THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace as
essential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted,
that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace.
Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of the
rural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear to
human fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil,
rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyond
the kindling enterprise of youth. The cold grave itself repels not
altogether, but somewhat allures the imagination.
"How still and peaceful is the grave!"
Especially has heaven risen to the religious mind in this complexion
of tranquillity. It is generally conceived as free from all
disturbance, broken by not a sound save of harmonious anthems,
which, like murmuring water, give deeper peace than could be found
in silence.
But man so longs for rest and peace, that he not only soothes
himself with these images from afar, but hopes to foretaste their
substance. And what are his views to this end? He means to retire
from business to some spot where he can calmly enjoy what he has in
vain panted for in the race of life. Perhaps he tries the
experiment, but finds himself restless still, and learns the great
lesson at last, that peace is not in the landscape, but only in the
soul; and the calm sky, the horizon's circle, the steady stars, are
only its language, not itself.
Perhaps he seeks peace in his home. Everything there is made soft to
the feet; each chair and couch receives him softly; agreeable
sounds, odours, viands, regale every sense: and illuminated chambers
replace for him at night the splendour of the sun. But here again he
is at fault. Peace comes not to him thus, though all the apparatus
seems at hand to produce it. Still he may be outshone by a
neighbour; or high estate may draw down upon him envy and ill-will;
or his senses themselves may refuse the proffered bliss, and ache
with disease. Peace is not in outward comforts, which the
constitution sharply limits; which pass with time, or pall upon the
taste. The human mind is too great a thing to be pleased with mere
blandishments.
Man has a soul of vast desires; and the solemn truth will come home
irresistibly at times, even to the easy epicure. Something is
wanting still. There is more of pain than peace in the remnants of
feasting and the exhausted rounds of pleasure.
Man has sometimes sought peace in yet another way. Abjuring all
sensual delights, he has gone into the desert to scourge the body,
to live on roots and water, and be absorbed in pious raptures; and
often has he thus succeeded, better than do the vulgar hunters of
pleasure. But unrest mingles even with the tranquillity thus
obtained. His innocent, active powers resist this crucifixion. The
distant world rolls to his ear the voices of suffering fellow-men;
and even his devotions, all lonely, become selfish and unsatisfying.
All men are seeking, in a way better or worse, this same peace and
rest. Some seek it objectively in mere outward activity. They are
not unfrequently frivolous and ill-furnished within, seeking rest by
travelling, by running from place to place, from company to company,
changing ever their sky but never themselves. Such persons, deeply
to be pitied, seek by dress to hide the nakedness of their souls, or
by the gayety of their own prattle to chill the fire which burns
away their hearts. The merriest faces may be sometimes seen in
mourning coaches; and so, the most melancholy souls, pinched and
pining, sometimes stare at you out of the midst of superficial
smiles and light laughter.
Others seek rest in more adventurous action. Such are mariners,
soldiers, merchants, speculators, politicians, travellers, impelled
to adventurous life to relieve the aching void in their hearts. The
hazards of trade, the changes of political life, cause them to
forget themselves, and so they are rocked into oblivion of internal
disquiet by the toss of the ocean waves. They forget the hollowness
of their own hearts, and cheat themselves into the belief that they
are on their way to peace.
Is peace, is rest, so longed for, then, never to be found? Yes! it
has been found, though perhaps but seldom, and somewhat imperfectly.
That is a state of rest for the soul when all man's powers work
harmoniously together, none conflicting with another, none hindering
another. This rest is complete when every special power in man's
nature is active, and works towards some noble end, free to act, yet
acting entirely in harmony, each with all, and all with each. That
is what may be called self-command, self-possession, tranquillity,
peace, rest for the soul. It is not indifference, it is not
sluggishness; it is not sleep: it is activity in its perfect
character and highest mode.
Some few men seem born for this. Their powers are well-balanced. But
to most it comes only by labour and life-struggle. Most men, and
above all, most strong men, are so born and organized, that they
feel the riddle of the world, and they have to struggle with
themselves. At first they are not well-balanced. One part of their
nature preponderates over another, and they are not in equilibrium.
