God Manifest/Part 1/Chapter 2 Section 3
SECTION III.
GOD'S GOODNESS MANIFESTED IN MAN'S HAPPINESS.
In the preceding Section, we endeavoured to portray God's goodness as imaged in man's goodness, the latter being but a reflection of the former: we sought to display the goodness of God, as seen in men acting under His influence and by His guidance. Now, however, we wish to contemplate the Divine goodness, exhibited in man not as an actor but as a receiver. We wish to consider man's mind and heart, and his state and condition, as a part of the great works of God's spiritual universe,—made by Him, and sustained and blessed by Him. In the first Chapter of this work, treating of God's works in the Material Universe, we had occasion rather, perhaps, to admire God's wisdom and power than His goodness, because we were contemplating for the most part inanimate objects, in the construction of which wondrous intellect and skill were shown. But in the present Chapter, treating of God's Spiritual Works, and particularly in this Section of it, God's goodness comes more especially into observation, because we are treating of animate and conscious beings, and of the highest of them all, man; and such beings are the proper objects of the Divine love, because they alone can feel and be affected by it. Therefore, here chiefly it is, that God's love and goodness are seen manifested,—namely, in endeavoring to make man happy, and to fill with joys and blessings the life which He has bestowed upon him: for Love ever desires to see its object happy.
Contemplate, then, the joys and delights with which man's life is blessed—even now, disordered as it is by his own wilfulness and sin; consider how numerous and various those delights are, and behold in them the benignity of man's Maker and Heavenly Father. And in taking this wide survey, where shall we begin? what spot in the landscape is not clothed with green? what portion of man's life has not the dew of Divine blessing upon it?
Let us begin, then, with the beginning of life: let us contemplate man in infancy. The babe is sleeping. Watch his little unconscious motions. Note the light movements of the lips. First, he draws them down slightly, knitting at the same time his tiny eyebrows—a look of momentary sadness: it was but for a moment, for now a smile breaks over the face, that little dream-cloud is dispersed, and heaven's full sunshine beams on his infantile spirit: he even laughs out. What pretty pictures does he see? Are angels talking to him in their own language, which he seems to unstand better than man's, as being yet nearer to heaven than earth? That pretty Irish legend of angels whispering to infants would almost seem to be the truth. What else makes him smile so? what else causes those changes of expression to pass so rapidly over his little countenance, like cloud-shadows chasing each other over a landscape? His eyes are shut; it is nothing of earth that he sees; it is nothing earthly that he hears. His little thoughts, whatever they be, are all from the world of spirit,—that is plain: may we not believe they are from heaven, and caused by the presence of attendant angels? Are we not indeed told expressly that there are angels who are attendant upon little children, and who, as it were, belong to them? "I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my father which is in heaven."[1] Thus early is the love of our Heavenly Father shown, in gifting us with little joys, almost before we have a conscious natural understanding, or any distinct ideas or feelings. Thus are the infant's first teachings and delights from within—directly from the Lord and His angels.
And, in these first gifts of the charms and sweets of innocence, how does our Heavenly Father manifest His perfect impartiality—showing thus, indeed, from the very first, that He is "no respecter of persons," but loves equally all his children. Go to the poorest hovel in the land—a place so wretched that the proud sons of earth scorn to enter or look into it—and you will find that angels are not ashamed to be there. See that little infant lying by its mother on the straw, with scarce a rag to cover it, and its little face unwashed—yet he, too, smiles in his sleep: angels are his visitants even in that lowly cot, and in despite of poverty and squalor. For it is the soul they visit; and this infant's spirit is as bright and cleanly in the sight bf God and of them, as that in yonder palace. And when the child wakes, he will show, as it were, the effects of his interior angelic association, by a similar indifference to outward trifles. What cares he for such things? He laughs in his infant glee; and sitting on the ground, grasps the few toys that he may possess, or, for want of better, the little round pebbles (nature's toys) which his poor parents have laid before him, and clutches them in his little fingers with as much ardour and delight, as the richest child in the land feels, with his gilded playthings and jewelled rattle. Here is a picture of equality. Where God alone has power to act, and man has not yet interfered, there we see that perfect equality of happiness, which is ever the will of the Divinely impartial and universal Parent.
Observe, too, in the joy of the mother's heart, a similar proof of the impartiality of the Divine goodness. To the happy young mother, who has brought into the world a little new immortal being, what matters it in what situation in life she may be! Her joy is comparatively unaffected by circumstances, and independent of them. Whether, in the world's estimation, she be ranked among the high or the low, among the rich or the poor, (unless, indeed, it be a state of absolute want), she feels herself high, she feels herself rich:—high, for she has been allowed the privilege and honor of participating, as it were, with the most High in His work of creating,—bringing into existence the noblest of all creatures, a human being; rich, for there before her is a treasure above all valuation:—what would she take in exchange for it? Let the banker bring his bags of gold, and tempt her if he can; let the noble bring his titles, ay, or the king his kingdom, and offer them for the infant,—and see her look of scorn! Is she not then rich? Yes, truly rich, for she possesses that which no outward riches or external circumstances can insure—namely, happiness, delight, deep joy of heart, as she looks proudly on her blooming boy. That joy is the gift of the good Creator, the kind Lord above, who in His love has permitted her to be the instrument, in His hands, of bringing into existence an heir of immortality; and who, both as a reward, as it were, for the great use she has already performed, and as a preparative for the uses of nourishment and education she has still to perform, has poured into her bosom, and is still each moment pouring, that maternal love with its attendant joy and delight.
