We discover the moral.We see the results of that completed history.We judge the quality and value of that life by the residuum.As "a prophet has no honor in his own country," so one may be misconceived in his own time, both to his undue disparagement, and his undue exaltation; therefore can another age better write his biography than his own.His work, his permanent result, speaks for him better--at least truer--than he spoke for himself.The rich man's wealth,--the sumptuous property, the golden pile that he has left behind him;--by it, being dead, does he not yet speak to us? Have we not, in that gorgeous result of toiling days and anxious nights,--of brain-sweat and soul-rack,--the man himself, the cardinal purpose, the very life of his soul? which we might have surmised while he lived and wrought, but which, now that it remains the whole sum and substance of his mortal being, speaks far more emphatically than could any other voice he might have used.The expressive lineaments of the marble, the pictured canvas, the immortal poem;--by it, Genius, being dead, yet speaketh.To us, and not to its own time, are unhoarded the wealth of its thought and the glory of its inspiration.When it is gone,--when its lips are silent, and its heart still,--then is revealed the cherished secret over which it toiled, which was elaborated from the living alembic of the soul, through painful days and weary nights,--the sentiment which could not find expression to contemporaries,--the gift, the greatness, the lyric power, which was disguised and unknown so long.Who, that has communed with the work of such a spirit, has not felt in every line that thrilled his soul, in every wondrous lineament that stamped itself upon his memory forever, that the dead can speak, yes, that they have voices which speak most truly, most emphatically when they are dead? So does Industry speak, in its noble monuments, its precious fruits! So does Maternal Affection speak, in a chord that vibrates in the hardest heart, in the pure and better sentiment of after-years.So does Patriotism speak, in the soil liberated and enriched by its sufferings.So does the martyr speak, in the truth which triumphs by his sacrifice.
So does the great man speak, in his life and deeds, glowing on the storied page.so does the good man speak, in the character and influence which he leaves behind him.The voices of the dead come to us from their works, from their results and these are all around us.
But I remark, in the second place, that the dead speak to us in memory and association.If their voices may be constantly heard in their works, we do not always heed them; neither have we that care and attachment for the great congregation of the departed which will at any time call them up vividly before us.But in that congregation there are those whom we have known intimately and fondly, whom we cherished with our best love, who lay close to our bosoms.And these speak to us in a more private and peculiar manner,--in mementos that flash upon us the whole person of the departed, every physical and spiritual lineament--in consecrated hours of recollection that upon up all the train of the past, and re-twine its broken ties around our hearts, and make its endearments present still.Then, then, though dead, they speak to us.It needs not the vocal utterance, nor the living presence, but the mood that transforms the scene and the hour supplies these.That face that has slept so long in the grave, now bending upon us, pale and silent, but affectionate still,--that more vivid recollection of every feature, tone, and movement, that brings before us the departed just as we knew them in the full flush of life and health,--that soft and consecrating spell which falls upon us, drawing in all our thoughts from the present, arresting, as it were, the current of our being, and turning it back and holding it still as the flood of actual life rushes by us,--while in that trance of soul the beings of the past are shadowed--old friends, old days, old scenes recur, familiar looks beam close upon us, familiar words reecho in our ears, and we are closed up and absorbed with the by-gone, until tears dissolve the film from our eyes, and some shock of the actual wakes us from our reverie;--all these, I say make the dead to commune with us as really as though in bodily form they should come out from the chambers of their mysterious silence, and speak to us.And if life consists in experiences, and not mere physical relations,--and if love and communion belong to that experience, though they take place in meditation, or in dreams, or by actual contact,--then, in that hour of remembrance, have we really lived with the departed, and the departed have come back and lived with us.Though dead, they have spoken to us.And though memory sometimes induces the spirit of heaviness,--though it is often the agent of conscience, and wakens u to chastise,--yet, it is wonderful how, from events that were deeply mingled with pain, it will extract an element of sweetness.a writer, in relating one of the experiences of her sick-room, has illustrated this.In an hour of suffering, when no one was near here, she went out from her bed and her room to another apartment, and looked out upon a glorious landscape of sunrise and spring-time."I was suffering too much to enjoy this picture at the moment," she says, "but how was it at the end of the year?
