and clouds and stars. All nature, in short, speaks in language plain to
be understood of the majesty and power of its Author. Nature is man's
religious book, with lessons for every day. Nature is the chart of God,
marking out all his attributes. A man finds in the production of nature
an inexhaustible stock of materials upon which he can employ himself
without any temptation to envy or malevolence, and has always a certain
prospect of discovering new reasons for adoring the sovereign Author of
the universe. What profusion is there in his work! When trees blossom,
there is not simply one, but a whole collection of gems; and of leaves,
they have so many that they can throw them away to the winds all Summer
long. What unnumbered cathedrals has he reared in the forest shades,
vast and grand, full of curious carvings, and haunted evermore by
tremulous music; and in the heavens above, how do stars seem to have
flown out of his hand faster than sparks out of a mighty forge!
These insignia of wisdom and power are impressed upon the works of God,
which distinguishes them from the feeble imitation of men. Not only the
splendor of the sun, but the glimmering light of the glow-worm, proclaim
his glory. God has placed nature by the side of man as a friend, who
remains always to guide and console him in life; as a protecting genius,
who conducts him, as well as all species, to a harmonious unity with
himself. The earth is the material bosom which bears all the races.
Nature arouses man from the sleep in which he would remain without
thought of himself, inspires him with noble designs, and preserves thus
in humanity activity and life.
The best of all books is the book of nature. It is full of variety,
interest, novelty, and instruction. It is ever open before us. It
invites us to read, and all that it requires of us is the will to do it;
with eyes to see, with ears to hear, with hearts and souls to feel, and
with minds and understandings to comprehend. Infinite intelligence was
required to compose this mighty volume, which never fails to impart the
highest wisdom to those who peruse it attentively and rightly, with
willing hearts and humble minds. Nature has perfection, in order to show
that she is the image of God; and defects, in order to show that she is
only his image.
The study of nature must ever lead to true religion; hence let there be
no fear that the issues of natural science shall be skepticism or
anarchy. Through all God's works there runs a beautiful harmony. The
remotest truth in his universe is linked to that which lies nearest the
throne. It has been said that "an undevout astronomer is mad." With
still greater force might it be said that he who attentively studies
nature and fails to see in her ways the workings of Providence must,
indeed, be blind. Who the guide of nature, but only the God of nature?
In him we live, move, and have our being. Those things which nature is
said to do are by divine art performed, using nature as an instrument.
Nor is there any such divine knowledge working in nature herself, but in
the guide of nature's work.
Examine what department of nature that we will, we are speedily
convinced of an intelligent plan running throughout all the works, which
eloquently proclaims a divine author. In the rock-ribbed strata of the
earth we can read as intelligently as though it were written on
parchment the story of the creation. And what so interesting as this
rock-written history of the world slowly fitting for mankind? Read of
the coal stored away for future use; of whole continents plowed by
glaciers, and made fertile for man. Think of the æons of ages that this
earth swung in space, all the types of creation prophecying of the
coming of man! Who can ponder these o'er without coming to the belief of
an author and finisher of all this glory? Thus does a devout study of
nature discover to us the God of nature.
Go stand upon the heights at Niagara, and listen in awe-struck silence
to that boldest, most earnest, and most eloquent of all nature's
oracles! And what is Niagara, with its plunging waters and its mighty
roar, but the oracle of God—the whisper of his voice is revealed in the
Bible as sitting above the waterfloods forever! Or view the stupendous
scenery of Alpine countries, and there, amid rock and snow, overlooking
the valleys below, we feel a sense of the presence of Divinity. Or,
wandering on ocean beach, watching the play of the waves, or listening
to the roar of the breakers, our hearts are impressed with a sense of
the power and majesty of God. In short, wherever we contemplate the vast
or wonderful in nature, there we experience a religious exaltation of
spirit. It is the soul within us placing itself _en rapport_ with the
soul of nature, the great first cause.
Go stand upon the Areopagus of Athens, where Paul stood so long ago. In
thoughtful silence look around upon the site of all that ancient
greatness; look upward to those still glorious skies of Greece, and what
conceptions of wisdom and power will all those memorable scenes of
nature and art convey to your mind, now more than they did to an ancient
worshiper of Jupiter and Apollo! They will tell of Him who made the
worlds, "by whom, through whom, and for whom are all things." To you
that landscape of exceeding beauty, so rich in the monuments of departed
genius, with its distant classic mountains, its deep, blue sea, and its
bright, bending skies will be telling a tale of glory that the Grecian
never learned; for it will speak to you no more of its thousand
contending deities, but of the one living and everlasting God.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE BIBLE.]
