tinued. Each sin was only a sin once more—each sin was followed by a resolve that it should be no more.

Often, after the soul had made its firmest resolve, the body would hurry it into the most flagrant violation of it, and triumphantly prove its own supremacy, even when its antagonist had seemed at last justly confident of victory. Self-contempt and anguish, tears and groans, were mocked, and increased in tenfold painfulness by the signs of the powerlessness that were almost immediately made manifest. The firm purpose with great torture succeeded for a time in destroying the evil; but the chained Prometheus found it reformed before the sun had risen. Life passed away: every joy was lessened, every sorrow doubled, by the misery of this living death-by this battle of endless defeats—and yet its history at the end was even as at the beginning. Oh, hateful body! how many a hard struggle after knowledge did I see it make vain, the prize all but won; how many thoughts of the wise did it render foolish; how many plans of the good, hurtful; how many fair purposes did I see it wither; how many who would have been benevolent, to serve it became selfish ; how many who would have done noble things, to serve it became as the brutes that perish! Looking through it, man sees nothing clear in nature— nothing rightly-all as some bygone characters written by a former race, and now not to be read; it makes the vile look full of honour, and the things most hurtful loved even unto death. The living and the dead are bound face to face. We must suffer to deny it— we must suffer more to obey it. It is the serpent that tempts and devours us. Let no man say he despises it, for then its victory is at hand. Let a man say he fights against it-he unfolds his deepest sorrow and his highest glory. Let a man say he is overcome by itlet us pity, but not contemn him, for it has overcome the world— it is the world: the flesh is the victor that stands over our fallen race, and reaches its giant hand upwards to shut the door of our return.

What I have here said is what I saw exemplified in the multitude of existences whose history I was enabled at a glance to understand. The last sight I saw was one whose whole past life had been spent

in this conflict—who had hated his body, and yet by the body been overcome, constantly and finally. He moved about among his fellows, his own scorn, and as he felt deservedly theirs. They scorned him not; they thought him even one of themselves. He knew he should have been far other-that he had a soul within him with which it was once far otherwise; and his life was a longing after the golden age, but a crushing down under the iron one. I saw the anguish of his soul awake him at midnight. I saw the sorrow at his heart daily. I saw every fresh season witness fresh resolves and fresh failures. At every lengthened review of what had been, he was torn by remorse; he writhed, he rolled in the dust in the agony of his spirit, the hot tears ran from his eyes; he raised his hands toward heaven, the lost home, for some help from thence ; he looked round on the earth, and every inanimate thing told him of the guilt of this unmastered body, and called him vile, that so unnaturally he had sold his higher birthright; he longed to have been made one of the cattle of the earth, that at least he might not have been worse than his kind; he caught at the slightest aid that promised alleviation; he tried a thousand modes, but the body was conqueror, and conquered till the hour of death; in that hour his tortures were those of hell; he had had his foretastes of hell on earth. In this last hour, his body was here, his soul there; he called on the Jehovah to whom he had all his life earnestly, sincerely prayed, and against whom he had all his life sinned, but it was all in vain, it was all in vain!

Such was my horror at this spectacle, that I awoke from my dream, trembling in every limb. I looked around; the stars were up in heaven, and the moon shepherding the flock-they so peaceful, above all mortal care, but I, here in this body, doomed to pain, encompassed by it with dangers every hour, not sure for a moment of my victory over it; and I sorrowed that I had come back to the world that I had not died while I dreamed. I resolved that henceforth I would give myself more than ever to fasting, to solitude, to meditation, and to prayer.

[Written the night of October 29th, 1846. Halle.]

Eight years had passed since 'The Dream of Philo' was written, when the following Address was delivered. The reader will feel, as he peruses it, that he has passed into another region. The disturbed thought of the autumn of 1846 had given place long since to settled Christian faith and hope.-EDITOR.

AN ADDRESS TO DIVINITY STUDENTS ON LEAVING COLLEGE. (1854.)