Thus we perceive that one of the chief sources of human happiness, is most wisely and mercifully ordained to be in a great degree independent of outward condition. The same is true of most of the other pure springs of man's felicity. They are placed deep, as it were, in the ground of the human heart, so as to be for the most part beyond the reach of external influences. Those fountains are set so deep that the frost of the cold world cannot chill them, nor the heat of its hate or violence dry them up: they flow fresh and perennial from heaven and from God. This is as true of the delights of conjugal affection, as it is of parental. Nay, the storms of adversity only cause the true husband and wife to cling more fondly and warmly to each other; and, thus united, they can defy the blast, having a warmth and peace within themselves, which the world, as it did not give, so cannot take away. And this grand source of human happiness, is, like the other, generally and almost universally diffused, and is in a great degree independent of situation in life. The poor laborer goes to his home, after the toils of the day, and, met at his cottage-door by his cheerful partner and the bright faces of his little ones, he forgets all his troubles. Shutting the door behind him, as he enters, he locks out all hard cares and sharp assailants, and, secure in his home-castle, opens his heart to the full influence of domestic joys. (See the sweet picture in The Cotter's Saturday-Night.) Has the noble, in his domain, or the king in his palace, any more true happiness than he? none; unless it can be shown that happiness is to be found in stone walls and furniture and land, in names and titles, rather than in the tender affections of the human heart.
It may thus be seen that the real blessings of life are much more generally and equally diffused, than by the unreflecting is apt to be supposed. In truth, the inequality in the conditions of men is more an appearance than a reality. For if there be equality of happiness, that is all that is essential. Differences in outward condition must ever exist, for the plain reason that there are different offices in society to be filled, and various works and uses to be carried on,—without which society would not be in a healthy or happy state. There must be farmers to till the soil, and so to "bring food out of the earth;" there must be laborers to level the ground, construct highways and canals, and thus to open communication between distant places; there must be artizans to build houses and furnish them with things necessary to comfort and enjoyment; there must be merchants, as mediums for exchanging the different products of industry; there must be physicians to cure diseases; lawyers and judges to administer the laws; and there must be clergymen, whose especial duty it shall be to hold up to men, in the midst of the hurry and bustle of worldly business, the great purpose of their being, and to remind them that there is a life beyond this, for which it is every wise man's duty to prepare: finally, there must be statesmen and legislators, whose province it shall be to have superintendence over the general order of the state, make such regulations as are needful for the public welfare, and manage matters pertaining to intercourse with other states and nations. So, in every private household, which is itself a little community, there are superior and inferior, master and servant, those who superintend and those who execute. Without such grades and various offices, society could not exist in order and enjoyment. Yet differences in grade and function by no means imply differences in happiness. Perfect equality of happiness is consistent with the widest difference in grades, that is to say, in the functions discharged, and the places filled in the social order. The day-laborer, when his work is done, receives the wages of his labor, and goes to his home content and with a cheerful spirit, whistling on his way, his mind free from all perplexing plans and cares, and enjoys his evening in pleasant intercourse with his family and neighbors, and, when he retires to rest, has the blessing of sound sleep, the reward of his healthful toil: while his wealthy employer, whose lot he may perhaps be unwisely inclined to envy, has, perchance, his mind agitated and his rest disturbed by busy schemes and worrying doubts and anxieties. Still, the latter has his peculiar enjoyments, also. Thus are the different conditions of life nicely balanced by the great Ruler of all, who holds the scales. The private citizen may sometimes be disposed to complain that he is obliged to pass his life in obscurity, while the public man, the ruler of the land, has dignity and power, and attracts the gaze of the world. But are you sure that the latter is any happier for having all eyes fixed upon him, watching his every look and action? And do you forget that the possession of dignities and the exercise of power, are attended by vast and oppressive responsibilities, numberless perplexing cares, and sometimes such conflicting interests and overwhelming difficulties, as have more than once driven men mad? Let the dweller in private and humble life reflect on these things, and he will rather be thankful to Providence for the peace and quiet which obscurity brings him. Nevertheless, the public man, whom the All-wise Creator has endowed with a mind suited to such duties, finds in them his enjoyment, and would not perhaps be so happy in a different sphere. Thus are there persons for all places; minds variously constituted for all the different spheres, professions, and occupations of life. The great secret of happiness is to find that place in life, and that sphere and class of uses, for which the mind is suited and constituted: in that and that only, can there be content and enjoyment. Such place, too, when found, will be the most truly honorable, as well as the most useful and happy: as the poet long ago and wisely said,
"Honor and shame from no condition rise:
Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
One great cause of the discontent prevalent in the world, is that men interfere with the arrangements of a good Providence intended for their happiness, by striving after some fancied good; by ambitiously seeking to rise out of their own appropriate sphere, to some place or state of worldly height and distinction, in which they imagine more happiness is to be found. Let this false idea be banished from the mind,—let men but clearly understand and feel that in the Divine sight all stations are equally honorable,—that there are minds formed for all the various places and uses in life, and that the truly wise course is to discover that one for which each is best fitted, and therein to be content,—and a great source of unhappiness would be removed from the earth.