[Illustration]
The Bible is a book whose words live in the ear like music that can
never be forgotten, like the sound of church-bells, which the convert
hardly knows how he can forego. Its felicities often seem to be things
rather than mere words. It is a part of the national mind, and the
anchor of national seriousness. The memory of the dead passes into it;
the potent traditions of childhood are stereotyped in its verses. The
power of all the griefs and trials of man is hidden beneath its words.
It is the representative of his best moments, and all that has been
around him of the highest and best speaks to him out of his Bible.
The Bible is the oldest surviving monument of the springtime of the
human intellect. It reveals to us the character and intellect of our
great Creator and Final Judge. It opens before us the way of salvation
through a Redeemer, unveils to our view the invisible world, and shows
us the final destiny of our race. God's Word is, in fact, much like
God's world, varied, very rich, very beautiful. You never know when you
have exhausted all its merits. The Bible, like nature, has something for
every class of minds. Look at the Bible in a new light, and straightway
you see some new charm. The Bible goes equally to the cottage of the
poor man and the palace of the king. It is woven into literature, and it
colors the talk of the street. The bark of the merchant can not sail to
sea without it. No ship of war goes to the conflict but the Bible is
there. It enters men's closets, mingling in all the grief and
cheerfulness of life.
The Bible is adapted to every possible variety of taste, temperament,
culture, and condition. It has strong reasoning for the intellectual. It
takes the calm and contemplative to the well-balanced James, and the
affectionate to the loving and beloved John. Not only is this book
precious to the poor and unlearned, not only is it the consoler of the
great middle class of society, both spiritually and mentally speaking,
but the scholar and the sage, the intellectual monarch of the age, bow
to its authority.
To multitudes of our race it is not only the foundation of their
religious faith, but it is their daily practical guide as well. It has
taken hold of the world as no other book ever did. Not only is it read
in all Christian pulpits, but it enters every habitation, from the
palace to the cottage. It is the golden chain which binds hearts
together at the marriage altar; it contains the sacred formula for the
baptismal rite. It blends itself with our daily conversation, and is the
silver thread of all our best reading, giving its hue, more or less
distinctly, to book, periodical, and daily paper. On the seas it goes
with the mariner as his spiritual chart and compass, and on the land it
is to untold millions their pillar cloud by day and their fire column by
night.
In the closet and in the streets, amid temptation and trials, this is
man's most faithful attendant and his strongest shield. It is our lamp
through the dark valley, and the radiator of our best light from the
solemn and unseen future. Stand before it as before a mirror, and you
will see there not only your good traits, but your errors, follies, and
sins, which you did not imagine were until you thus examined yourself.
If you desire to make constant improvement, go to the Bible. It not only
shows the way of all progress, but it incites you to go forward. It
opens before you a path leading up and still onward, along which good
angels will cheer you, and all that is good will lend you a helping
hand.
There is no book so well adapted to improve both the head and the heart
as the Bible. It is a _tried_ book. Its utility is demonstrated by
experience; its necessity is confessed by all who have studied the wants
of human nature; it has wrung reluctant praise even from the lips of its
foes. Other books bespeak their own age; the Bible was made for all
ages. Uninspired authors speculate upon truths before made known, and
often upon delusive imaginations; the Bible reveals truths before
unknown, and otherwise unknowable. It is distinguished for its exact and
universal truth. Time and criticism only illustrate and confirm its
pages. Successive ages reveal nothing to change the Bible representations
of God, nothing to correct the Bible representation of human nature.
Passing events fulfill its prophecies, but fail to impeach its
allegations.
The Scriptures teach us the best way of living, the noblest way of
suffering, and the most comfortable way of dying. A mind rightly
disposed will easily discover the image of God's wisdom in the depths of
its mysteries, the image of God's sovereignty in the commanding majesty
of its style, the image of his unity in the wonderful harmony and
symmetry of all its parts, the image of his holiness in the unspotted
purity of its precepts, and the image of his goodness in the wonderful
tendency of the whole to the welfare of mankind in both worlds. We
should use the Scriptures not as an arsenal, to be resorted to only for
arms and weapons, but as a matchless temple where we delight to
contemplate the beauty, the symmetry, and the magnificence of the
structure, and to increase our awe and excite our devotion to the Deity
there proclaimed.
The cheerless gloom which broods over the understandings of men had
never been chased away but for the beams of a supernatural revelation.
Men may look with an unfriendly eye on that system of truth which
reproves and condemns them; but they little know the loss the world
would sustain by subverting its foundations. We have tried paganism, we
have tried Mohammedanism, we have tried Deism and philosophy, and we can
not look upon them even with respect. The Scriptures contain the only
system of truth which is left us. If we give up these, we have no others
to which we can repair.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: FUTURE LIFE.]
[Illustration]
There are two questions, one of which is the most important, the other
the most interesting that can be proposed in language: Are we to live
after death? and if we are, in what state? These are questions confined
to no climate, creed, or community. The savage is as deeply interested
in them as the sage, and they are of equal import under every meridian
where there are men.