Like the troubled sea, they cannot rest. The lower powers and
propensities must be brought into subjection to the higher. All the
powers must be brought into harmony. This requires correct views of
life, knowledge of the truth, a strong will, a resolute purpose, a
high idea, a mind that learns by experience to correct its wrongs.
Thus he acquires the mastery over himself, and his passions become
his servants, which were formerly masters. Reason prevails over
feeling, and duty over impulse. If he has lost a friend, he does not
mourn inconsolably, nor seek to forget that friend. He turns his
thoughts more frequently to where that friend has gone, and so he
goes on until it becomes to him a loss no longer, but rather a
gain--a son, daughter, brother, or wife, immortal in the kingdom of
God, rather than mortal and perishing on earth. Gradually he
acquires a perfect command of himself, an equilibrium of all his
active powers, and so is at rest.
What is more beautiful in the earthly life of Jesus, than this manly
harmony, equipoise, and rest? He enjoyed peace, and promised it to
His friends. And this peace of His, He did not for others postpone
to a distant day, or shut up altogether in a future Heaven, but left
it to His disciples on earth. What, then, was His peace?
His peace was not inactivity. They must mistake who give a material
sense to the images of Heaven as a state of rest. If Christ's life
represented Heaven, its peace is not slothful ease, but intense
exertion. How He laboured in word and deed of virtue! He walked in
coarse raiment from town to town, from city to city, from the
dessert to the waves of the sea. His ministry was toil from the day
of His baptism to the scene upon Calvary. And yet His life was
peace. He expressed no wish to retire to an unoccupied ease. His
absorption in duty was His joy. He was so peaceful because so
engaged. His labours were the elements of His divine tranquillity.
And so active and earnest must we be, if we would have calmness and
peace. An appeal may here be made to every one's experience. Every
one will confess that when he had least to do, when mornings came
and went, and suns circled, and seasons rolled, and brought no
serious business, then time was a burthen; existence a weariness;
and the hungry soul, which craves some outward satisfaction, was
found fallen back upon itself and preying upon its own vitality. Are
not the idlest of men proverbially the most miserable? And is not
the young woman often to be seen passing restless from place to
place, because exempt from the necessity of industry, till vanity
and envy, growing rank in her vacant mind, makes her far more an
object of compassion than those who work hardest for a living? The
unemployed, then, are not the most peaceful. The labourer has a
deeper peace than any idler ever knew. His toils make his short
pauses refreshing. Were those pauses prolonged they would be invaded
by a miserable ennui. Perfect peace will be found here or hereafter,
not when we sink down into torpor, but only when the soul is wrought
into high action for high ends.
Another element of the peace of Jesus was His sinlessness. And all
human experience testifies that nothing has so much disturbed
tranquillity as conscious guilt, or the memory of wrong-doing. Peace
is forfeited by every transgression. Angry words, envious looks,
unkind and selfish deeds, will all prevent peace from visiting our
hearts.
We have noticed already another element of peace--mental and moral
harmony. There is a spiritual proportion when every power does its
work, every feeling fills its measure, and all make a common current
to bear the soul along to ever new peace and joy. Our inward
discords are the woes of life. The peaceful heart is quiet, not
because inactive, but through intense harmonious working.
The cravings of the human heart for peace and rest must seek
satisfaction in the ways indicated, or fail of satisfaction. There
must be activity, abstinence from guilt, and moral harmony. Thus
alone can we receive the peace which Jesus said He would leave to
His true followers.
"BE STRONG."
IN the flush, and the rush, and the crush of Life's battle,
When the stern blow of Right dashes loud on steeled Wrong,
Half-drowning the voice of the babe's holy prattle,
Remember the watchword--the motto--"Be strong!"
When the clouds of the past gather brooding above thee,
And gloam o'er thy pillow the aching night long,
Remember who never for once failed to love thee,
And in deepest of loneliness thou wilt _be strong_!
When the rays of the morning seem slow in their beaming,
Overpowered the firm Right--most tremendous bold Wrong,
Let not thy Thought's eye grow the dimmer for streaming,
Pour thy tears in Faith's bosom--thou yet wilt BE STRONG.