LESSONS, PERTINENT AND PRACTICAL.
“With arm in arm the forest rose on high,
And lessons gave of brotherly regard:
Mercy stood in the cloud with eye that wept
Essential love, and from her glorious bow
Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace,
With her own lips, her gracious lips which God
Of sweetest accent made, she whispered still,
She whispered to revenge, ‘Forgive, Forgive.’”
“Silence had a tongue; the grave,
The darkness, and the lonely waste had each
A tongue, that ever said, ‘Man, think of God,
Think of thyself, think of Eternity.’”
POLLOK.
A CENTURY ago London was thrown into excitement by the shock of an
earthquake. In the streets, and for six miles round the city, slight
undulations were plainly perceptible. Houses were shaken, so that parts
of them fell down; and ships in the river Thames were loosened from their
moorings. Numbers of the terrified inhabitants flocked into Hyde Park,
which, being a vast area unencumbered with buildings, was supposed to
afford a less perilous position for the people than they could find
elsewhere, in the event of their being overtaken by the dreaded
catastrophe. Whitfield happened to be in London at the time, when the
minds of the citizens were agitated by intense and distracting fears; and
with an eloquence, which was surpassed only by his zeal, endeavoured to
improve the terrific event by making it the occasion of appropriate
religious appeals. One night he addressed a vast concourse in the Park,
and while the people pressed together to hear him under the open sky—and
the silence of the scene, the bright stars overhead, the dim shadow of
the speaker, like some impalpable visitant come on a warning mission from
the other world, and the occurrence which had brought them together
contributed to the effect of his discourse,—he with his almost superhuman
voice which with mysterious intonations rolled into men’s ears, and moved
their hearts as with an earthquake, described to them the terrors of the
last day, and exhorted them to flee from the wrath to come. Could a
Whitfield now, in 1851, gather around him in the same spot the concourse
attracted there under such different circumstances, he might with a
little exercise of his ingenious powers of adaptation, with a slight
effort of his talent for extracting spiritual lessons from passing
incidents, address his auditory on duties of infinite moment, taking as a
suggestive text one of the bearings of the festival of art already
noticed in these pages; namely, its hopeful tendency to produce
reconciliation and peace among the nations of the world. We can fancy
such a preacher at the quiet hour of eventide—the sky, clear azure, with
a few fleecy clouds—the emerald-like tree-tops bathed in the rays of the
setting sun, and scarcely moved by the gentle air—all nature seeming to
repeat the angel’s song, “on earth peace, good-will toward men;” we can
fancy him lifting up his voice to tell the crowd, softened and soothed by
surrounding influences, that professing as they do to meet in national
friendship, and to celebrate a feast of brotherly love, there are some
other obligations to peace and reconciliation which come still nearer to
their homes and hearts.
Failing the preacher—apart from the helpful influence of the scene
imagined—and debarred the aid of that sympathy which thrills through a
crowd when touched by the living voice of a loving fellow-man, we would
attempt for a moment, through the medium of this little book, to enforce
on the individual reader two methods of improving the present event
suggested on slight reflection.
1. The professed character, and what we fain hope to be the spirit, of
the gathering, suggest a duty which concerns us in our domestic
relations.
