it were in the very freshness of his morning bloomanxiously expected, in his memoirs, to see the excellent saint once more on earth. They expected to see his better part, unclaimed by the grave, come up before them in all its loveliness, breathing peace upon them as it passed, and still eloquently pleading, till the end of time, the same precious cause to which he was devoted in life. The circumstance of his feeble health, together with his untiring, successful labors, had awakened a strong sympathy in his favor. When the immense multitudes that waited on his ministry saw, in the exhausting flame of his eloquence, the fire that was consuming the victim on the altar, they felt as if a martyr was before them. How powerful is such preaching! Let not the cold-hearted man, the frozenblooded critic, presume to censure labors for God under such circumstances. One sermon, poured out in the sacrificial flame of life expiring in the kindling brightness of immortality, will be very likely to do more good than the mighty tomes of theology that may have consumed lazy centuries in their structure.

It is here we find one cause of complaint against Summerfield's biographer; he censures him over and over again, for laboring under the pressure of ill health. But could his biographer have seen, as we saw, that his most powerful efforts for God were those put forth in nature's feebleness, when the lamp of life was faintly gleaming, like the solitary taper that burns itself away in the chamber of death, he would not have censuredwe confidently believe he would have applauded the

self-devotedness of the saint rather than have blamed the rashness of the self-wasting individual. The deep and well-founded impression which had seated itself on Summerfield's mind, that his course must be a short one, and that what he accomplished for heaven must be done speedily, was, of itself, a sufficient stimulus to call him out, with a trumpet's voice, to labor while his brief day lasted.

Another cause of complaint which we prefer, with much tenderness, against Summerfield's biographer, is, that he had not been a witness of his preaching, nor a confidential friend-the sharer of his bosom thoughts, his cares, joys, sorrows, triumphs, despondencies. He has, therefore, compiled a biography of Summerfield which may be satisfactory to those who never saw Summerfield-but, to those who have seen and tasted the sweet elements of his heavenly eloquence and the joys of his soothing converse, it does not fully reveal the image of their departed brother. An immense multitude must yet feel that Summerfield is no more-that he lives only in their fading remembrances. The pages of his biography, although very faithfully filled up from his correspondence, his journals and sketches of public addresses, do not develope the man. There stands in the pages a resemblance of Summerfield—but a mist, to eyes that have seen him, has gathered over the outlines of the generous, devoted, soul-touching brother, and never shall they see him again, save in memory's vision, until they see him standing along with Wesley, with Whitefield, with Spencer, with Heber, before his Saviour's throne.

If it require a genius to take the lineaments of the human form, to spread over the dull canvass the speaking images of life, how much more requisite is genius to portray the lineaments of the immortal mind which has developed itself under a type of surpassing beauty !— Montgomery could have written the life of Summerfield had he been acquainted with him; for, in the few extracts from the pen of Montgomery, found in the volume, the character and the soul of the dear servant of Jesus are spoken more fully than in all the biographer has written. A biographer had no need of dwelling on minute faults or imperfections in Summerfield's character in order to convince the thousands who were to read the book that he had not flattered the subject of his biography-it should have been his higher aim to have described, with the genius of truth, the elements of moral loveliness which produced such unparalleled emotions in the minds of the thousands before whom the brief, but beautiful being passed.

The life of Summerfield, by Holland, should settle the question forever whether it were proper for strangers to be the biographers of men whose tenderness, purity and sweetness of daily action make up a moiety of their entire characters which is exceeded only by the power of their genius or eloquence. It will do very well for cool, collected strangers to write the lives of philosophers, statesmen, bookmen-for, in these departments, the transcripts, unerring and permanent, are alike tangible in any mood of mind, and faithfulness and elegance of combination are the needful requisitions for successful

biography. But Summerfield's glory was in his soul, in his eye, in his outpourings of benevolent emotions, in his passions, flowing out, to use his own expressive words, like molten gold, and begetting their like in every heart that bowed under their heavenly influence.

Summerfield in gone. Earth beholds his face no

more.

His accents of purity reverberate no more in the house of prayer, the chambers of sorrow and death -nor shall they ever thrill again through the enchanted social circle. But a sweetness remains behind him. A fragrance is left where he trod. A glory lingers where the martyr passed. An offering blazing on the altars of holiness, the perfumes of his sacrifice fill a thousand temples. How sweetly rests the frame that was worn out in the service of Jesus! When memory recalls him, how like an angel does he rise up from the dominions of death, the very personification of love, of friendship, of generosity, of truth, of meekness, of patience and heavenly ardor! Thus death is conquered and cannot keep his spoil-for, fresh in beauty, his friends, the thousands of Israel, shall call him forth at will until they go to his place to abide with him forever. The suffrages of earth have placed his glorified spirit in heaven-for, while a stranger here below, none ever doubted his citizenship in that better country. What earth has lost, heaven has gained. With his life below fled his last groan. The paleness of mortality gave place to eternal bloom-and the feebleness of his nature caught immortal energies from the first gentle breezes of the better world.

THE MANDATE.

On to the west-dark Indian, westward go-
And bathe thy weary feet in rills of snow
Wild gushing down the Rocky Mountains' steep-
Thence, passing onward, tarry not to weep;
Thy tears would scorch the honey flowing soil,
And deep, like molten lead, its verdure spoil-
For tears of wrong shall bathe the thunder's wing
And rouse the storm's portentous murmuring.

Go westward, Indian, and return no more!
Thy doom is spoken in the mountain roar—
The spirit of the winds hath groaned aloud-
A grave is painted on the summer cloud-
Forebodings hang their signals out at noon-
Thy fate is written in the maniac moon,
And every bird of sombre wing and plume
Hath croaked in prophecy of coming doom.

Go westward, remnant of illustrious kings,
Tracking the sun in its far wanderings;
O'erpass the ancient mounds, the desarts hoar,
And stand on the Pacific's sounding shore-
Then gaze upon its purple wave and say
"There is no farther space where I can stray-
No plain beyond—no hill—no dell—no lake,
Where I the song of chase and joy may wake.

The surge of pale-faced warriors from the sea
Hath swallowed all that once belonged to me--
And now it beateth on the Rocky Mountains
And sweeps along Missouri's highest fountains,
Too soon to break in foaming thunder here,
And leave the red man desolate and sere.
Ah, quit this world, ye forest kings-for lo
There is no place for you the skies below.