Society, in truth, is constituted very much as the human body. There must be head, hands, feet, and all the numberless different organs of which the body is composed, to constitute it a complete organization, and to enable it to perform all its uses. Yet, with a body in health, one of these organs is as comfortable as another, and no one of them has cause to envy any other. "The eye cannot say to the hand, I have no need of thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you. Nay, those members of the body, which seem to be the more feeble, are the more necessary; and those which we think to be less honorable, upon these we bestow more abundant honor: for our comely parts have no need, but God hath tempered the body together, having given more abundant honor to that part which lacked." The foot, indeed, is obliged to go through the mire, or over the hard ground; but its organization enables it to bear these seeming hardships, and it is at the same time kept warm and in a glow by the very exertions it is required to make: while the head, in its loftiness above, may be aching with the strain put upon it by the anxious and teeming brain which it contains. Thus the former has no reason to envy the latter its place of dignity. It is just so, in human society: in the good providence of the Lord, happiness is very equally distributed through all ranks and stations in life; and the impartial Father of all is ever seeking to communicate to each of His children the utmost degree of joy of which he is susceptible.
We have suffered ourselves, in the foregoing remarks, to wander a little from the line of thought we had entered upon,—in order to call attention to the universality or impartiality of the Divine goodness. We will now return to the point from which we digressed.
From infancy, let us follow now the life of man into childhood. How full of sports and delights is this period of existence! Childhood, we know, is commonly called the happiest time of life. How many have wished themselves back again to the "happy days of their boyhood." How does "fond Memory" love to dwell upon those early scenes, to tread again those joyous haunts, to recall those merry times,
"When the heart danced, and life was in its Spring."
"Childhood's loved group revisits every scene,
The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green.
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo! they live,
Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.
The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray,
Just tell the pensive pilgrim where it lay;
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn;
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.
Up springs at every step, to claim a tear,
Some little friendships formed and cherished here;
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems
With golden visions and romantic dreams."[2]
It is true, indeed, that "indulgent memory," as the poet says, clothes the scenes of former days with "far softer hues" than those in which they really appeared at the time; yet it is also true that "golden visions and romantic dreams" do gild those youthful days, and that the heart does dance and sing in that spring-time of life, with a fulness of joyous glee, which is peculiar to that age. And for this there are several reasons. The innocence of infancy has not yet entirely departed from the childish mind; its heavenly influences still hang about the young spirit, as if loth to depart,—like the purple and golden hues of early dawn, slowly fading into the clearer but less charming light of the full morning. Those guardian angels, too, that watched over the infant's peaceful slumbers, and infused the joyous dreams that lighted its cherub face with smiles,—still watch their charge, though as it were more distantly; and their blest influence is still felt, in a degree, in the boyish heart, and sometimes kindles beaming looks, which seem to the fond mother like lights from the heavenly world. And so they are. Childhood's joy, like the blessedness of infancy, is truly a gift from heaven and from the Lord. The same Divine love, in the good Father of all, which breathed into the infant its peace, pours into the heart of the child its full tide of delight and happiness. Whence else can it be derived than from Him who is the "Prince of Peace," and who possesses in Himself infinite joy?
The reason why those bright joys of childhood begin to fade as years increase, and at length quite lose themselves amidst the excitements and passions of youth and the cares of manhood,—is not merely because the outward worlds into which the youth enters, is filled with such excitements and such cares, but it is from a deeper cause. It is because, as the character develops, the hidden, innate propensities to evil, bad passions, and hard selfishness,—which, in the present disordered state of human nature, every one inherits from his parents and ancestors,—begin then to develop themselves. The outward covering of infantile and childish innocence, with which those passions and propensities were enveloped, is broken through; those hidden evils, coming forth, cast off their gilded covering, and, with it, also, the beauty and the joy which it communicated. And then the anxieties and pains which evil and sin always bring in their train, nay, which belong to their very nature and are inseparable from them, begin to be felt. The youth, tossed about not only by the storms of the world without, but still more by the tempest in his own bosom, is weary of his life, and is disposed to exclaim, with Burns, that "Man was made to mourn," or to say with Byron,
"Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath *reft whate'er my soul enjoyed."
This, then, is the true reason why childhood has such joys,—because the hidden evils and diseases of the heart have not yet manifested themselves, but are in a great degree quiescent; and while in this state, mercifully provided by the good Creator, the child is still, as it were, within the keeping and under the blessing of his Heavenly Father: he has not yet, like the "Prodigal Son," demanded his own and left his Father's house. And had human nature never fallen, had mankind continued in the good estate in which they were originally created, had the child no such evil propensities wrapped up within him, to develop with his character,—were he still willing, as he grew to youth and manhood, to remain (so to speak) within the house of his Heavenly Father, he would continue to be blessed, and, as years increased, joy and happiness would increase also; and he would then have no need to look back with regret to the happy days of childhood, for his manhood would be still happier. This was the order of things originally intended for man; this was man's state before the Fall; and to this happy state will humanity return again, when it shall be brought back once more to its primitive innocence and peace.
