inclosed the body of the dead was waiting to enter—an interval of some thirty minutes of solemn silence was broken by a deep-toned measured voice; and never before did the words, "Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord," so sweetly, so solemnly, so unearthly, fall on my ear—as if standing on the Isle of Patmos, the voice that spake to John, seemed to reverberate through that assembly, that to me appeared as if already standing on "Mount Zion before the Lamb." The sentences were short and pithy, and from them I ascertained that the departed before us was an aged female, who had fulfilled as a faithful hireling her day, and had come to the grave "like a shock of corn fully ripe." He praised her not in studied eulogiums—he held her not up between us and the Lamb who redeemed her, as a bright pattern for our imitation; but he said deeply and emphatically, "Yea, they rest from their labors and their works do follow them." He dwelt a moment on that sweet rest prepared for the people of God, and if any were there who had not entered into it, surely they must then have felt a desire.
He was followed by one who addressed the Majesty of heaven with that adoration which always marks the manner of one whose supplications emanate from the deep working of the Holy Spirit within the soul, and that speaks because it feels, and feels because it has something to feel. It was done—the coffin was carefully let down to its long resting-place—"Dust to dust" met, green sod was fitly placed on her breast,
