ucts, which carries into it new fields of thought, and new efforts for religion and humanity.

This truth indeed is so obvious, that ever the least improved may discern it. You all feel, that the most perfect mind is not that which works in a prescribed way, which thinks and acts according to prescribed rules, but that which has a spring of action in itself, which combines anew the knowledge received from other minds, which explores its hidden and multiplied relations, and gives it forth in fresh and higher forms. The perfection of the tree, then, lies in a precise or definite product. That of the mind lies in an indefinite and boundless energy. The first implies limits. To set limits to the mind would destroy that original power in which its perfection consists. Here, then, we observe a distinction between material forms and the mind; and from the destruction of the first, which, as we see, attain perfection and fulfil their purpose in a limited duration, we cannot argue to the destruction of the last, which plainly possesses the capacity of a progress without end.

We have pointed out one contrast between the mind and material forms. The latter, we have seen, by their nature have bounds. The tree, in a short time, and by rising and spreading a short distance, accomplishes its end. I now add, that the system of nature to which the tree belongs requires that it should stop where it does. Were it to grow forever, it would be an infinite mischief. A single plant, endued with the principle of unlimited expansion, would in the progress of centuries overshadow nations, and exclude every other growth - would exhaust the earth's whole fertility. Material forms, then, must have narrow bounds, and their usefulness requires that their life and growth should often be arrested, even before reaching the limits prescribed by nature.

But the indefinite expansion of the mind, instead of warring with and counteracting the system of creation, harmonizes with and perfects it. One tree, should it grow forever, would exclude other forms of vegetable life. One mind, in

propor

tion to its expansion, awakens, and in a sense creates, other minds. It multiplies, instead of exhausting, the nutriment which other understandings need. A mind, the more it has of intellectual and moral life, the more it spreads life and power around it. It is an ever-enlarging source of thought and love. Let me here add, that the mind, by unlimited growth, not only yields a greater amount of good to other beings, but produces continually new forms of good. This is an important distinction. Were the tree to spread indefinitely, it would abound more in fruit, but in fruit of the same kind; and, by excluding every other growth, it would destroy the variety of products, which now contribute to health and enjoyment. But the mind, in its progress, is perpetually yielding new fruits, new forms of thought, and virtue, and sanctity. It always contains within itself the germs of higher influences than it has ever put forth, the buds of fruits which it has never borne. Thus the very reason which requires the limitation of material forms—I mean the good of the whole sysseems to require the unlimited growth of mind.

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CXXXI.-MOUNT AUBURN.

STORY.

[JOSEPH STORY was born in Marblehead, Massachusetts, September 18, 1779, was graduated at Harvard College in 1798, and died September 10, 1845. He was admitted to the bar in 1801, and elevated to the bench of the Supreme Court of the United States in 1811, at the early age of thirty-two. In 1829 he became a professor in the law school connected with Harvard College. He was very eminent as a judge, a juridical writer, and a teacher of law. In legal learning he had no superior-hardly an equal among all his contemporaries. His treatises on legal subjects are highly val ued, and received as authoritative expositions of law both in England and America. As an instructor, he had great power over the minds of his pupils, not merely by his learning and ability, but by his contagious enthusiasm, and his warm, unaffected sympathy. No man ever carried into mature and declining life more of the spirit of youth.

Judge Story retained through life a strong love of letters, and occupied as he was with his engrossing duties as a judge, a teacher of law, and a writer of law books, he found time to make many contributions to the general literature of the country, con◄ sisting of occasional discourses, obituary notices, and miscellaneous sketches and reviews. These were collected and published in a separate volume in 1835, and an

enlarged edition has appeared since his death. His style is animated and flowing. He wrote a good deal of poetry in his youth; and he preserved through life something of the poetical temperament, and read good poetry to the last with the liveliest pleas ure. Portions of his prose writings have that glow of feeling and richness of description which show the susceptibilities of a poet.

It is difficult for any friend of Judge Story's to speak of his private character in terms which shall not seem extravagant to those who did not know him. No man was ever more free from any taint of selfishness, envy, or uncharitableness. He had the sunniest temper, the most cheerful spirit, and the most affectionate heart. He was always busy and always happy. His tastes were simple and his habits domestic. He had remarkable conversational powers, and was a most entertaining and instructive companion. He was abundant in kind offices to others, and full of interest in every good work that was going on around him.