But let us go forward, now, from the consideration of childhood to the observation of youth and early manhood; and let us note some of the various joys and delights which by the good Creator are given to that period of life, even in spite of the evils just referred to, and notwithstanding the present disordered state of our common humanity.
"Hope," says the poet, "springs eternal in the human breast:" and truly, it is, throughout our life in this world, a source of consolation, support, and delight. But at no period is its influence so powerful, or are its effects so delicious, as in the season of youth and approaching manhood. This, in fact, is more truly the time of the "golden visions and romantic dreams," before alluded to, than an earlier age. The more innocent and peaceful days of childhood are, in general, too much engaged with the sports and joys of the present, to give opportunity or cause for looking forward. Indeed, it is rather as innocence with its real joys departs, that hope comes in its stead to solace us with the imagination of future and often fantastic ones. We read, in mythology, that it was in Pandora's box of evils, Hope was first brought to mankind, and was mercifully sent in company with those calamities, as man's support and consolation under them. It was not till the innocent days of infantile humanity were gone, that hope was needed: what place was there for hope in Eden? Dante tells us, that over one of the infernal doors were written the words "Ye that enter here, leave hope behind;" the same words might, perhaps, with propriety have been written over the gate of Paradise, also,—for when we enter into fruition, do we not leave hope behind us? If the lost are below hope, so the saved are above it; they have found something still better; they have reached that, to which Hope, as a cheering guide, but pointed the way. Thus hope, we perceive, belongs properly to a middle and unsettled state, such as our life in this world is, in relation to the whole of our existence, and such as the period of youth is, in relation to the whole of our present life.
Youth, then, is the season when hope and expectation have their full sway over the mind, buoying it up on the wings of gay fancies, firing it with burning aspirations, charming it with romantic pictures of beauty and grandeur, and leading it on with promises of future greatness, happiness, and glory. Life is as yet a terra incognita; and in the mistiness and dimness that overhang that shadowy region, imagination has power to conjure up grand forms and splendid scenes, to present prospects of unbounded beauty and sublimity, and to paint the great future in colours bright as the sunshine of heaven. And, indeed, is it not in a manner from heaven that such high thoughts are sent down, and such bright and charming pictures presented to the youthful mind? Is it not because there really do exist charms and delights "such as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive," that those bright visions are permitted to be presented to the thought of youth,—in order to excite, if possible, expectations and aspirations of good beyond aught that can be found in this earthly life,—so that man may not rest completely satisfied with any sublunary joys, but may still look forward and press onward to the glories of eternity? Indeed can any high hopes and bright thoughts be presented to man's mind, unless their prototypes have a real existence somewhere? Is not truth declared to be "stranger than fiction?" Is not God's imagination greater than man's? and God's imaginations (if the expression may be used) all go forth into realities, if not in the natural world, in the spiritual and eternal—if not on earth, in heaven: for God is an all-powerful Creator, and what He thinks. He does.
Such may be considered the true and high source of youth's bright visions; they are lights let down from heaven, as beacons to his path. And though mingled, as those visions doubtless too often are, with thoughts and wishes gross and selfish, it is certain that they are the source of great delights, and of such as are peculiar to that period of life. And what a zest do those hopes and fancies give to all the studies, exertions, and pursuits proper to that age! The young aspirant to literary excellence, for instance, has ever before his mind the images of Shakspeare and Milton, of Addison and Johnson, and the host of distinguished minds that have instructed and delighted the world with their compositions. And while he calls to memory the motto on the copy-books of his childhood,
""Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?"
a longing desire and burning hope is kindled within him, one day himself to reach that Temple of Fame, and stand there before the admiring gaze of mankind. And he forms a resolve to apply himself with ardor to the means by which alone his desired end can be attained;—to store his mind with that extensive knowledge, which is the only solid basis of just thought; and to subject himself to that process of patient meditation, which alone can extract from his materials their pith and essence, and enable him to build up in his mind an altar of truth, on which the fire of heaven can descend and kindle an ever-burning flame which shall be visible to the nations—a light to the world.
The love of fame,—which Milton calls "the last infirmity of noble minds"—is not indeed, as a motive of action, the highest; and in men who have reached maturity of years,— especially if allowed to remain a ruling motive,—is altogether an unworthy one, because grounded in selfishness. The end of benefiting his fellow-men, of accomplishing great works of usefulness, which may make mankind wiser, better, and happier, is indeed the only end which is worthy of being held up to itself by a noble mind. This is angelic and godlike, and is therefore alone worthy of the man who is destined to become an angel and an image of God, which man was created to be. Still, in the youthful age, the desire for distinction is so closely connected with that desire for excellence and true eminence-eminence not of name, merely, but of worth, noble deeds, illustrious works,—which burns in every gifted mind;—so blended is the longing for distinction with the hope of accomplishing something worthy of distinction, that the two feelings are as yet almost inseparable; and therefore, in youth, such aspirations are to be excused, and not, perhaps, altogether to be repressed. As the young man advances in life, if he continue steadily under the guidance of religious principle, the dross will be gradually purged away, and the pure gold alone remain.
