under this influence had been restored to innocence. To the interest which he awakened in the unprotected children of the poor, we owe chiefly the establishment of the Farm School. If any subject peculiarly occupied his thoughts and heart, it was the duty of the city to that portion of the young, who, if not adopted by society, must grow up to guilt and shame and public punishment. If his benevolence ever broke out in bitter reproach, it was in speaking of the general insensibility to the neglected child, trained up by its parents to beggary and fraud, accustomed to breathe the fumes of intemperance, and left to look on vice as its natural state. Such was his influence, that street-beggary sensibly declined among us, an effect indicating an extent of good influence, not easily apprehended.

"To show his generous modes of viewing the poor, I would state, that for a time he assembled the children one afternoon in the week to give them instruction in natural history. He took great delight in this branch of knowledge, and had stored up in his mind a large number of facts, illustrative of the wisdom and goodness of God in the creation. These he used to unfold, and was able to awaken the curiosity and fix the attention of his young hearers; of which, indeed, they furnished proof, by giving him a portion of time usually spent in play. His want of strength, which compelled him to relinquish the pulpit, obliged him to give up this mode of teaching after a short trial.

"I mention these various exertions as illustrative of the enlarged spirit which he carried into his work. His great object was to promote religion; but religion did not stand alone in his mind. He felt its connection with intellectual cultivation, with wise household management, with neatness and propriety of manners, and especially with the discharge of parental duty; and his labours may be said to have covered almost all the departments of social life. The truth is, that his heart was in his work. He did not think of it as the work of a day, or of a few years, but of life. He wanted to grow old and die in it. The world opened nothing to him in all its various callings, more honourable, more godlike. His ambition, of which he had his share, and his disinterested and religious principles, all flowed into this channel; so that he acted with undivided energy, with a whole soul. Hence he became fruitful in expedients, detected new modes of influence, wound his way to his end gently and indirectly, and contrived to turn almost every thing to account. Some indeed complained, that he dragged his poor into all companies and conversation. But we must learn to bear the infirmities of a fervent spirit, and to forgive a love which is stronger than our own, though it may happen to want the social tact, in which the indifferent and trifling are apt to make the most proficiency."-pp. 41—45.

Then follows a passage, which we could not justify ourselves for omitting, feeling, as we do, that the Evil is come to a state which demands that the Legislature should no longer look passively on, and see it working on every side, like a kind of Moral Cholera, which seizes the soul through the senses, to convulse, to blacken, and to destroy:

"On one subject Dr. Tuckerman agreed in opinion and feeling with all who visit and labour for the poor. He felt that the poverty of our city was due chiefly to Intemperance, and that this enhances infinitely the woes of a destitute condition. A poor family, into which this vice had not found its way, was a privileged place in his sight. Poverty without drunkenness hardly seemed to rank as an evil, by the side of that which drunkenness had generated. If there was one of our citizens whom he honoured as eminently the friend of the poor, it was that unwearied philanthropist, who, whilst his heart and hands are open to all the claims of misery, has selected as his peculiar care, the cause of temperance.* * Dr. Tuckerman's spirit groaned under the evils of intemperance, as the ancient prophets under the burden of the woes which they were sent to denounce. The fumes of a distillery were, to his keen feelings, more noisome and deadly than the vapours of putrefaction and pestilence. He looked on a shop for vending ardent spirits as he would have looked on a pitfall opening into hell. At the sight of men, who, under all our present lights, are growing rich by spreading these poisons through the land, he felt, I doubt not, how the curses of the lost and the groans of ruined wives and children were rising up against them. I know, for I have heard, the vehemence of entreaty with which Dr. Tuckerman sometimes approached the intemperate, and he has often related to me his persevering efforts for their recovery. Could he have bequeathed to the sober and Christian part of this city and Commonwealth his intense convictions in regard to this vice, it would soon be repressed; the sanction of public authority would no longer be given to its detestable haunts; one chief source of the miseries of our civilization would be dried up.”—pp. 45, 46.

