the good by which his neighbourly love can be manifested. In this emergency his thoughts revert to another friend, who he knows is able to supply what he does not himself possess. And from him he obtains, but only by persistent entreaty, whatever his necessities require. In the spiritual life and experience of the Christian, who are these two friends-one at home with his children, the other on a journey? The friend near and at home is the Lord, as Divine goodness dwelling in the inner man; and the friend on a journey is the same Lord, as Divine truth coming suddenly to the outer man, to startle him from his earthly security, and rouse in him those better feelings, of which not self, but the neighbour, is the object. Does not the Lord represent Himself to us in both of these characters-as one who is always near us, and with us, and as one who comes upon us suddenly and silently, even as a thief in the night? Is He not also represented as a homeless stranger, an hungered and thirsty, pleading for the shelter of our roof, and for a portion of our meat and drink? He comes as a thief to the evil, to deprive them of their ill-gotten and ill-used riches; but He comes as a friend to the good, to elevate and perfect them. The Lord operates on the mind, both from within and from without; from within by His Spirit, from without by His Word. Good from the Lord flows in through the interiors of the mind; truth enters through the senses. Both pursue the same end. That one end is our salvation, and both are for ever striving to work it out. One works downward, the other works upward. Good, which enters through the inmost of the soul, is ever striving to descend, and truth, which enters through the senses, is every striving to ascend. Their purpose is to meet in the inner chamber, where reason has its abode and conscience presides, and there unite and form that heavenly marriage which is the union of goodness and truth. Good, which comes from above, enters silently and unperceived. For the kingdom of heaven cometh not with observation; neither shall they say, lo here, or lo there, for the kingdom of God is within you. Nor can the kingdom of God, first set up in the heaven of the spiritual mind, come down and be established on the earth of the natural mind until the truth prepares the way for its descent. The spiritual mind itself remains closed till the natural mind desires and seeks to have it opened. All heavenly goodness comes from above, through the spiritual into the natural mind. But before the natural man can receive that good, he must first be made sensible that he needs it. And then he must ask that he may receive, he must seek that he may find, he must knock that the door may be opened unto him. The friend who comes at midnight awakens the desire to entertain him, which the other friend inspires; for truth desires good, and good desires truth. It is then that the host discovers that he has nothing to set before him. This discovery, the conviction that he has no good to satisfy the desire of truth, is that which prompts him to go to another and higher than himself to obtain it. Here is the true ground of all earnest prayer, the felt want of heavenly goodness, the conviction that we ourselves have not what we need. Without this feeling and conviction our prayers are not petitions, but repetitions; they are the words of the mouth without the meditation of the heart. Inspired by them our prayers must ultimately prevail; for the desire for good, that we may do good, and the conviction that we of ourselves possess no good that is really good, give that sense of dependence which is the essential ground of all supplication. The natural man must also feel his dependence on the spiritual, and look to him for the supply of his spiritual wants. And when by persevering application the spiritual man rises up, the natural man obtains not three loaves only, but as many as he needeth. The natural man at first aspires after and asks only for the good of truth, but the spiritual man gives the good of love. This is the good that supplies all needs, and is given unnumbered and unmeasured, except by the limit of the capacity that receives and of the charity that dispenses it. This good, too, though asked as a loan, is bestowed as a gift—a gift that is our own, because it becomes a part of our nature, but of that new nature which claims no merit, but feels it the greatest happiness to refer all that is good to Him who alone is good, and who alone is wise, and who enriches the inner man with His love and wisdom, and descends with His goodness into all the natural thoughts and affections of the mind below, satisfying all their wants, and giving them the principles and the powers of a new and happy life. IMMORTALITY. How wonderful is life, and how sad, yet beautiful, is death! Sad for those who are left to mourn the departed one, but beautiful for the redeemed spirit who passes through its portals into the realms of light and life. This reflection may possibly appear trite and hackneyed, but there are times in our lives when it comes home to the mind with unwonted force. Such was the case a few days ago, when a somewhat striking coincidence occurred, which reminded me strongly of Longfellow's beautiful poem, "The two Angels." On the same morning, whilst one of my most intimate friends was passing away from earth, another was ushering into the world a little daughter. The one, after struggling long through life's rough paths, had quietly laid down her earthly burden; the child of the other, fresh from God's own hand, had entered on its little life, which, for good or for evil, was to expand into an immortal existence. The two heavenly messengers, "crowned with amaranths and asphodels," had simultaneously performed their work of love, though in the one case the message had been of life, and in the other of death. It is thus that the great wheel of human existence continually revolves. The " seven ages" of man, from the cradle to the grave, are for ever being repeated, and so inexorable is the law of death, and so completely