But let us now turn to the contemplation of another grand source of youthful joys,—one, that may be said to divide with Hope the sovereignty of the young heart—Love. This fair flower is one, truly, transplanted from Eden,—one, that the poor exiles from Paradise were mercifully allowed to bring away with them; and though, indeed, much faded, bruised, and defiled by the rough change, yet it still lives, to afford blest balm to man's heart, in this his fallen state. Who is able to describe the delights of youthful love? We should fear to attempt the task: and it is not needed: the world is full of such descriptions, in prose and in verse, on the canvas and in marble,—in every form in which the sentiments of the heart are sought to be rendered visible, or intelligible by outward expression: this universal and absorbing passion has been the theme of poets and of artists, since the world began. But for a still stronger reason is such description unnecessary—namely, that the sentiment itself is known to all by a more certain information than the most eloquent description could supply—experience. Who has not felt the rapture, which this master-passion is capable of exciting in the heart? Who has not yielded himself to the sweet day-dreams that are wont at such times to hang around the spirit, and lure it away into fairy realms of imagined bliss? Or who, in dreams by night, has not beheld the image of the fair enchantress of his soul, and heard her voice speaking tender words, which alas! were dissipated by the morning-light, when he experienced the sad fate of the poor soldier dreaming of his distant home:—
"But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away."
Few, we presume, have passed through the period of youth, without having had experience of these airy raptures. It is not therefore our purpose so much to describe them, as to call attention to their source and origin. The unreflecting are apt to speak of these innocent delights, as "things very natural and very pleasant," and to trace them no further,—seeming to regard them as states of mind, which in a manner come of themselves, and are to be ascribed to no particular source. But we would ask such careless thinkers, can anything good or pleasant come but from the Giver of all good? Is anything so small as to be beneath His notice, or so great as to be independent of Him? Does not He, who watches over the helpless infant, and fills its little heart with joy, care also for the youth, and provide all things for his happiness? Can any pure and innocent delight enter the youthful mind, which is not the provision and the gift of Him, who, in His perfect love, desires to make all His creatures happy to the utmost of their capacity and in the highest degree, according to each one's age and condition? Who can tell the immense and lasting effects that sometimes follow from these seemingly trifling causes? The pure and fresh delights of youthful love, like the innocence of infancy and childhood, are links that bind the soul to heaven. They are purifiers of the spirit. Those joyous states of mind are the treasure-houses, in which are stored up, by a watchful Providence, a thousand good affections, truthful thoughts, sincere and noble feelings, and pure and generous aspirations, which serve to nourish and sustain the soul, while it is passing into manhood, and entering on the stern realities, harassing cares, and often degrading influences, of life in the world. How many can trace their deliverance, under strong temptations and amongst contaminating associations in afterlife, to the influence of early and chaste affection—the preserving and purifying power of innocent youthful love? Who, then, shall despise those states of feeling, or look upon them as of trifling moment? And if such be their power over the spirit, and their influence on man's destiny, to whom can we ascribe their existence but to Him, who is man's Saviour as well as Creator, and who is ever watching to make use of every available means to bring us on our way to heaven, and thus to accomplish the great end for which we are created?
But it is not merely for the sake of temporary delight, nor solely for its casual purifying influences, that the deep passion of Love is implanted in the human heart. It performs perhaps greater uses in the economy of human existence than any other affection or sentiment whatever. It is the great means of continuing, chastely and holily, the human race itself; it is the basis of all family ties, and thus of all the purest social affections: it is the very soul of society. What would societies, what would nations be, unless the members and citizens composing them had homes,—had each his dear and private home,—where are garnered up and cherished all the good affections, pure thoughts, and innocent delights, out of which, as from his storehouse, he brings his contribution of friendly regard, benevolent feeling, and true principle, to increase the common stock? As the private home is, such will be the public society, such will be the character of the nation itself. And what is the basis and the soul of home, but the pure conjugal bond and union? Thus is the sentiment of chaste love between the sexes, seen to be the foundation and support of all well-ordered, happy human society. But more even than this—it may be truly said to be the basis of heaven itself, and the cherisher of all those elevated virtues, pure affections, and devout aspirations, which lead and lift the soul to heaven. For earth is the seminary of heaven; heaven is peopled from the "spirits of just men made perfect," who on earth have "fought the good fight of faith," and then passed to their eternal inheritance above. Then, as the conjugal union is the basis of human society, it is also the basis and support of the grander heavenly society. Moreover, as before observed, this love, in its chaste and holy form, tends to fit the soul for heaven, by introducing and cherishing good and heavenly affections. Where, but in the home wherein pure conjugial love reigns queen, are the first heavenward aspirations planted in the childish heart? Who, like the pious mother, can sow the seeds of early devotion, and point the youthful mind to heaven? Who else can so give the instruction warm from the heart, that it will sink into the young spirit, and make an impression there which will be ineffaceable? As the child bows down on his knees, like little Samuel, before the Lord, to say his evening prayer,—how can she talk to him of the happy angels, and of the beautiful heaven where they dwell, and of the good Lord who watches over all, by day and by night! And then will she impress upon him that he also may one day become a happy angel, if he strives to be good, and obey his parents, and please his heavenly Father in all things. This is the hour and the manner, in which the foundation is laid in the young heart, of the kingdom of heaven.