We have all smiled, but not in ridicule, at the Vicar of Wakefield's expedient to keep his wife faithful to her duty, by hanging her intended epitaph over the chimney-piece. The Christian minister, who would mould the partner of his life to a "tender and true" sympathy with his aims and cares, would do well to give a similar place to the following exquisite character, that it may daily meet the eye, and daily work upon the heart:

Among the propitious circumstances of the life of Dr. Tuckerman, I ought not to pass over his domestic ties. He was twice married, and each of these connections gave him an invaluable friend. I was particularly acquainted with his last wife, with whom a large part of his life was spent, and am happy to pay this tribute to her singular worth. Her reserve and shrinking delicacy threw a veil over her beautiful character. She was little known beyond her home: but there she silently spread around her that soft, pure light, the preciousness of which is never fully understood till it is quenched. The good Providence which adapts blessings to our wants, was particularly manifested in giving to our friend such a companion. Her calm, gentle wisdom, her sweet humility, her sympathy, which, though tender, was too serene

Moses Grant.

to disturb her clear perceptions, fitted her to act instinctively, and without the consciousness of either party, on his more sanguine, ardent mind. She was truly a spirit of good, diffusing a tranquillizing influence too mildly to be thought of, and therefore more sure. The blow which took her from him, left a wound which time could not heal."p. 49.

Who can wonder at what follows?

"Had his strength been continued, so that he could have gone from the house of mourning to the haunts of poverty, he would have escaped, for a good part of the day, the sense of his bereavement. But a few minutes' walk in the street now sent him wearied home. There, the loving eye which had so long brightened at his entrance, was to shed its mild beam on him no more. There the voice that had daily inquired into his labours, and like another conscience had whispered a sweet approval, was still. There the sympathy, which had pressed with tender hand his aching head, and by its nursing care had postponed the hour of exhaustion and disease, was gone. He was not indeed left alone; for filial love and reverence spared no soothing offices; but these, though felt and spoken of as most precious, could not take the place of what had been removed. This great loss produced no burst of grief. It was a still deep sorrow, the feeling of a mighty void, the last burden which the spirit can cast off. His attachment to life from this moment sensibly declined. In seasons of particular sensibility he wished to be gone. He kept near him the likeness of his departed friend, and spoke to me more than once of the solace which he had found in it, as what I in my more favoured lot could not comprehend. He heard her voice from another world, and his anticipations of that world, always strong, became now more vivid and touching."-pp. 49, 50.

We give the remainder of the Discourse entire, for we should be sorry to omit one word of it.

"His religion was of the most enlarged, liberal character. He did not shut himself up even in Christianity. He took a lively interest in the testimony borne to God by nature, and in the strivings of ancient philosophy after divine truth. But Christianity was his rock, his defence, his nutriment, his life. He understood the character of Jesus by sympathy, as well as felt the need of his glad tidings.' He had been a faithful student of the Old Testament, and had once thought of preparing a work on Jewish antiquities. But his growing reverence for the New Testament led him to place a vast distance between it and the ancient scriptures. At one period of his ministry, when the pressing demands of the poor compelled him to forego study entirely, I recollect his holding up to me a Greek Harmony of the Four Gospels, and his saying, that here was his library, that Christ's history was his theology, and that in the morning he snatched a moment for this, when he could find time for nothing else.

Religion in different individuals, manifests itself in different forms.

In him it shone forth peculiarly in faith or filial trust, and in gratitude. His faith in God was unbounded. It never wavered, never seemed to undergo a momentary eclipse. I have seen him under an affliction, which in a few days wrought in his appearance the change of years; and his trust was like a rock, his submission entire. Much as he saw of the crimes and miseries of life, no doubt of the merciful purposes of God crossed his mind. Some ray of divine goodness streamed forth from the darkest trials and events. Undoubtedly his own love for the poor helped him to comprehend, as few do, how God loved them. The whole creation spoke to him of the paternal character and infinite glory of its author. His filial piety called forth in him powers which would otherwise have slumbered. He was naturally wanting in the poetical element. He had little relish for music or the fine arts, and took no great pleasure in the higher works of imagination. But his piety opened his eye, ear, heart, to the manifestations of God in his works, revealed the beauty which surrounded him, and in this way became a source of sublime joy. On such a mind, religious controversies could take but a slight hold. He outgrew them, and hardly seemed to know that they existed. That which pervades, tranquillizes and exalts the souls of all Christians he understood; and in his busy life, which carried him from his study, he was willing to understand nothing more.

