life, harmony and intelligence, their souls have been invigorated by the breath of heaven and refreshed by its dews, and they have grown under the same influences. I have been led to these reflections by a notice, which has met my eye in a French paper, of M. Manuel, ancient pastor at Frankfort and afterwards pastor at Lausanne. His death took place at the last mentioned village, on the 15th of October, 1838, after a long and painful malady. It was not so with our beloved Channing. Delicate and feeble as was his health, his life was exempted from acute suffering, and his last illness was a gentle summons home. The spring and summer had been to him seasons of elevated devotion, of noble thought, of lofty purpose, and of social enjoyment. His uplifted eye, though often raised to the mountain scenery amongst which he sojourned, rested not there; his vision soared to the "mount of God," to the presence of the Creator with whom he connected the beauty of this lower world.

The death of M. Manuel appears to have excited in his friends emotions similar to those which the death of Dr. Channing has awakened in us. Of the resemblance of character readers may judge, as the notice is laid before them, of which the following pages are a translation.

66 DEATH OF M. MANUEL.

This loss appears irreparable to his friends, to the Church, and to the world at large. That which makes our sorrow more profound and mingles a degree of anguish with it is, that the noble gifts which he dispensed to us without measure, alike to the rich and the poor, the wise and the simple, the treasures of science, elevated thoughts, interesting recollections, grace and power of language, all that he might have written,-have gone with him to the tomb, leaving only the memory of them to his friends.

In beholding for the last time, in his coffin, this man, who a few days before his death enchained us by the charm of his conversation, and made us almost forget that we might trespass on his feeble state, we could scarcely believe that his countenance, so peaceful and serene, no longer reflected his beautiful soul; that those lips, from which wisdom had flowed like the waves of the sea, were forever closed. It seemed to us, that while his friends

were gathered round the coffin reading solemn passages from the Evangelist he so much loved, his lips must open and join his accents to ours, and this Christian Socrates speaks words of consolation to his afflicted disciples. For we were his disciples. And who would not have become so in listening to him? Who did not esteem themselves happy in having him for a master, though in his humility he would willingly have become the disciple of the lowliest among us?

Such were the calmness and modesty of his language, that he did not appear even to persuade, for he carefully cherished liberty in the souls of his auditors. Yet no one announced the truth more fearlessly. Indeed it appeared as if he spoke purely from the love of truth and to relieve his own heart. If a deeper purpose discovered itself that of awakening the slumbering conscience, it was done with so much tenderness, such true benevolence, that the most obstinate incredulity became abashed before it. He rarely gained the heart by formal discussions, though he eminently possessed the power which might have been used to this end; but he made use of one more rare and of a higher nature, that of representing the truth with that harmony and beauty which are essential to its life. He reasoned less than he suggested, or perhaps the angular forms of argument were rounded and received contour from a mind and conversation full of grace and gentleness.

It has been said, that he appeared made for conversation; but though there might be foundation for such a remark, it gives but one view of his faculties. It would be easy to convey an idea of this power of conversation, if it had been characterized by sudden emotion, by sallies of originality, or brilliant expression; but no one could tell in what the charm consisted, where all was so calm, so connected, so full of thought, where there was nothing striking, but where even the tones of the voice were so deeply impressive that they penetrated to the very depths of the heart. His language so just the easy development of his thoughts-a mixture so natural of facts and ideas, of the man himself with his subject, the familiar with the serious-the results of abundant reading, dropping like honey from the comb-the most eloquent lessons taking a colloquial form-the substance of books laid before you by a just and striking analysis,—a man whom you might read like a book and find every

page exquisite ;-all this may be indicated and even described, but it will give no idea of his power of conversation or bring it to life again. The Homeric illustration of the snow whose light and innumerable flakes do not fall, but descend slowly from on high without noise, does not apply more truly to the ancient Nestor than to this man, not bowed by the weight of years, who united in his conversation the calm tranquillity of an old man with the intellectual fervor of one who is yet young. Happy are those who have listened to him upon some Sunium of our Leman, surrounded by the reflection of the setting sun, and seen him gathering into his heart the religious influences of the beautiful world, where his soul communed with the God whom he had found in the Evangelists. This love, this perception of the beauties of creation, was one of the distinctive attributes of M. Manuel, one of the sources of his eloquence, and brings him most forcibly to the memory of those who knew him.

How much good he dispensed by words! At first we thought only of the pleasure of his society, but in recurring by memory to the hour passed with him we were surprised to find ourselves enriched by a power which carried us forward to virtue and goodness. Something of his soul had passed into ours.