Men, some of them not long ago, in arms against each other, we see now on
terms of amity. Perhaps the Austrian meets in the park the Italian he
has faced in the field—the Turk, the Egyptian at whom he aimed his
scimitar—the veteran Frenchman, the British soldier with whom he grappled
at Waterloo—but enemies or aliens no longer, they pass, if they do not
recognise each other, as friends. This congress on pacific terms, with a
cordial understanding, is a spectacle on which the eye loves to linger,
and over which the heart of the philanthropist dilates with hope. Now,
does not this festival, without any far-fetched application, seem to say
to every one of us, as members of a family, that surely at this time
consistency is added to the other grounds of duty which require us to
cultivate towards those related to us by nature an unsuspicious temper, a
frank and open disposition, a desire to conciliate where differences have
arisen, and a determination to cement where cordiality prevails? Should
not each endeavour to make his home—whether mansion or cottage, hall or
hut—a sanctuary sacred to peace and concord? Should not each man now
more than ever aspire to the fulfilment of the office and the enjoyment
of the benediction described and pronounced by the Divine Teacher of
love, “Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children
of God.” Unseemly and inconsistent is it, while we are inviting
foreigners to forget past enmities, to consign to oblivion by-gone
strife, for any of us to allow domestic jealousies and heart-burnings to
torment our breasts, which should be full of domestic charities and
sympathies. While thousands, of different colours, climes, and costumes,
join to bury the hatchet of strife under the Hyde Park elms, let those
who own a common parentage, who in childhood sat on the same knee, and
were nursed in the same bosom, or whose relationship, though not so
intimate, is far from remote, between whom, alas, differences have sprung
up, seek by mutual concession to arrive at a better understanding, and
thus render the present year memorable in their domestic annals. It
would be a beautiful incident to associate with this bright passage in
the history of the world a few lines relating to reconciliation and love,
where private strifes had embittered hearts intended by nature and
providence to be ever one.
The religion of Jesus Christ, as it is intended to bring together the
nations of the earth in amity, is also meant to bind together the inmates
of a home in friendship. Wherever its laws are submitted to, and its
spirit imbibed, there peace must reign, and the domestic circle be a
refuge from strife. The gospel teaches lessons above all others suited
to this end. It points the master to God, the model of fatherly
government, and bids him remember that he has a Master in heaven. It
speaks to the husband, and points to Jesus Christ, bidding the husband
love his wife “as Christ loved the church.” It speaks to the parents,
and charges them to train up their children “in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord.” It speaks to sons and daughters, commanding
them to honour their father and mother, and “obey them in the Lord.” It
speaks to servants, and tells them to “be obedient to such as are their
masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of
heart as unto Christ, not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but as the
servants of Christ doing the will of God from the heart.” In this great
world of strife what should be so peaceful as a Christian home? Amidst
the storms which rock life’s ocean, where shall we find a harbour if not
there? While divisions are rife, where shall we find union, if not among
the branches from a common parentage? Scenes of domestic purity,
innocence, and love there are to be met with in many of the homes of our
land, over which religion has thrown its shield, where a happy exemption
from the evils which tear society in pieces is enjoyed; where surely some
relic is to be found of what Eden was; where the parent’s care, like a
deep-rooted tree, spreads out its graceful branches, while the children’s
love, like fragrant and flowery creepers, twists and curls tenacious
tendrils around the venerable stem, “recompensing well the strength it
borrows with the grace it lends,” and the dew of God’s blessing, and the
sunshine of God’s smile, fall upon them one and all. Happy scenes these,
which Jesus visits as he did the feast at Cana, and the home at Bethany,
teaching such families out of his own word, sanctifying them by his
gracious Spirit, guiding them by his perfect example, protecting them by
his mighty power, comforting them by his unfailing sympathy, and
preparing them for a better home of which he gives them glimpses as they
read the Bible and kneel together at the footstool of God’s throne.
Through faith in the gospel, and prayer for the grace of Him who is its
source and life, these scenes might be greatly multiplied: and who but
must desire it, and strive for its promotion, so that while this year we
invite the nations to meet as a family, the family may meet as the
brethren of Christ and the children of God.
2. The character and spirit of the gathering suggest a farther lesson
connected with our individual interests and our spiritual relations.