Congenial with this cheerful faith was the spirit of gratitude. In this he was probably the more eminent, because it was favoured by his temperament. He was naturally happy. There were next to no seeds of gloom, depression in his nature. Life, as he first knew it, was bright, joyous, unclouded; and to this cause mainly the volatility of his early years was to be ascribed. As the magnet searches out, and gathers round itself the scattered ore with which it has affinity, so his spirit selected and attached instinctively to itself the more cheerful views of Providence. In such a nature, piety naturally took the form of gratitude. Thanks were the common breathings of his spirit. His lot seemed to him among the most favoured on earth. His blessings did not wait to be recalled to his thoughts by a set, laboured search. They started up of themselves, and stood before him robed in celestial light by association with the goodness which bestowed them.

From these elements of his piety, naturally grew up a hope of future glory, progress, happiness, more unmixed than I have known in others. The other world is commonly said to throw a brightness over the present. In his case, the present also threw a brightness over the future. His constant experience of God's goodness awakened anticipations of a larger goodness hereafter. He would talk with a swelling heart, and in the most genuine language, of immortality, of Heaven, of new access to God. In truth his language was such as many good men could not always join in. The conscious unworthiness of many good men throws occasional clouds over the future. But no cloud seemed ever to dim his prospect; not that he was unconscious of unworthiness; not that he thought of approaching Infinite Purity with a claim of merit ; such a feeling never crossed his mind. But it was so natural to him to enjoy, his sense of God's constant goodness was so vivid, and Christ's

promises so accordant with his experience, that heaven came to him as a reality, without the ordinary effort which the faith and hope of most men require.

"In his last sickness, his character came out in all its beauty. He had not wholly lost the natural love of life. At times, when unpromising symptoms seemed to be giving way, he would use the means of recovery with hope. But generally he felt himself a dying man, whose chief work was finished, who had little to do with the world but to leave it. I have regretted that I did not take notes of some of his conversations. It was unsafe for him to talk, as the least excitement increased his burning fever; but when I would start an interesting topic, a flood of thoughts would rush into his mind, and compel him to give them utterance. The future state was of course often present to him; and his conceptions of the soul's life and progress, in its new and nearer relations to God, to Christ, to the just made perfect, seemed to transport him for a time beyond the darkness and pains of his present lot. To show that there was no morbidness in these views, I ought to observe, that they were mingled with the natural tastes and feelings which had grown from his past life. In his short seasons of respite from exhaustion and suffering, he would talk with interest of the more important events of the day, and would seek recreation in books which had formerly entertained him. He was the same man as in health, with nothing forced or unnatural in his elevation of mind. He had always taken great pleasure in the writings of the moralists of antiquity, and perhaps the last book I put into his hands was Cicero's Tusculan Questions, which he read with avidity and delight. So comprehensive was his spirit, that whilst Christ was his hope, and Christian perfection his aspiration, he still rejoiced to discern in the great Roman, on whom Christian truth had not yet dawned, such deep reverence for the majesty of virtue. It might be expected that "his ruling passion was strong in death." To the last moment of my intercourse with him, the poor were in his heart. As he had given them his life, so death could not divide him from them.

"One affecting view remains to be given. Dr. Tuckerman was a martyr to his cause. That his life was shortened by excessive toil cannot be doubted. His friends forewarned him of this result. He saw the danger himself, and once and again resolved to diminish his labours ; but when he retreated from the poor, they followed him to his house, and he could not resist their supplicating looks and tones. To my earnest and frequent remonstrance on this point he at times replied, that his ministry might need a victim, that labours beyond his strength might be required to show what it was capable of effecting, and that he was willing to suffer and to die for the cause. Living thus he grew prema.. turely old. His walks became more and more narrow. Then he was imprisoned at home. The prostration of strength was followed by a racking cough and burning fever. As we have seen, his last sickness was a bright testimony to his piety: but its end was sorrowful. By a mysterious ordination of Providence, the capacity of suffering often survives unimpaired, whilst the reason and affections seem to decay. So