The great secret of M. Manuel was having no disguise with you. In no sense and for no end did he endeavor to entrap or surprise you. No doubt, that in his very silence he remembered you before the Searcher of hearts, but the soundness of his judgment, the solidity of his faith, the simplicity and straight-forwardness of his character did not allow him to seek for rapid and equivocal success. In his very zeal were manifest a peace and patience which exercised inexpressible power over the hearts and consciences of men. There was another rare trait which we felt in this excellent man. Christianity, divinely human, penetrated through his character and assimilated itself to his whole life, without being even obscured. Others, with as fervent a faith, speak only of religion; he did better, he spoke on all subjects religiously. Literature and philosophy, with which his remarks were imbued, became Christianity without losing their original distinction. He thus served the cause of religion better by uniting it with all subjects, even including sportive and cheerful sallies, than if in separating it from life he

had been in turn a Christian without literature, and a scholar without Christianity. How many have learned from him, that there is nothing in religion opposed to social life, to courtesy, or the arts. His preaching possessed a character which ought not to be forgotten. No one could have represented more faithfully or more honestly, nor repeated more tenaciously the central point of his belief-salvation by grace; all proceeded from this centre, or returned to it; but this unity was philosophical, and no one could make all unite and concentrate more naturally in the sphere of evangelical attraction. No one in rousing the conscience could do it in a more judicious manner. Therefore men of thought and seriousness were solicitous to hear him, attracted at first by his pure and exalted eloquence, by the originality and simplicity of his thoughts, by the penetrating unction of his language, by the chaste and sublime elegance of his diction; but afterwards enchained by a sentiment more profound, they returned to satisfy a spiritual hunger which he had excited in them, and to be nourished like little children with the bread of life, piece by piece, as he brake it for them.

In recollecting all the good he has done by his preaching and his conversation, all the blessings that his presence carried to the dwellings of the poor and to the bed of the dying, we scarcely dare regret that he did not execute his literary purpose, of which he had conceived the idea and even formed the plan. His life less full would perhaps have yielded more of echo, but it would have been less tranquil, less simple, and we do not know but his end might have been less peaceful. There is inexpressible pleasure in recalling the last days of this good man, not so much because the rare powers of his mind exhibited no decline, but because he died living, because his last days bore testimony to the noble gifts he had received, and because we recognized the source of his peace, --that it arose from his perfect humility, trust in God, and devout prayer.

M. Manuel loved to live; and how was it possible that he should not have enjoyed a life so full of usefulness and interest, and possessing so many traits of the future and true life. It was perhaps necessary for him to have tasted the joy of heaven, to prefer it without hesitation to a life of intellectual and religious activity,

filled with high thoughts and kind affections. He must at least have loved in life all these things, and as it was on this side of existence his experience lay, it was pardonable to regret leaving what he was permitted to love. The exile embraces with tears the friends whom he has found, at the moment of leaving them, even to return to his native country which he never could renounce; and could his country reproach him for the sigh which he gives to those who have sweetened and alleviated his exile?

M. Manuel loved life, and he could not have separated himself so tranquilly from it if he had not loved it. It is the triumph of faith to detach the living soul from a life so full, so powerful, so multiplied; for it may be, that the enlargement of mind and combination of powers give a peculiar energy to life, and render the work of death more difficult. Then it is that faith triumphs, and brings true resignation, and in the willing submission to death we bless this glorious faith and adore the Author of it.

The closing scene of M. Manuel's life will add but little to edifying anecdotes of this nature. It is striking for having so few remarkable circumstances attending it, so few of those details which stand out by themselves and are everywhere quoted. He had long lived like a dying man; there was nothing new to proclaim. We trace to the end a deep humility, a faith so true, so simple, expressed in words so suitable and so few, that we cannot hear them without the deepest emotion. Our friend found it good that others, perhaps more advanced, should feel extatic joy in quitting this existence, which he, frail and feeble, did not experience. Yet he confessed that he had witnesses in his own soul of the faithfulness of God, that he had spoken to his heart in the spirit of consolation. He had asked of him, not any striking illustration of his Divine favor, but his gentle paternal embrace, and this had been granted him at the death-bed of his mother; he had received it in her last embrace, and this remembrance made him happy to his latest hour. He spoke of it with a tenderness of accent that will never be forgotten. He was contented with the consciousness of being beloved, and received all dispensations with the obedience of a child, for he said, 'The tenderness of a father is not demonstrated by caresses.'

It remains for us also to be contented with what has been granted