Among the most effectual and most beautiful modes of reasoning that the
universe affords for the hope that is within us of a life beyond the
tomb there is none more beautiful or exquisite than that derived from
the change of the seasons, from the second life that bursts forth in
Spring in objects apparently dead, and from the shadowing forth in the
renovation of every thing around us of that destiny which divine
revelation calls upon our faith to believe shall be ours. The trees that
have faded and remained dark and gray through the long, dreary life of
Winter clothe themselves again with green in the Spring sunshine, and
every hue speaks of life. The buds that were trampled down and faded
burst forth once more in freshness and beauty, the streams break from
the icy chains that held them, and the glorious sun himself comes
wandering from his far-off journey, giving warmth to the atmosphere and
renewed beauty and grace to every thing around, and every thing we see
rekindles into life.
At all times and in all places men have contemplated the questions of
death and immortality. The one is a stern reality from which they know
there is no escaping. Every day they see friends and acquaintances
drooping and dying. Their pleasure drives are interrupted by the funeral
cortege of strangers. There is not a soul but what in reflective moments
has pondered the question of immortality. If they see clearly under the
guiding light of Christianity the future is full of hope to them. It
matters but little their present surroundings. If poverty and pain be
their lot, they know that rest will come to them later. Those who do not
possess this pleasing hope of immortality feel at times a painful
longing, a vague unrest. Philosophize as they will, the future is dark
and uncertain, and there are times when they would willingly give all
could they but see a beacon light or feel the strong assurance of faith
that they would live again.
Surely, there is tenable ground for this hope! It can not be that earth
is man's only abiding place. It can not be that our life is a bubble
cast up by the ocean of eternity to float for a moment upon its surface,
and then sink into nothingness and darkness forever. Else why is it that
the high and glorious aspirations, which leap like angels from the
temples of our hearts, are forever wandering abroad satisfied? Why is it
that the rainbow and the cloud come over us with a beauty that is not of
earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse on their faded loveliness?
Why is it that the stars which hold their festival around the midnight
throne are set above the grasp of our limited faculties, and are forever
mocking us with their unapproachable glory? Finally, why is it that
bright forms of human beauty are presented to the view, and then taken
from us, leaving the thousand streams of affection to flow back upon our
hearts? We are from a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a
realm where the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be spread out
before us like the islands on the bosom of the ocean, and where the
beautiful beings that here pass before us like visions will remain with
us forever.
As death approaches and earth recedes do we not more clearly see that
spiritual world in which we have all along been living, though we knew
it not? The dying man tells us of attendant angels hovering around him.
Perchance it is no vision. They might have been with him through life.
They may attend us all through life, only our inward eyes are dim and we
see them not. What is that mysterious expression, so holy and so
strange, so beautiful yet so fearful, on the countenance of one whose
soul has just departed? May it not be the glorious light of attendant
seraphs, the luminous shadow of which rests awhile on the countenance of
the dead?
[Illustration]
[Illustration: TIME AND ETERNITY.]
"Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'T is the divinity that stirs within us;
'T is heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity, thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Thro' what variety of untried being,
Thro' what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."
—ADDISON.
[Illustration]
Alas! what is man? Whether he be deprived of that light which is from on
high, or whether he discards it, he is a frail and trembling creature,
standing on time, that bleak and narrow isthmus between two eternities;
he sees nothing but impenetrable darkness on the one hand, and doubt,
distrust, and conjecture still more perplexing on the other. Most gladly
would he take an observation as to whence he has come, or whither he is
going; alas! he has not the means; his telescope is too dim, his compass
too wavering, his plummet too short; nor is that little spot, his
present state, one whit more intelligible, since it may prove a
quicksand that may sink in a moment from his feet. It can afford him no
certain reckonings as to that immeasurable ocean on which he must soon
spread his sail—an awful expedition, from which the mind shrinks from
contemplating. Nor is the gloom relieved by the outfit in which the
voyage must be undertaken. The bark is a coffin, the destination is
doubt, and the helmsman is death. Faith alone can see the star which is
to guide him to a better land.
The hour-glass is truly emblematical of the world. As its sands run out
at the termination of a given period, so it shows that all things must
have an end. It shows that man may devise—may even execute—but that
erelong time, that restless destroyer, comes, and mows all before him,
and leaves naught but a wreck, a barren waste behind him. Surely all
will give credence to this who watch the daily dying of cherished hopes,
of delightful anticipations. The flame burns brightly at first, but it
soon fluctuates, and finally dies without restriction.
