70 THE BANK ACCOUNTANT. 



image of the deceased starting up as uncalled for by the 

 previous train of idea as if it were truly a spectre. And 

 oh, the aspect of that image ! How graceful its attitude ! 

 How kind its expression ! How beautiful does the soul 

 look at us through the features ! Best, and kindest, and 

 most affectionate, and when we felt with most certainty 

 that we were truly dear to him ! And hence the depth 

 of our regret, the bitterness of our sorrow. Grief, my 

 dear madam, is an idolater. It first deifies, and then 

 worships. It has a strange power, too, of laying hold of 

 the moral sense, so that it becomes a matter of con- 

 sequence with us to deny ourselves all pleasure, and to 

 reject all comfort, in what we deem justice to the deceased. 

 There is something wonderful in the feeling I have not 

 yet seen explained. It seems to have its seat deep in 

 the mysterious parts of our nature, and constitutes a tie 

 to connect, as it were, the living with the dead. No 

 man who truly deserves the name can desire to die 

 wholly unlamented; and the regret which the heart 

 claims for itself, it willingly oh how willingly ! ren- 

 ders to another. We weep not for ourselves, but in 

 justice to the lost, and even after exhausted nature can- 

 not yield another tear, there is a conscience in us that 

 chides us for having sorrowed so little. I need not ask 

 you if you have experienced this feeling ; no heart was 

 ever truly sorrowful without the experience of it. It is 

 a sentiment of our nature that lies contiguous, if I may 

 so express myself, to that noble sentiment which leads 

 us, independent of our reasonings, to feel that there is a 

 hereafter. For do we not think of the dead to whom 

 we owe so many tears, as a being who exists ; and could 

 we owe anything to either a heap of dust or a mere re- 

 collection? It may be well, however, to remind you 

 that there is a time when the claims of this moral sense 



