work, of showing your love
to your brethren. Be unselfish, be gentle, be courteous, be pitiful.
Never say a word which may wound another; never turn away when you can
help a neighbour; never ask with the sneer of Cain, "Am I my brother's
keeper?" "We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we
love the brethren."

SERMON XXXVIII.

MAN'S LIFE HIS MONUMENT.

(Third Sunday after Trinity.)

1 S. PETER v. 10.

"The God of all grace . . . make you perfect, stablish, strengthen,
settle you."

Among the many monuments and epitaphs in S. Paul's Cathedral, there is
a simple tablet to the memory of him who built it, and on the stone are
engraved the words in Latin, "if you seek his monument, look around
you!" And as you gaze upon the grandeur and beauty of the vast
Cathedral, you feel that indeed the work of the architect is his best
monument. He needs no sculptured tomb, no gorgeous trappings, no
fulsome epitaph, to keep his memory green. The cunning hand has
mouldered away this many a year, and the busy brain is still, as far as
this world is concerned, but the work remains, and the builder cannot
be forgotten. Now, this world is full of monuments raised by good and
bad, some monuments of glory, others of shame. There have been
monuments of human pride, like the tower of Babel, and the great city
of Nebuchadnezzar, and God who resisteth the proud, has laid them even
with the dust. There have been monuments of human wickedness, like
Sodom, and like Pompeii, and God, who hateth sin, has buried them
beneath the fiery tempest of His wrath. There have been monuments of
human obstinacy and impenitence, like the deserted Temple of the Jews,
where once God delighted to put His Name, and to receive worship. And
again, the world is full of the monuments of the great, the gifted, and
the good. We need not go farther than our own chief city, and its
Churches. There we see carved in stone and marble the glories of Poet
and Painter, King and Priest, Statesman and Warrior. But after all, my
brothers, these are not the true monuments of these men. The stately
Abbey may one day fall to ruin, the hand of violence may break and
scatter those costly tombs, but the _memory_ of those who sleep there
cannot die, their lives are their true monuments. Shakespeare's tomb
may perish, but _Hamlet_ will live for ever. And men will honour
Nelson by the memory of Trafalgar, and Wellington by the thought of
Water