THE CHRISTIAN FAMILY MAGAZINE, AND ANNUAL. OUR MORTAL AND IMMORTAL DESTINY. BY THE EDITOR. EVERY THING on which the eye can rest has its brief day. From the tender herbage and flower of the field, to the sturdy oak and stately cedar of the forest, aye, and the century plant which casts its fruit once only in a hundred years-all things, in rapid succession, have their rise, progress and end. The whole kingdom of animated nature, bears the same marks of transitoriness. From the anamalcula and countless insects that swarm through all matter, and have their birth, growth and end in one brief day, to the monarch of the sea, air and land, yes, to man the lord of Creation-all things, with rapid stride, hurry on from their birth to their maturity and mortal end, as though time, with his uplifted scythe were eager to cut them down; and the grave were impatient to gather all flesh to its dark and silent empire! Nothing here is stable-the very slabs and monuments of enduring marble, that were erected to commemorate the name of our grand-sires, are fast crumbling down. We see in the vista of the mighty past, grave built upon grave and ashes heaped upon ashes-and the earth has become one great charnel-house of death! The monarch and beggar-the conqueror and reptile, mingle their dust in harmonious forgetfulness! Who, then can be proud? Reader, wouldst thou feel thy lofty aspirings give way-thine inordinate thirst for any VOL. II-NO VI. thing save the riches, honors and glories of Heaven? Gostand, but one half hour, in the midst of that great congregation of the illustrious dead, in Westminster Abbey-where kings and nobles, conquerors and prelates, historians and scholars, poets and philosophers 'have laid their glory by.' Select as your post of observation the upper SHRINE; cast your eye down upon this mighty panorama of death-this wilderness of tombs! 'Behold the chambers and pillars and funeral trophies' of the immortal dead; and you may feel the crimson current of life chill around the heart and run cold through all its channels, while you reflect on the end of man! How full of silence and gloom-of shadows and fallen glory is this place and yet amidst the touching stillness that reigns around the dead, the lightest foot-fall and whisper, reverberates through all these spacious vaults and chambers of the tomb! Here you see names that once were the glory and admiration, or the terror and scourge of Europe. Here are encoffined the blade and battle-axe of feudal times. The spear and sceptre that once caused the civilized world to grow pale; and which made whole realms a field of slaughter. Go down to the tombs of kings and conquerors, and in spite of a vigilance that never sleeps and lamps that never go out, you will see how dishonored is the memory of the dead! 'The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperial Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind! Some are plundered; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and insult.' And, in spite of lasting marble, guards of brass and bars of gold and all that human skill can devise to deck the tomb and shield it from the wastes of time, you see every thing here crumbling to ashes ; yes, and the Abbey itself, this great Mausoleum of the immortal dead, without renewed skill and constant efforts, will soon become one mighty pile of ruins! If you give wings to thought and survey the monuments |