words of David, must have borne with all its truth and force upon the mind of every considerate man, in some moments at least of serious reflection: Surely every one walketh in a vain show; surely they are disquieted in vain. The events of the next month or the next year, often assume in our eyes a most disproportionate importance; and almost exclude from our view all the other infinite variety of concerns and changes, which are to follow in the course of an immortal existence. The whole happiness of our being seems sometimes to be at stake upon the success of a plan, which, when we have grown but a little older, we may regard with indifference. These are subjects on which reason, too commonly, speaks to us in vain. But there is one lesson, that God sometimes gives us, which brings the truth home to our hearts. There is an admonition, which addresses itself directly to our feelings, and before which they bow in humility and tears. We can hardly watch the gradual decay of a man eminent for virtue and talents, and hear him uttering, with a voice that will soon be heard no more, the last expressions of piety and holy hope, without feeling that the delusions of life are losing their power over our minds. Its true purposes begin to appear to us in their proper distinctness. We are accompanying one who is about to take his leave of present objects; to whom the things of this life merely are no longer of any interest or value. The eye, which is still turned to us with kindness, will, in a few days, be closed forever. The hand by which ours is still pressed, will be motionless. The affections which are still warm and vivid;—they will not perish; but we shall know nothing of their exercise. We shall be cut off from all expression and return of sympathy. He whom we love is taking leave of us for an undefined period of absence. We are placed with him on the verge between this world and the eternity into which he is entering; we look before us; and the objects of the latter rise to view, in all their vast and solemn magnificence. There is, I well know, an anguish which may preclude this calmness of reflection and hope. Our resolution may be prostrated to the earth; for he on whom we were accustomed to rely for strength and support has been taken away. We return to the world, and there is bitterness in all it presents us; for every thing bears impressed upon it a remembrance of what we have lost. It has one, and but one, miserable consolation to offer: "That anguish will be wearied down, I know. What pang is permanent with man? From th' highest, As from the vilest thing of every day, He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours It is a consolation, which, offered in this naked and offensive form, we instinctively reject. Our recollections and our sorrows, blended as they are together, are far too dear to be parted with upon such terms. But God giveth not as the world giveth. There is a peace which comes from him, and brings healing to the heart. His religion would not have us forget, but cherish, our affections for the dead; for it makes known to us, that these affections shall be immortal. It gradually takes away the bitterness of our recollections, and changes them into glorious hopes; for it teaches us to regard the friend who is with us no longer, not as one whom we have lost on earth, but as one whom we shall meet, as an angel, in heaven. OBITUARY NOTICE, EXTRACTED FROM THE BOSTON DAILY ADVERTISER OF JULY 13, 1822. [WRITTEN BY PROFESSOR FARRAR.] THE interests, of literature and religion have sustained a loss in the death of Mr. FRISBIE, fully known only to those who were particularly acquainted with him. He sought retirement, and avoided those occasions, by which uncommon endowments are ordinarily brought into public estimation. It is difficult to speak of his powers and attainments, without seeming extravagant to those who had not the opportunity of judging for themselves. But there is no apprehension of a want of sympathy from any who have seen him intimately. To his classmates, to his associates in office, to his pupils, to all whose lot it has been to fall within the circle of his familiar walks, the appeal is made with confidence. To these, in a greater or less degree, but more especially to such as were favored with his confidence and affection, the treasures of his mind were poured forth with a richness and abundance that have been rarely equalled. It was not in maintaining striking paradoxes, in a useless display of argument and eloquence, that his talents were exerted. Truth and virtue were always held sacred; and nothing was so sure to feel the severity of his rebuke, as a departure from either. Disputed questions in theology, morals, and metaphysics, the peculiar merits and defects of recent publications, were among his favorite topics. On these it was his delight, not to harangue to those around him, but converse with them, to excite a disposition to join in a free and unreserved interchange of thought; and many have found themselves drawn unawares into a discussion by the novel and interesting views presented to them. He endeavoured always to give a philosophical turn to whatever subject came before him, and although his mind was full of resources for maintaining and enforcing a cause which he chose to espouse, he habitually regarded the splendid schemes and hypotheses of inventive genius with distrust, and was inclined to pay great respect to the sober judgment of the uneducated, and to what may be called the philosophy of common sense. He possessed uncommon acuteness and discrimination, and would sometimes appear to speculate with |