Marriage, then, is a holy thing. Heaven itself, indeed, is compared in the Scriptures to a marriage; and the Lord Himself is called the Bridegroom and Husband of His Church. True conjugial love, therefore—such love as is derived from a union of spirits in the bonds of goodness and truth,—is a holy affection; and if so, whence can it be derived but from Him who is essential Holiness? Acknowledging this, we may at once perceive, that this universal sentiment, this deep passion of the soul, Love,—this affection which is one of the chief joys of youth, as well as the happiness of manhood and the solace of old age,—is in its origin, a gift, a precious gift, from the Source of all good. When, then, the happy youthful pair are rejoicing in their mutual affection,—when, taking their summer evening walk, locked closely arm in arm, and conversing together in the low soft tones of love, they lift their eyes to the peaceful heavens, and behold the "dewy star of eve" glittering in the West, or the silent moon, the lovers' lamp, pouring down her soft light upon the earth,—then, let them think, for a moment, of that unseen One who is the Author of all their blessings, and let them lift up their hearts together in gratitude for His Divine goodness. Let them think that it was He, who brought them into that happy union; who, when they were in their cradles, infants, and perhaps in regions far distant firom each other, saw in their spirits a capacity for union, ay! and still more, ordained and formed that capacity,-and then, by His providence, caused them to be so educated and prepared as to be more and more suited to each other, and, at length, by wondrous ways and secret workings, so ordered circumstances as at the proper time to bring them into each other's presence and society, when—heart leaped to heart, and their spirits
"Like kindred drops, were melted into one."
And now we come to manhood, mature age,—that period, when the mind and character are developed, and man begins to take his place, and act his part, on the stage of life. This period is life proper; the other periods were but preparations for life; though, indeed, the whole of our existence in this world is intended but as a preparation for an eternal existence in a still higher sphere. Let us, then, contemplate some of the enjoyments life affords, and endeavor at the same time to discern in the midst of them the All-bountiful Hand that is supplying them.
We have already dwelt upon the enjoyments of domestic life, the delights of conjugal and parental affection, which, when elevated by religious principle, form, indeed, the solid basis of all social happiness. We proceed, therefore, to consider other sources of happiness. And among these, we shall—perhaps to the surprise of some—assign the first place to a man's profession, his office, his regular occupation and work in the world. It is too common, at the present day, for men to consider the duties of their profession or regular occupation as a task, as drudgery, to be got through with and away from, as soon as possible. This view is the consequence, in part, no doubt of the present disordered state of society, which often causes persons to be thrown, or to put themselves, into offices for which they are unfit, and for the duties of which, consequently, they can have no relish. But a more general cause is the interior disorder of man's own heart—from which indeed all the disorders of outward society proceed—his selfishness, his love of ease and self-indulgence, his disregard of the happiness of others. Acting from these selfish ends, it is only the emoluments of an office that he cares for, not the office itself, nor the benefits it is intended to confer upon society. The selfish man—and men are too generally such at this day, and thence comes all the misery in the world—sees in all that he has or does only himself and his own interest. If engaged in common private business, his end is merely to "make money;" and so that this end be accomplished, he cares not how his work is done, whether well or ill; and he takes no delight in it, because his end is not in the work itself, but only in the gain which the work may bring. This makes it a task and drudgery, which he is glad to get through with as soon, and with as little pains, as possible. So, also, in public life, the selfish man, in discharging the duties of his office, has an eye not so much to the general good as to his own reputation and distinction; and though he may labor, and labor hard, and fulfil thoroughly his duties, it is with the secret end that this well-doing may give him credit in the eyes of the world, and so secure his promotion to places still higher, and to honor and emoluments still greater. Acting with this view, neither can he enjoy the duties of the office for their own sake; and consequently, as soon as he is through with them, he hurries away, like a man escaping from prison.