I HAVE been requested to convey to you this evening, on the part of your esteemed Tutors, of the Ministers and Christian friends who cherish for you, and for the Institution in which you have been trained, so deep an interest, the expression of the affectionate regard in which they hold you, of the hopeful solicitude with which we all shall watch your future career, of the thankful, prayerful anticipations with which we now bid you God speed. Long may life and health be yours-the heart for labour and the hand for it! This is for you our hope and our entreaty-that into whatsoever neighbourhood you may enter, all good men may hail with joy in your arrival the coming up of strong reinforcements for the light against the darkness, that your work, wheresoever done, may be such as to put a fresh heart of confidence and enterprise into all the children of the Day, and to strengthen by the added force of so much more devoted life and hallowed energy the hands of all who seek the glory of the King of saints.

Hitherto you have been mainly occupied with acquisition. Production has formed (and very properly) but a small portion as yet of your employment. The most vigorous powers must be disciplined, the largest capacities informed (and the larger the more needful such lading-if only as so much ballast) before it is either safe or seemly that they assume the guidance of other minds. Up to this time you have mostly employed that far-travelling merchant studious Research, and what he has brought you home has been entered and arranged compactly by your steward Order, and over all you have set the warden Memory. But now you must put in requisition continually the skill of another servant, called com

monly the Distributive or Explanatory Faculty. This is the wise householder who brings forth from his storehouse, for those who tarry at his gate, things new and old. As before you studied to epitomise and compress, to lay up truth in its technical order, its most exact expression, its smallest possible compass, so now your endeavour must be to reverse the process, to make the implicit explicit not merely to fold up truth for yourself, but to unfold it for others, to spread out the tissue in the sunshine that the celestial dyes of it may glisten, to commend with your most winning words those priceless wares which you are commissioned to press on the acceptance of your fellow-men.

These two species of intellectual effort, this power of generalization and this mastery of detail, this inspiration and this expiration, this contractive and this expansive function, though apparently opposed, are alike indispensable to mental completeness, even to healthy mental action. In this respect your position is most happy. By good husbandry of time you will cultivate, to the end of your days, facility in either kind. The noblest of all aims of life is before you self-culture beneath the hand of God for the good of your fellows. Be thankful that your solemn duties forbid in your case all secluded and selfish indulgence in mere literature or mere scholarship, that duty rescues you for ever from the morbid fastidiousness and the desultory trifling of the intellectual miser who will know all and produce nothing, whose very learning and whose very taste are a child's play rather than a man's work. Be thankful, also, that the education you have received has placed at your disposal resources equal to the demand which will be made upon you, and that you are delivered, on the other side, from the unhappy condition of those who attempt to teach without knowledge, and whose whole life is an indolent artifice for giving to wordy ignorance the air of wisdom. Your sense of what is due to others will forbid your silence when you ought to speak; your sense of what is due to yourselves will command your silence when you have nothing to say.

Look forward then to the gradual accomplishment of your

selves by incessant practice in the grand art of making the difficult plain, of stating the largest and the deepest truths in language simple, clear, and strong. Cultivate to the utmost whatever readiness or agility of thought you may possess in the way of quick, witted invention, apt arrangement, welcome variety, illustration, homely or imaginative. Place this among your aims and prayersthat old familiar truth, in your hands, may have its youth perpetually renewed, may wear a human not a statue face, and, with expression ever changeful, be yet the same;-that the common verities of religion, so generally admitted and so generally unheeded, may, either by some new shifting of the light and shade, or linked in some unwonted fellowship, be seen with aspect so bright, so solemn, or so unlooked for, that even hurrying worldliness shall be fain to pause and turn aside to see the sight.

Now also you are about to have to do with men more constantly, on a larger scale, with heavier responsibilities, and more remote it may be from the wished-for counsel of an older head. In the stress of practical affairs, a multitude of new exigencies and minor diffi culties of execution will arise about you, invisible at a distance, and for which the quiet life of College can do little to make you ready. You will not find that book of mankind neatly arranged for you like your lexicons and dictionaries. Sometimes it will seem a volume of hieroglyphics; often a confused and intricate character that must be laboriously spelt out; it is always a language abounding in anomalies. Far more easily extricable are your imbedded Hebrew roots than the real nature and purpose of many men concealed or disguised by the prefixes and affixes of profession or of form, of personal manner or of social usage. For the book of humanity every man must write out his own index with his own hand. Some have done it as in their heart's blood, and many have blotted the page with the vain tears of regret or those burning drops which flow from the indignant sense of wrong. But in this study, like every other, as you sow so will you reap. Two qualities above all are necessary-sympathy and self-control. You will never understand