does man appear to pass into oblivion, that like the Sadducees of old, men are beginning to deny both the resurrection and the future life. As I stood by the mortal remains of my friend, a few hours after her spirit had fled, I could not but contrast the sad and desolating creed of the materialist with the clear and comforting views which have been made known to us in the present day. How opposite the conclusions! On the one hand a gloomy denial, on the other a firm and practical belief in a joyful immortality. Swedenborg tells us that there is no cessation or break in the chain of life. Celestial angels receive the departing spirit and welcome him to his new home. Their holy and loving sphere is reflected in the face of the dying man, and after death the features are frequently radiant with an expression that seems more of heaven than of earth. He has passed the threshold of the other world, and has commenced a higher life "Death is a higher life. We bow our heads at going out, Larger than this we leave, and lovelier." Then first do we rejoice in true spiritual freedom. Whilst fettered to the material body, we are like the acorn germinating amid the coarse clods of earth, that repress its growth and hamper its inherent powers. As soon, however, as its young tendrils rise above the ground, they shoot upwards towards the sun, and rapidly expand into all the wonderful perfections of the oak. In like manner, when the human soul rises into the spiritual world, its perceptions and affections find free scope for their action; and if our love be pure and heavenly in its nature, we advance in wisdom and perfection for ever. Such is the Christian's humble hope and belief! To the materialist, however, this is but an empty dream, and he is even disposed to regard those who thus think, with a feeling akin to pity. Accustomed to judge of every event by the evidence of his external senses, he will accept no theory of a life beyond the grave, based merely upon scriptural revelation or philosophical probabilities. No traveller has ever turned from that bourne to tell us of a future life, and why therefore should man differ from all other created things, which run their short race, and return to the dust from whence they sprang? Alas! for our happy race, if this were indeed true! What then would become of our "sublime imaginings;" our yearnings after the good and true; our cravings for immortal life? Worse would our lot then be than that of the fabled Tythonus, who prayed to the gods for immortality, but forgetting to ask also for perpetual youth, was doomed to linger shrivelled and decrepit "A white haired-shadow roaming like a dream, Worse even than the fate of the "beasts which perish :" that perform their allotted use, in blissful ignorance of their coming end, untortured with care or foreboding of the morrow. Who, under such circumstances, would not envy the free flight of the swallow, or the joyous boundings of the roe? Better almost, like the butterfly, to sport for a few days or hours in the sunbeams, than to be gifted with transcendent hopes and longings, which at death are to be quenched in eternal night! Whence came these longings if incapable of realization? Their very existence is presumptive proof of their fulfilment; for throughout the whole realm of nature the law seems invariable that no orderly desire shall exist which cannot be satisfied; and why, therefore, should our highest cravings be an exception to the rule? The truth is, that man's real nature is as yet but dimly understood. We judge of him from his corporeal rather than his spiritual part. It can never, however, be too clearly borne in mind that " man is man from his spirit, and not from his body." It is the spirit which thinks and loves and prays: the body is at best but a wonderful machine, by means of which we are able to see, hear, and feel, and to have contact with the outer world. True, it is so perfect in its adaptation to all our requirements, that for the time being, the soul and the body appear to act as one. As age, however, advances, the various organs of the latter gradually act with less and less precision. The eye flattens, and requires artificial lenses to assist it in its work. The ear grows dull, and conveys the sounds of the outer world less acutely, and one by one the several organs and all the delicate nerves and filaments which unite the soul and body become less sensitive to our volitions. The time comes, at length, when the whole corporeal frame ceases to respond to our behests, and then we are said to die. The soul emancipated from its material covering passes at once into the spiritual world, where it no longer requires a body of flesh and blood, and where, as already described, it enters on a new and spiritual life. We will not now pursue our inquiries as to the nature of that life, but will briefly consider the argument which is frequently urged by sceptics on this subject as it applies to the case of animals. If, say they, man is immortal by virtue of his spiritual organization, why are not all animals equally so? or, reversing the proposition, if all animals perish at death, why should not man perish also? This is the old crux that has been raised a thousand times, and has been answered in numberless ways. Regarded from the purely natural side, perhaps no better reply has ever been given than that by Addison in the Spectator, nearly 150 years ago. It occurs in a paper entitled "Immortality," and is as follows: "But among the various arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfections. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is created? Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection which he can never pass; in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of, and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments; were her faculties to be full blown and incapable of further enlargements, I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of His infinite Goodness, Wisdom, and Power must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries? |