In the Observer of the 27th September, 1863, in the fifth page and the fourth column, it is thus written:—­

“The codicil appended to the will of the late Lord Clyde, executed at Chatham, and bearing the signature of Clyde, F. M., is written, strange to say, on a sheet of paper bearing the ‘athenaeum club’ mark.”

What the codicil is, my dear brethren, it is not our business to inquire.  It conveys a benefaction to a faithful and attached friend of the good Field-Marshal.  The gift may be a lakh of rupees, or it may be a house and its contents—­furniture, plate, and wine-cellar.  My friends, I know the wine-merchant, and, for the sake of the legatee, hope heartily that the stock is large.

Am I wrong, dear brethren, in supposing that you expect a preacher to say a seasonable word on death here?  If you don’t, I fear you are but little familiar with the habits of preachers, and are but lax hearers of sermons.  We might contrast the vault where the warrior’s remains lie shrouded and coffined, with that in which his worldly provision of wine is stowed away.  Spain and Portugal and France—­all the lands which supplied his store—­as hardy and obedient subaltern, as resolute captain, as colonel daring but prudent—­he has visited the fields of all.  In India and China he marches always unconquered; or at the head of his dauntless Highland brigade he treads the Crimean snow; or he rides from conquest to conquest in India once more; succoring his countrymen in the hour of their utmost need; smiting down the scared mutiny, and trampling out the embers of rebellion; at the head of an heroic army, a consummate chief.  And now his glorious old sword is sheathed, and his honors are won:  and he has bought him a house, and stored it with modest cheer for his friends (the good old man put water in his own wine, and a glass or two sufficed him)—­behold the end comes, and his legatee inherits these modest possessions by virtue of a codicil to his lordship’s will, written, “strange to say, upon a sheet of paper, bearing the ‘Athenaeum Club’ mark.”

It is to this part of the text, my brethren, that I propose to address myself particularly, and if the remarks I make are offensive to any of you, you know the doors of our meeting-house are open, and you can walk out when you will.  Around us are magnificent halls and palaces frequented by such a multitude of men as not even the Roman Forum assembled together.  Yonder are the Martium and the Palladium.  Next to the Palladium is the elegant Viatorium, which Barry gracefully stole from Rome.  By its side is the massive Reformatorium:  and the—­the Ultratorium rears its granite columns beyond.  Extending down the street palace after palace rises magnificent, and under their lofty roofs warriors and lawyers, merchants and nobles, scholars and seamen, the wealthy, the poor, the busy, the idle assemble.  Into the halls built down this little street and its