We must, some time or other, enter on the last year of our life; fifty
or one hundred years may yet come, and the procession may seem
interminable, but the closing year of our life must come. There are many
years memorable in history, as in them died men of renown; but the year
of our death will be more memorable to us than any. Eighteen hundred and
fifteen was a memorable year, for in that Waterloo was fought; but there
will be a more memorable year for us—the year in which we fight the
battle with the last enemy. That year will open with the usual
New-year's congratulations; it will rejoice in the same orchard
blossoming, and the sweet influences of Spring. It will witness the
golden glory of the harvest, and the merry-makings of Christmas. And yet
to us it will be vastly different, from the fact that it will be our
closing year. The Spring grass may be broken by the spade to let us down
to our resting-place; or, while the Summer grain is falling to the
sickle, we may be harvested for another world; or, while the Autumnal
leaves are flying in the November gale, we may fade and fall; or, the
driving sleet may cut the faces of the black-tasseled horses that take
us on our last ride. But it will be the year in which our body and soul
part—the year in which, for us, time ends and eternity begins. All
other years fade away as nothing. The year in which we were born, the
year in which we began business, the year in which our father died, are
all of them of less importance to us than the year of our death.
It is only when on the border of eternity that the fleeting period of
life is comprehended. Human life, what is it? It is vapor gilded by a
sunbeam—the reflection of heaven in the waters of the earth. In youth
the other world seems a great way off, but later we feel and realize
that it is close at hand. We come, like the ocean wave, to the shore,
but scarcely strike the strand before we roll back into forgetfulness,
whence we came.
In the light of eternity, how vain and foolish appear the contentions
and strifes of mankind! Addison most beautifully expresses this thought
in these lines: "When I look upon the tombs of the great every emotion
of envy dies; when I read the epitaph of the beautiful every inordinate
desire forsakes me; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tombstone my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the
parents themselves I reflect how vain it is to grieve for those we must
quickly follow; when I see kings lying beside those who deposed them,
when I see rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men who divided
the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and
astonishment on the frivolous competitions, factions, and debates of
mankind."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE EVENING OF LIFE.]
"Old age, serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave."
—WORDSWORTH.
[Illustration]
There is a beauty in age. The morning of life may be glowing with the
expectations of youth; the noon may be fruitful in endeavors and works;
but the evening of life is the time of calm repose and holy meditation.
When young and standing where the glow of youthful hopes irradiates the
future how natural to lay out brilliant plans! to form ambitious
resolves! How easy it seems to achieve any wished-for thing! Wealth,
fame, or any temporal good—surely we can attain them! Experience soon
shows us the futility of these hopes and plans. Before many milestones
are passed in the journey of life we learn that God, in his wisdom, has
so apportioned trial and suffering that it matters little the external
surroundings; to all it is full of work and anxieties and painful
scenes, and that it is in struggling against these that the best
development of power is acquired.
[Illustration: Engraved & Printed by Illman Brothers.
"THE EVENING OF LIFE."
"Man's portion is to die"]
It is no wonder that when once confronted by the stern realities of life
we should lose sight of the dreams of youth. Manhood's days are the days
of reflection, of judgment, a wise adaptation of means to the end
desired, and, if but used aright, we need have little occasion for
regret that childhood's days are passed. We are no longer children; we
are men and women. We are no longer engaged in childish dreams; we are
up and doing what God has assigned to us. This is the period of life
that we would most willingly see prolonged. But time stops not in his
rapid flight. In vain our protests. The sun as swiftly descends to its
setting as it rose to its noon. The form that so rapidly matured into
one of grace, strength, and manly attributes of character, is bowed by
the weight of years. The elasticity of youth gives way to the measured
step and careful tread of age, and on the head time sprinkles his snow.
It is now that the thoughts of man should assume their most valued
characteristics. They can muse over the events of past years. They can
contemplate the mysteries of the future. The most momentous period of
life is about at hand—that time when they will exchange this life for
another. What age can there be more important than this? It is natural
for youth to regard old age as a dreary season—one that admits of
nothing that can be called pleasure, and very little that deserves the
name even of comfort. They look forward to it as in Autumn we anticipate
the approach of Winter, forgetting that Winter, when it arrives, brings
with it much of pleasure. Its enjoyments are of different kinds, but we
find it not less pleasant than any other season of the year.
In like manner age has no terror to those who see it near; but
experience proves that it abounds with consolations, and even with
delights. The world in general bows down to age, gives it preference,
and listens with deference to its opinions. Such reverence must be
soothing to age, and compensate it for the loss of many of the
enjoyments of youth. "The true man does not wish to be a child again."
In individual experience how many have wished to live again the past?
Could we return, and carry with us our present experience, all would
wish to do so, but to go over the same old round we are afraid that the
number of those whose life has been so happy that they would wish to
live it over again is exceedingly small. Your present experience will
remain with you through life. And hence, old age, as devoid of pleasure
as it may appear to us now, we will find that when the passage of years
brings us to that point we will not willingly exchange it for any of the
stages of life gone by.