ministry, his friend. His feelings prompted him to pay a tribute to the memory of one so dear to him, by giving to the public an account of his life and character; and his intimate acquaintance with the deceased, and knowledge of his principles and habits, perfectly qualified him for the duty. The memoir of Mr. Buckminster, which has been prefixed to each of the three editions of his sermons, is from the pen of Mr. Thacher. It is universally regarded, I believe, as an interesting and well written piece of biography; but as the volume which contains it has deservedly commanded an extensive circulation, I shall content myself with the present reference merely.

An event, which can be expected to occur but seldom, called from Mr. Thacher a discourse, which, both on account of the novelty of the subject, and the ingenuity with which it is treated, will be read perhaps with as much pleasure as any one in the following collection. The old meeting house in Summer Street, which was built of wood, and had stood nearly a hundred years, was in so decayed a state, that the Society determined to take it down, and raise a new one of stone, in its place. On the 13th of March, 1814, their pastor preached the last sermon from that pulpit, which had witnessed the labours of all his predecessors; and he seized the opportunity of enforcing considerations in themselves truly affecting,