Would we fain look on the present year as sacred to reconciliation and
peace? let each one inquire whether he has ensured the enjoyment of those
blessings in their most precious and enduring forms! It is a fact, to
which the consciousness of most thoughtful men bears witness, that in
connexion with the intellectual harmony of their nature, there is sad
discord in their moral experience. The heart is divided against
itself—its little world is full of rebellion and strife, torn in pieces
by intestine war, like an empire in the anarchy of an interregnum, even
as that clear-sighted Hebrew, looking at himself in the radiance of a
light which fell from heaven, most plainly saw, and mournfully confessed,
when he cried, to his and our true Lord and Maker, “_unite_ my heart to
fear thy name!” That inward confusion indicates the rejection of a
Divine law of order, and that fact explains the secret of many a man’s
misery. The material world out of which he gathers the triumphs of art,
and the intellectual power by which he achieves his victories over the
physical, are in a state of unvarying subjection to law, and hence the
admired results of his formative genius and taste; but he himself, the
innermost and moral self, is out of harmony with law. Hence the disorder
and trouble which human beings carry with them everywhere, amidst the
harmony and order of external nature; which, with a still small voice,
reproves them for their disobedience. Some lead mournful, miserable
lives; they strive to be happy, but happiness flies from them. All kinds
of expedients are adopted to secure inward peace; but these all fail.
The disappointed ones still try. Again cheated of the prize, they try—it
is in vain. And do you not know the secret of your sorrow? You lay it
perhaps on circumstances, or friends, or on the world, or on nature, or
on God. You invent causes and miss the right one. Here it is lying
within yourself, in your own heart and will. Your inward life is not
under the rule of the great God. His laws run in one direction, and
carry happiness with them. Your soul rushes in an opposite direction,
and dashes against these laws. The collision is your misery and ruin.
“You stretch out your hand against God, and strengthen yourself against
the Almighty. You run upon him, even on his neck, upon the thick bosses
of his bucklers.” Man’s heart, divided against itself, throwing off the
yoke of law, is at emnity with God. Divine relations are disturbed. The
bonds which alone could bind safety and peace to the human soul, by
binding that soul to the omnipotent and loving Father of all, are
ruptured and destroyed; and thus, giving up its Guide and Guardian, the
wandering child is left to battle with storms in the dark ocean of evil
over which it strives to push its bark. How can there be security to a
creature who breaks away from God? How can that bosom be at peace in
which there is no love to him? His law has sanctions, as all effectual
and perfect law must ever have—pain and trouble therefore follow
disobedience here and hereafter. “The wages of sin is death.”
Such being the facts of the case, the first desire of all should be to
secure reconciliation with God, with law, with conscience. The gospel,
and it only, reveals the method of this reconciliation. It teaches us
that there is redemption in Jesus Christ; that God has set him forth to
be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his
righteousness for the remission of sins; that whoso believeth in him is
justified; that there is no condemnation to them that are in him; that he
is our peace; that to as many as receive him he gives power to become the
sons of God; that being made sons they receive not the spirit of bondage
again to fear, but the spirit of adoption, whereby they cry, Abba,
Father; that his people are renewed and sanctified through his Spirit,
that dwelleth in them; that the righteousness of the law is fulfilled in
them who walk not after the flesh but after the spirit; and that having
access by faith unto this grace wherein we stand, they rejoice in hope of
the glory of God.
This Divine reconciliation, inward order, and holy peace are our best
qualifications for seeking to promote domestic reconciliation, national
order, and the world’s peace. They are the proper preparatives for all
usefulness, private and public—for all works of love towards our
fellow-men. For how inconsistent it is to think of binding up the wounds
of a family, curing the ills of the commonwealth, or bringing a divided
world together—while the very soul, dreaming of these achievements, is a
spectacle of sorrow to unseen beings; inasmuch as it is engaged in an
impotent warfare against its God, and is bleeding under fatal injuries
inflicted on itself in a struggle so unutterably awful and insane.
Fraternity! concord! union! These beautiful words come with a melancholy
and mocking sound from any lips but those which have prayed for union
with God, concord with law, and fraternity with a holy obedient universe.