The following extract is from an address delivered on the consecration of the cemetery at Mount Auburn, September 24, 1831.]

A RURAL cemetery seems to combine in itself all the advantages which can be proposed to gratify human feelings, or tranquillize human fears; to secure the best religious influences, and to cherish all those associations which cast a cheerful light over the darkness of the grave.

And what spot can be more appropriate than this for such a purpose ? Nature seems to point it out, with significant energy, as the favorite retirement for the dead. There are around us all the varied features of her beauty and grandeur -the forest-crowned height, the abrupt acclivity, the sheltered valley, the deep glen, the grassy glade, and the silent grove. Here are the lofty oak, the beech, that "wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high," the rustling pine, and the drooping willow; the tree that sheds its pale leaves with every autumn, a fit emblem of our own transitory bloom ; and the evergreen, with its perennial shoots, instructing us that "the wintry blast of death kills not the buds of virtue." Here is the thick shrubbery to protect and conceal the new-made grave; and there is the wild flower creeping along the narrow path, and planting its seeds in the upturned earth. All around us there breathes a solemn calm, as if we were in the bosom of a wilderness, broken only by the breeze, as it murmurs through the tops of the forest, or by the notes of the warbler, pouring forth his matin or his evening song.

Ascend but a few steps, and what a change of scenery to

surprise and delight us! We seem, as it were in an instant, to pass from the confines of death to the bright and balmy regions of life. Below us flows the winding Charles, with its rippling current, like the stream of time hastening to the ocean of eternity. In the distance, the city—at once the object of our admiration and our love rears its proud eminences, its glittering spires, its lofty towers, its graceful mansions, its curling smoke, its crowded haunts of business and pleasure, which speak to the eye, and yet leave a noiseless loneliness on the ear. Again we turn, and the walls of our venerable university rise before us, with many a recollection of happy days passed there in the interchange of study and friendship, and many a grateful thought of the affluence of its learning, which has adorned and nourished the literature of our country. Again we turn, and the cultivated farm, the neat cottage, the village church, the sparkling lake, the rich valley, and the distant hills, are before us, through opening vistas; and we breathe amidst the fresh and varied labors of man.

There is, therefore, within our reach, every variety of natural and artificial scenery which is fitted to awaken emotions of the highest and most affecting character. We stand, as it were, upon the borders of two worlds; and as the mood of our minds may be, we may gather lessons of profound wisdom by contrasting the one with the other, or indulge in the dreams of hope and ambition, or solace our hearts by melancholy meditations.

Who is there, that, in the contemplation of such a scene, is not ready to exclaim, with the enthusiasm of the poet, —

"Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down,

Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave,

With here and there a violet bestrown,

Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave,

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave!"

What a multitude of thoughts crowd upon the mind in the contemplation of such a scene! How much of the future,

、ven in its far-distant reaches, rises before us with all its persuasive realities! Take but one little, narrow space of time, and how affecting are its associations! Within the flight of one half century, how many of the great, the good, and the wise will be gathered here! How many in the loveliness of infancy, the beauty of youth, the vigor of manhood, and the maturity of age, will lie down here, and dwell in the bosom of their mother earth! The rich and the poor, the gay and the wretched, the favorites of thousands, and the forsaken of the world, the stranger in his solitary grave, and the patriarch surrounded by the kindred of a long lineage! How many will here bury their brightest hopes, or blasted expectations! How many bitter tears will here be shed! How many agonizing sighs will here be heaved! How many trembling feet will cross the pathways, and, returning, leave behind them the dearest objects of their reverence or their love!

And if this were all, sad indeed, and funereal, would be our thoughts; gloomy indeed would be these shades, and desolate these prospects.

But thanks be to God -the evils which he permits have their attendant mercies, and are blessings in disguise. The bruised reed will not be utterly laid prostrate. The wounded heart will not always bleed. The voice of consolation will spring up in the midst of the silence of these regions of death. The mourner will revisit these shades with a secret, though melancholy pleasure. The hand of friendship will delight to cherish the flowers and the shrubs that fringe the lowly grave or the sculptured monument. The earliest beams of the morning will play upon these summits with a refreshing cheerfulness, and the lingering tints of evening hover on them with a tranquillizing glow. Spring will invite hither the footsteps of the young by its opening foliage, and autumn detain the contemplative by its latest bloom. The votary of learning and science will here learn to elevate his genius by the holiest studies. The devout will here offer up