This is too generally, it is to be feared, the state of mankind at this day, and hence the general repining and discontent, as well as unfaithfulness and dishonesty in the performance of business duties and obligations, so prevalent in society. When, therefore, one hears it said, that the duties of a man's profession or regular occupation are to be accounted a chief source of happiness in life, the statement seems a paradox. Yet it is most true,—as the experience not only of the good, but even of the bad, can testify. What greater punishment can you inflict upon an imprisoned criminal, than to deprive him of all occupation and employment? After a short period of idleness, he will beg for work. And why is this? Because he finds that occupation soothes him, and brings him something like content and cheerfulness, even in the solitude of his cell. And why has it this effect? Because it fulfils a great law of man's constitution, impressed upon it by its Divine Maker. God Himself works: is not His handiwork here all about us? "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work," said the Saviour. The reason is, that action is the necessary state of love. Love is ever active, in the endeavor to bless those whom it loves: such endeavor is consequent upon its very existence. God, therefore, who is Love itself, must be active. He acts indeed, in His own Divine and Infinite manner, calmly, like His own Sun, pouring forth His light and heat and blessing on all in the universe,—yet, like that Sun, though to appearance calmly, still burningly; for love is ever ardent,—and how intense must be the ardor of Divine Love! So man, who was created to be the image and likeness of God, and therefore, also, a form of love in his finite degree,—was intended for an active being. When acting, doing something, producing, pouring out, he resembles the great Creator who is ever pouring out from Himself upon all His creatures; and at such times, too, man is, as it were, a little sun, a star, which, though it gives comparatively but a feeble and twinkling light, still shines, and so has its place in the glittering host,—whose united light, though little in comparison with the sun's, is yet sufficient to cheer the traveler on his path, or to guide the mariner on his way across the sea. Or, man may more properly be compared to the household fire, which, though its rays are confined to a small circle, yet is able to shed cheerfulness and warmth through that little sphere,—while God, like the great sun, sends light and warmth through the vast circle of the universe.
Even the imprisoned criminal, therefore, while engaged in some useful employment, is so far fulfilling a law of his nature and of Divine order. And, evil though he may be, yet he finds and feels the blessing of that fulfilment; for every law of Divine order, obeyed, renders man just in that degree a recipient of Divine blessing. And this is the secret source of his cheerfulness, while working. For all cheerfulness, as well as every other form and kind of happiness or good, flows in from above, from heaven and from the Lord. Cheerfulness is no resident in the mind (as we are too apt to think,) but is a perpetual gift from God; as the blessings of heat and light have no residence in the earth, but perpetually flow from the sun. Now, it is a law that "influx is proportioned to efflux:"—that is to say, as man exerts himself and thus pours out from himself in action, so there is poured in from above the tide of thought and feeling, which keep up effort, and, gently distending as it were the spiritual vessels of the mental organization, and at the same time the material vessels of the brain, serve to keep the whole man, both mind and body, in a certain state of peaceful serenity and health: for all that flows from the Lord carries with it peace, blessing, and healthfulness mental and physical. Such is the philosophy of work and its cheering influence. And if this philosophy be just, how truly unfortunate, it may be remarked, is that class of persons, whom the unthinking world is apt to esteem fortunate—those who have nothing to do,—those who are neither forced by necessity, nor have the resolution to force themselves, into any regular course of occupation: instead of being fortunate, they are truly unfortunate; for, by a law of man's constitution, idleness is unhappiness.
But now, it might be asked,—admitting all this to be true, yet with what propriety can a man's profession or regular business be accounted among the chief sources of happiness? for, at best, this pleasurable feeling which is the attendant upon work is but a quiet and unexciting one. We would reply, that it is a chief source of happiness, just as bread is the staff of life;—just as water, which is merely pleasant, and almost tasteless, is the drink which best slakes the thirst. The blessing of work is like that of fresh air or of physical health; not ostentatious, exciting little attention or thought, its value hardly felt till we are deprived of it; yet in truth, acting ceaselessly and powerfully for good, and giving zest to all our other enjoyments. Without occupation, pleasures, commonly so called, pall upon the taste; they soon become tiresome and even loathsome, for they want that which is their life. We all know what cheerfulness and hilarity any work faithfully done supplies to the mind; its influence remains long after the work itself is over; its effect is like the fragrance of a flower, still blooming when the hand that planted it is gone: so, each duty well performed plants a new flower in the garden of the mind, to bloom throughout eternity.
After considering thus the two great blessings, which are the foundations and substrata (so to speak) of all human happiness—domestic affection and regular occupations—including always religious principle and feeling, which is their life and soul, and without which all things are joyless,—we come now to take a view of some of those pleasures and delights, which a good Providence has provided for man, and which may properly be called the recreations and adornments of life. In addition to the higher or more interior endowments of the mind,—rational thought and deep affection,—the Creator has furnished us with senses or sensory faculties, which find their exercise and delight in things of the outward world; and the chief use of which is to give rest and refreshment to the higher faculties, by allowing them intervals of repose, and by drawing off for a time the attention of the ever active soul to lower and more external concerns. And for the entertainment of those senses, how bountifully and admirably has the great Artist provided! What pictures has He outspread before the eye, on every side! What charming sounds has He ordained for the ear! What pleasant fragrances has He poured forth to greet the sense of smell! What sweets for the taste, and nature's velvets for the touch! Let us select one of these, and note it, as a specimen of all. Music, for instance! how wonderful a thing, when we reflect upon it, is music! A certain succession or combination of sounds,—which are in themselves merely impressions made upon the ear by agitations of the atmosphere—is found to be most grateful, delightful to the mind: we cannot tell why, but we are charmed by it. The very breathing of the wind among the trees—nature's Æolian harps—is a pleasant sound, and its roar through a forest is a sublime one. Then the lowing of cattle at evening, and even the distant bark of the watch-dog baying the moon, have power to call up pleasing associations. Still sweeter is the music of birds. But the human voice, that fine instrument of God's making, is richest of all; this, no artificial instrument approaches. The great Haarlem organ had indeed a stop, called Vox Humana, and which was meant for an imitation of the human voice; but it was such an imitation as showed it plainly to be but the work of "one of nature's journeymen,"—as indeed all men, at best, are. When, in the evening circle, we listen to a song, poured forth with feeling by a sweet voice, what power has it over the soul! what power to wake up tender memories, to lull passions and anxieties, to warm the gentle affections, and to lift the spirit to God! And when, sometimes, in the silence of the night, we are waked from sleep by the sound of distant music, whether of instruments, or voices, or of both in unison, we seem rapt into heaven: those delicious harmonies, which had entered and mingled themselves with our dreams before we awoke, and had seemed to us then like music from the spirit-land,—now almost keep up the illusion, even after we are conscious where we are; and if not themselves strains from that happy world, they seem at least to give us a foretaste of its joys, and to tell of that blessed state where all is harmony and love, and where angel-choirs sing together the glories and goodness of their Lord.
