serve for him hereafter, assure him of happiness. and heaven in the remote and unseen future, — and when you have done this, how much will you have done to explain the mystery of his present trials? What ray of light will you have shed upon the dimness of the dusty road which he has travelled? How much will you have done to explain the fact of his present suffering, sad, and weary existence? Either to vent his own complainings, or to test the depth of your comforting philosophy, he may turn and exclaim, in reply to your well-intended consolations: "Peace and joy hereafter, do you tell me? happiness and heaven my reward beyond the grave? What can you mean by this? There is my nearest neighbor, whose sky through life has scarcely ever known a cloud; sorrow has scarcely visited his door, and scarcely a burden has he been called to bear through all the years that he has walked on earth. How then? are there not also peace and joy and glory in reserve for him hereafter? Is not his assurance of future heaven and happiness equal quite to that which you have given me?” How then, tell me, would you answer him? Wherein would be the special value of your consolation? How could you make a future heaven appear in any way a reward or compensation for the trials of this present earth? How much would your promises of possible and invisible joys reconcile him to his actual experience of real sorrows? Now, I know that men do find and take comfort in these hopes of rewards and heaven and happiness hereafter, and the fact bears witness to the disposition we ever have to embrace and dwell upon even the prospect of a good, and to overlook and leave out of sight even a present

real evil. It bears witness to the affinity of the soul for what is bright and promising, rather than for what is dark and threatening. But it is strange still, that mankind have so long been satisfied with this, content to bind up their wounds, and in the hour of weakness and helplessness to soothe themselves with a sort of selfish dream of glorious rewards or gracious gifts bestowed, of unspeakable and heavenly joys in another and unseen world beyond the grave. They seem to be content with the philosophy, that

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast;

Man never is, but always to be, blest."

This may be poetry, but it is not truth. The sentiment is as unworthy as it is untrue. Man is- man oftentimes is greatly blest, and knows it too; and more, O how much more blest might he still be

than he is!

I would detract nothing from the most ardent fancy of felicities in a future world. I would cherish the clearest convictions of a future heaven, which a firm and ever-growing faith can give; but I would not have the strongest convictions concerning the future silence my earnest inquiries as to my own present welfare. We wilfully close our eyes, or we must see that no theory of an unchangeable hell or heaven in the future explains, resolves, and reconciles the varied and nameless differences, troubles, and evils of this present life. May not the sum of human joys on earth be greater? May not the magnitude of present evils be diminished, and the number of present evils be reduced? May not the standard of human comfort, and of human aspirations here, be elevated? May not the vast aggregate of human

enjoyment in this present life be greatly, indefinitely increased? These are no fanciful inquiries. These are questions of deep, direct personal concern to every human being. And no creed, theory, or doctrine concerning a future world should ever be permitted to overshadow or drive these questions from our earnest thoughts. For surely, by elevating the condition of this life, we cannot be degrading the condition of that which is to come. Surely, by multiplying the true joys of earth, we cannot be detracting from the true joys of heaven. And when, by submitting to the closest scrutiny all the faculties and all the organs of our nature, we find each and every one, in common with every object in creation round us, adapted to beneficent uses, designed by nature in every case for good, we are not without reason to believe that the mystery of evil yet may be explained, and the tears be wiped from the cheek of earth's sorrowing children, and the present woes of our world be found only in the records of human history.

DISCOURSE XVI.

THE POWER OF MIND. · SOME GREAT THOUGHT.

AS DYING, AND, BEHOLD, WE LIVE; AS CHASTENED, AND NOT KILLED; AS SORROWFUL, YET ALWAY REJOICING; AS POOR, YET MAKING MANY RICH; AS HAVING NOTHING, AND YET POSSESSING ALL THINGS. - 2 Cor. vi. 9, 10.

"GIVE me some great thought," were the last words of a great author to his weeping friends around his bed. And this is what every mind is longing for, not only in a dying hour, but in every hour of weariness, or doubt, or trial, or mental darkness. As something to lean on, something to repose on for relief, the mind seeks for some great thought; something which may task the highest powers, draw them out, and raise them up above the vexations of the hour; something which seems to be commensurate with the mind itself, corresponding with the soul's dignity. When the common cares of life annoy us, and seem to draw us down and tie us fast as captives to their littleness, do we not feel an indescribable sense of shame, a sort of degradation, as if in a place which is unworthy of us? We feel as if struggling to throw off some vast weight, which, in spite of ourselves, oppresses us. We feel something within,

which tells us we are made for something higher, nobler, better, than this which we endure, which we resist, but are unable wholly to repel. There must be, I think, times of such consciousness, such experience, to all of us. The mind feels itself dishonored by submission to these perplexities and trials, and yet it sees that submission is inevitable. Still it does not see that these painful and prostrating effects are wholly inevitable. It has an impression that it may live in earth's cares, and yet live above them; that it may move among them, and yet not be of them; that there is an inner life, which, if it may not destroy the outer life, may triumph over it. The majesty of the mind may assert itself, and declare its supremacy over the body and all material things, over disappointment and all contingencies. This is the state of mind of which St. Paul speaks, as dying, yet living; as chastened, not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing all things.

But what was there in the circumstances of Paul explanatory of these paradoxes? Who was St. Paul? He was one who had been among the fiercest of the Pharisaic Jews. His Jewish piety had led him to the most implacable intolerance. And though Jesus was himself a Jew, and his followers principally Jews, yet so entirely obnoxious did he regard Jesus as a teacher, so utterly at variance with the Hebrew expectation of a Messiah or Deliverer from national bondage to Rome, that he persecuted those followers with unmitigated severity. He even hired himself to the high-priests, that he might obtain the privilege of seizing on all, regardless of age or sex, o