find that life is not the doing of drudgeries, but the hearing of oracles! The old mythology is but a leaf in that book, for it peopled the world with spiritual natures. Many leaved science still spreads before us the same tale of wonder. Spiritual meditation, interpreting experience, and above all, the life of Jesus, will lead us still farther into the heart and soul and the innermost life of all things. It is but a child's life to pause and rest upon outward things, though we call them wealth and splendor. It is to feed ourselves with husks, instead of sustaining food. It is to grasp the semblance and to lose the secret and soul of existence. It is as if a pupil should gaze all day upon the covers of his book and open it not, and learn nothing. It is indeed that awful alternative which is put by Jesus himself-to gain the world-though it be the whole world-and to lose our own soul.

DISCOURSE II.

THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.

JOB VII. 17-18. WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU SHOULDST MAGNIFY HIM, AND SET THINE HEART UPON HIM; AND THAT THOU SHOULDST VISIT HIM EVERY MORNING, AND TRY HIM EVERY MOMENT?

THAT we are tried every moment-is the clause of the text, to which I wish in this discourse, to direct your meditation. By which, in the sense of the passage before us, is not meant that we are continually afflicted, but that we are constantly proved and put to the test; that every thing which befalls us, in the course of life and of every day, bears upon us, in the character of a spiritual discipline, a trial of our temper and disposition; that every thing developes in us feelings that are either right or wrong. I have spoken in my last discourse of the moral significance of life. I propose to speak in this, of the possible moral use and of the inevitable moral effect of every thing in life. My theme in short, in this-that every thing in life is moral-or spiritual.

There is no conviction which is at once more rare, and

more needful for our improvement, than this. If the language of Job's discontent and despair in the chapter from which our text is taken, is not familiar to many, yet to very many, life appears at least mechanical and dull. It is not such, in fact, but it appears such. It appears to be mere labor, mere business, mere activity. Or it is mere pain or pleasure, mere gain or loss, mere success or disappointment. These things, if not mechanical, have at least, to many minds, nothing spiritual in them. And not a few pass through the most important transactions, through the most momentous eras of their lives, and never think of them in their highest and most interesting character. The pervading morality, the grand spiritual import of this earthly scene, seldom strickes their minds, or touches their hearts. And if they think of ever becoming religious, they expect to be so only through retirement from this scene, or, at least, through teachings and influences and processes far removed from the course of their daily lives.

But now I say, in contradiction to this, that every thing in life, is spiritual. What is man, says Job, that thou visitest him every morning? This question, presents us, at the opening of every day, with that view of life, which I propose to illustrate. That conscious existence which, in the morning, you recover from the embraces of sleepwhat a testimony is it to the power and beneficence of God? What a teacher is it, of all devout and reverent thoughts? You laid yourself down and slept. You lay, unconscious, helpless, dead to all the purposes of life, and unable by any power of your own ever to awake. From that sleep, from that unconsciousness, from that image of death, God has called you to a new life-he has restored the gift of existence. And now what meets you on

to you

this threshold of renewed life? Not bright sunbeams alone, but God's mercies visit you in every beaming ray and every beaming thought, and call for gratitude; and you can neither acknowledge nor resist the call without a moral result. That result may come upon you, sooner than you expect. If If you rise from your bed, with a mind undevout, ungrateful, self-indulgent, selfish, something in your very preparations for the day, something that may happen in a matter slight as that of the toilet, may disturb your serenity and cloud your day at the beginning. You may have thought that it was only the prayer of the morning that had any religion, any thing spiritual in it. But I say that there is not an article in your wardrobe, there is not an instrument of daily convenience to you, however minute or otherwise indifferent, but it has a power so far moral, that a little disarray or disorder in it, may produce in you a temper of mind, ay a moral state, of the most serious character. You may not be conscious of this; that is, you may not be distinctly sensible of it, and yet it may be none the less true. We are told that the earth, and every substance around us, is full of the electric fluid; but we do not constantly perceive it. A little friction, however, developes it, and it sends out a hasty spark. And so in the moral world-a slight chafing, a single turn of some wheel in the social machinery-and there comes, like the electric spark, a flashing glance of the eye, a hasty word, perhaps a muttered oath-that sounds ominous and awful as the tone of distant thunder! What is it that the little machinery of the electrical operator developes? It is the same power, that gathering its tremendous forces, rolls through the firmament, and rends the mountains in its might. And just as true is it, that the little round of our

daily cares and occupations, the humble mechanism of daily life, bears witness to that moral power, which, only extended, exalted, enthroned above, is the dread and awful majesty of the heavens.

But let us return to our proposition. Every thing is moral, and therefore, as we have said, great and majestic ; but let us for a few moments confine ourselves to the simple consideration, that every thing in its bearings and influences is moral.

All times and seasons are moral; the serene and bright morning-we have said that wakening of all nature to life; that silence of the early dawn, as it were the silence of expectation! that freshening glow, that new inspiration of life, as if it came from the breath of heaven; but the holy eventide also, its cooling breeze, its falling shade, its hushed and sober hour; the sultry noontide, too, and the solemn midnight; and spring-time and chastening autumn; and summer that unbars our gates and carries us forth amidst the ever-renewed wonders of the world; and winter that gathers us around the evening hearth: all these as they pass, touch by turns the springs of the spiritual life in us, and are conducting that life to good or evil. The very passing of time, without any reference now to its seasons, developes in us much that is moral. For what is the passing of time, swifter or slower-what are its lingering and its hasting, but indications-but expressions often, of the state of our own minds; it hastes often, because we are wisely and well employed; it lingers, it hangs heavily upon us, because our minds are unfurnished, unenlightened, unoccupied with good thoughts, with the fruitful themes of virtue; or because we have lost almost all virtue in unreasonable and outrageous impatience. Yes, the