Such are some of the pleasures and delights, which our good Creator has provided for us, through the medium of the senses. And the truth should be distinctly seen and felt, that these are of His providing: this elevates and sanctifies them. True religion forbids no innocent enjoyments: it only regulates pleasures, not destroys or deprives us of them. And such regulation increases rather than diminishes the delight they are intended to afford; for it cuts off that excess which would turn pleasure into pain, and it fills every joy with a life and soul derived from gratitude to its Divine Giver.
And now, at length, old age creeps on. And has that no enjoyments? Has the great Creator provided no special delights for this period of life? "The hoary head," we read, "is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness." When the battle of life has been bravely fought, and the mastery gained over appetites and passions, and the spirit rests in the settled peace of victory—not proud, however, in self-dependence, but humble and grateful in the acknowledgment that all its strength is from above,—then, there is a joy in the heart, surpassing the pleasures and delights of youthful and active life, almost as the happiness of heaven surpasses that of earth: it is, indeed, a foretaste of that heaven, whither the soul is soon to be called away. The peaee and innocence of a wise old age have in them, indeed, something most beautiful as well as venerable. The innocence of infancy, truly is ever charming; the helplessness, the pretty motions and unconscious graces of the little new being are attractive to every observer: but the "innocence of wisdom," as it has well been termed,—the childlike simplicity, joined to profound sagacity, the fruit of knowledge ripened by experience and mellowed by goodness, which are to be seen in the countenance of a wise and spiritual-minded old man—is still more beautiful. Such, indeed, is the character of angelic beauty itself. We often see in pictures, or sculptured on monuments, the faces of angels, and they are generally represented as infantine; not that angels can really be infants, for an infant knows nothing, and as yet can hardly be said even to have feelings or affections, whereas an angel is both a wise being, and full of love. But the reason they are so represented, is from a deep perception in the mind, that innocence—that is, a state of utter absence of pride, or thought or consciousness of self, which is the characteristic charm of infancy,—is also the essential principle of heaven and of the angelic character. The difference, however, between infantile innocence and angelic innocence, is, that the former is joined with ignorance, and is only external or on the surface, while the latter is united with the highest wisdom, and has its seat in the very depths of the soul, whence it radiates in lines of beauty through the countenance. Now, in a good old man, we may note a similar character: in his face there beams a childlike innocence, but joined with wisdom; and hence, even through the wrinkles of the material covering, there shines a beauty of expression, almost angelic. It is, in fact, an angel robed in flesh: soon, he will drop his garment of clay, and soar a full angel to his proper heaven.
As innocence is the characteristic state of a wise old age, so peace is its peculiar and distinguishing delight, and the great source of its happiness. This, too, is of a heavenly nature, and, as before remarked, is far above the exciting pleasures of youthful years. For, the delights both of youth and manhood are more outward and on the surface of the mind, and therefore liable to be disturbed by various passions and anxieties not yet subdued: it is the summer sunshine and storm commingled, or quickly succeeding each other. But the peace of old age abides in the centre of the soul, and thence wells forth as a fountain of sweet waters, refreshing the whole garden of the mind, and making it a blessed Eden, a paradise; the sunshine of heaven is continually upon it; it basks in the smile of its Lord. Indeed, a soul in such a state may be termed itself a little heaven; for heaven is wherever the Lord dwells; and He dwells in the heart where there is peace, for He is the "Prince of Peace." The peace of old age is as the settled serenity of autumn, when summer storms are gone, when the ripe fruit hangs from the boughs, and the landscape is decked with golden harvests, and the pleasant song of the reaper is heard afar in the fields. It is like the sweet stillness of evening, when the bustle of the day is over, and friendly faces are gathering in to the social circle; when the mellow glories of the West are casting over the earth a golden light; or, still later, when, as those soft hues fade away, heaven's own lamps are hung out, innumerable, in the sky, and the sight, drawn away from earth, is fixed in calm contemplation on the bright and peaceful worlds above. Old age is the sunset and the evening of life, when soon, the night of death being past, a new morn is about to arise on the spirit, the commencement of an eternal day.