How touching also, even to tears, is it to think that any of the minds so
richly gifted by the Creator should devote themselves through life to
artistic and intellectual toils, for the sole purpose of bringing into
fair proportion and symmetry rude heaps of matter, or confused elements
of thought—while their own nature, in itself and its highest relations,
is left “without form, and void,” like the primeval deep, its face
covered over with darkness.
These blessings to which we have referred alone can satisfy. Other
things, however fair and good—success in the formation of the beautiful,
and even the production of the beneficent, leave a consciousness of want
until the human spirit be reconciled to itself and God. The soul wonders
why the cup in which it has mixed such sweet ingredients should yet be
dashed with bitterness; but so it must be while the vessel itself retains
the wormwood of its spiritual enmities. Let the cup be cleansed; let the
moral nature be renewed and purified by a reconciling faith in the One
Mediator; and then shall the man, however disappointed before, find
himself blessed above all mortal blessedness.
These blessings too are of an enduring character. It were to tell an
oft-told truth, if we described the limited existence of all works of art
and genius; if we reminded the reader of the crumbling touch of time, and
pointed him to the all-enveloping ruins of the last day, when “the
elements shall melt with fervent heat, and the earth and all the works
that are therein shall be burned up.” But these common themes are as
indisputable and awful as they are common: nor should any one forget them
as he looks on the palace of _glass_—(how forcibly symbolic is that
word)—and on the manifold structures, possessions, and achievements of
men. In contrast with such brittle objects, how strong in enduring
strength is that spiritual good to which, in the conclusion of this
volume, we direct, with intense desire and hope, the thoughts of every
reader. “The world passeth away and the lust thereof: but he that doeth
the will of God abideth for ever.” The Divine favour, so plainly
promised to such, is an inheritance exempt from the condition of time,
change, and mortality. It is a treasure brought down to us from another
world, and will be carried back there by him who finds it. In the silent
musings of eternity the soul, reconciled to God through faith in the
blood of Jesus Christ, will be able to look back with unspeakable
satisfaction on a course through this world, in which the only thing not
doomed to perish with itself was secured and appropriated. “I could not
stay in that earth,” will be the reflection of so happy a spirit. “I saw
but a little while what it had within it of the beautiful and the sublime
in God’s works, and in the works which God enabled man to accomplish; I
left them there to perish, and on the last day I saw them perish: but in
my passage I discerned, by the aid of the Divine Spirit, something better
than all that they signified to me. I seized the Pearl of great price
and have brought that away.” {161} On the other hand, how inexpressibly
dreadful must be the recollection of the opposite class of human
souls,—of all unreconciled, unregenerate, earthly, sensuous, and even
merely intellectual ones,—who will be for ever tortured with the
accusation of their own mortifying and fatal folly, because they will
have passed through a world of perishable objects with _only one_ thing
imperishable, and in striving to enjoy them forget that, and after a life
of toil, ambition, and hope, came away with _nothing_.
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FOOTNOTES.
{14} “The internal columns are placed twenty-four feet apart, while the
external ones have no more than eight feet (a third of twenty-four) of
separation; while the distance between each of the transept columns is
three times twenty-four, or seventy-two feet. This also is the width of
the middle aisle of the building: the side aisles are forty-eight wide,
and the galleries and corridors twenty-four. Twenty-four feet is also
the distance between each of the transverse gutters under the roof; hence
the intervening bars, which are at once rafters and gutters, are
necessarily twenty-four feet long.”
{54} See an interesting lecture on the British Empire, by the Rev. Wm.
Arthur.
{91} Bishop Thirlwall’s History of Greece.
{94} Lines from Longfellow’s Belfry of Bruges and Nuremberg are here
blended.
{103} Cyrene was a Greek colony.
{104} Life of St. Paul, by Conybeare and Howson, p. 32.
{110} Robert Hall.
{122} Douglas, Advancement of Society, p. 151.
{161} See Foster’s Discourses, second series, p. 128. The passage is an
imitation, indeed partly a quotation, of one of his.