and every face was brighter, when he came. To chil dren, he was most especially attractive; and, when he visited St. Mary's Hall, or Burlington College, it made a sunshine, in the cloudiest day.

He was a man of wonderful efficiency. He would certainly have excelled, in any line of life. His business talents were of the highest order. He was as energetic in execution as he was skilful in design; and prompt, alike, in both. With ordinary health, how much he might have brought about! Had he attained the allotted threescore years and ten, what limit to the results of such ability and devotion! But it was not to be so. He never had been young. He had done more than man's work, when he was a boy. He had always lain under a man's responsibilities. He had lived his life out, at thirty-nine.

He had attained, in his short life, a most extensive influentialness. It was intuitively granted to him. It was the natural tribute to such reality, such tenderness, and such efficiency. For the learning of the scholar, for the prudence of the counsellor, for the helping hand of the executive, how many looked to him, and leaned on him! How many miss him, now! His cheering look, his friendly grasp, his kindly word! How many more will miss him, as the sad certainty reveals itself, that he is gone!

Though, in the course of Providence, the life of Dr. Ogilby was almost wholly academic, I think the true

bent of his religious nature was the pastoral. The priestly offices were his delight: to preach the Gospel of salvation; to minister the means of grace; to catechize the young; to comfort the sick; to visit the af flicted. He would have been the model of a parish priest. He was a true Catholic Churchman. He had not in him the possibility of sympathy with Romish error. How clearly he demonstrated the faithfulness. of his allegiance to the Church, in which his vows were paid, in his complete and perfect answers to the questions addressed to him, at the Visitation of the Seminary, in 1844. They were prepared, I know, off-hand. They flowed out from his well-stored mind, as the rich juices from the full ripe grape. He preached, in all its fulness, clearness and distinctness, the Gospel in the Church. He led the sinner to the Lamb of God, Whose blood had washed away his sins. He urged the duty of repentance. He taught the indispensable necessity of the renewal of the heart by grace. His soul's delight was in the worship of the Church. Before he had completed his country residence, he began to rear a wayside chapel, by the gate; that the neighbours and the wayfarers might worship with his house. And the chief provision, in his last Will and Testament, was to secure, for perpetuity, its sacred designation. His guides and counsellors, in the communion, which he held, with God, in private, were Bishop Andrewes' Devotions, Bishop Wilson's Sacra Privata, and Bishop Taylor's Holy Living and Holy Dying. The last letter, which he wrote to me, was dated "Christmas Day."

It was full of kindness, tenderness, and true devotion. The next week he went to Paris. For a while, he seemed to be much better. His last letter was fuller of hope and encouragement, than any he had written. It was the fitful flame of the expiring lamp. In three days he was dead. But he died not suddenly, or unprepared. He embarked for Europe, on the 21st day of November, 1849. A week before that, I spent the day with him, and administered to him, in the midst of his beloved, the holy sacrament of the Supper of the Lord. I never witnessed a more solemn and affecting He fully knew his danger. He fully realized, that he never might return. Indeed, though he had hope of restoration; he was aware that a few weeks or months might terminate his life. He spoke to me as calmly as he ever did. He avowed his simple and entire dependence, for acceptance and salvation, on the Cross of Jesus Christ. He submitted himself, in perfect resignation, to the holy will of God. Whether he lived, or died, he was the Lord's. His letters all have breathed the same devout and tranquil spirit. In his last weeks, he was even more than usually engaged in prayer and meditation. And, when the summons

scene.

came, to call him home, he met it, as a child, that falls, in weariness, upon his mother's breast: and, with the simple sentence, "I am tired," upon his lips, he entered into rest. Into the secret places of her sorrow, who found herself alone with death, among the myriads of that crowded city; and, who, thence, pursued her solitary way, beside his sacred ashes, through the storms

of the Atlantic, no mortal may intrude. Nor trespass on that consecrated hearth, by which a mother, sisters, brothers, children, blend their tears, with hers. The COMFORTER alone can comfort them. And He, who is the SANCTIFIER, too, can make this most afflictive provi dence a fountain full of blessings, to His Church, and to ourselves. And our dead Ogilby have power, from Him, to draw us from the world and sin and self, to be where he is; while he waits, in peaceful hope, the coming of the Lord. It will be so, if we learn, from him, that this is not our rest. It will be so, if we learn, from him, that our true life is hid, with Christ. It will be So, if we learn from him, to take the Cross up daily, and go after Jesus. It will be so, if we learn from him, to prefer the Church of the living God to our chief joy. So shall our life be Christ; and death, our gain. And, so, when Christ, Who is our life, shall shall we also appear with Him, in glory. To Whom, one with the Father, and the Holy Ghost, Three Persons, and One only God, shall ever be ascribed the glory and the praise. Amen.

appear,

VOL. IV.-37

* SERMON VI.

THE SACRED SYMPATHY OF SORROW.

How sacred is the sympathy of sorrow! It is the "touch of nature" which "makes the whole world kin." It melted the humanity of JESUs, as He stood by that new grave; and it is with Him, now, that He has "passed into the heavens," and stands where Stephen saw Him, "a great High Priest," "touched with the feeling of our infirmities."

The river which, at first, went out of Eden, is salt and bitter since the Fall. It is the river, now, of tears, and waters still the world which man inhabits. The electric spark which, in twelve hours, had flashed your sorrow on my heart, opened its secret sources and overflowed my manhood. I have wept among my children; I have wept beside his grave; and I am here to weep with you.

It was an ancient Roman superstition that the place was sacred which the lightning struck. How sacred must the spot be ever held where I now stand, on which the lambent flame of love from God did but dis

* Preached in the Church of the Advent, Boston, Dec. 7th, A. D. 1851; in commemoration of the Rev. Dr. Croswell, and printed by request.