ingenuity of man. And yet there are questions here, which the profoundest philosopher cannot answer. What is the principle of life,without which, though the whole organization remains, the plant dies? And what is that wonderful power of secretion? No man can tell. There are inscrutable mysteries, wrapped up in the foldings of that humble spire of grass.

Sit down now, and take thy pen, and spread out thine account, as some writers have done, of the insignificance of human life. But wilt thou pause a little and tell me first, how that pen was formed wherewith thou art writing, and that table whereon thy tablets are laid? Thou canst tell neither. Wilt thou not pause then, when the very instruments thou art using, should startle thee into astonishment? Lay thine hand where thou wilt, and thou layest it on the hiding bosom of mystery. Step where thou wilt, and thou dost tread upon a land of wonder. No fabled land of enchantment ever was filled with such startling tokens. So fraught are all things with this moral significance that nothing can refuse its behest. The furrows of the field, the clods of the valley, the dull beaten path, the insensible rock, are trod over and in every direction, with this handwriting, more significant and sublime than all the beetling ruins and all the buried cities, that past generations have left upon the earth. It is the handwriting of the Almighty!

In fine, the history of the humblest human life is a tale of marvels. There is no dull or unmeaning thing in existence, did we but understand it; there is not one of our employments, no, nor one of our states of mind, but is, could we interpret it, as significant-not as instructive, but as significant as holy writ. Experience, sensation, feeling, suffering, rejoicing-what a world of meaning and of wonder lies in the modes, and changes, and strugglings, and soarings of the life in which these are bound up. If it were but new, if we had been cast upon "this shore of being," without those intervening steps of childhood, that have now made it familiar ground, how had we been wrapt in astonishment at everything around, and everything within us!

I have endeavoured, in the present discourse-perhaps in vain-to touch this sense of wonder: to arouse attention to the startling and awful intimations, to the striking and monitory lessons and warnings of our present existence. And if some of the topics and suggestions of my discourse have been vague and shadowy, yet I am ready to say-better to be startled by the shadows of truth, than to sleep beneath its noontide ray: better to be aroused by the visions of a dream, than to slumber on in profound unconsciousness of all the signs and wonders of our being. Oh! that I could tear off this dreadful common-place of life, and show you what it is. There would be no want then of entertainment or excitement, no need of journeys or shows or tales to interest us; the everyday world would be more than theatres or spectacles; and life all-piercing, all-spiritual, would be more than the most vivid dream of romance-how much more than the most eager pursuit of pleasure or profit.

My brethren, there is a vision like that of Eliphaz stealing upon us, if we would mark it, through the veils of every evening's shadows, or coming in the morning with the mysterious revival of thought and consciousness; there is a message whispering in the stirred leaves, or

starting beneath the clods of the field, in the life that is everywhere bursting from its bosom. Everything around us images a spiritual life -all forms, modes, processes, changes, though we discern them not. Our great business with life is so to read the book of its teaching,-to 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 splendour. 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,

THAT EVERYTHING 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 everything 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 everything 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 everything in life. My theme, in *short, is this that everything 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 labour, 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 strikes 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 everything 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 sleep-what 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 to you the gift of existence. And now what meets you on 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 then you expect. 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, anything 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 electric operator developes? It is the same power, that, gathering its tremendous forces, rolls through thefirmament, 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. Everything 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 everything 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 idle watch-hand often points to something within us; the very dial-shadow falls upon the conscience!

The course of time on earth is marked by changes of heat and cold, storm and sunshine; all this, too, is moral. The weather, dull theme of comment as it is often found, is to be regarded with no indifference as a moral cause. For, does it not produce unreasonable anxieties, or absolutely sinful complainings? Have none who hear me ever had reason to be shocked to find themselves angry with the elements; vexed with chafing heat, or piercing cold, or the buffeting storm; and ready, when encountering nature's resistance, almost to return buffet for buffet?

But let us turn from the course of inanimate nature, to matters in which our own agency is more distinct and visible.

Go with me to any farm-house in the land, and let us see what is passing there, and what is the lofty and spiritual import of its humble history. It is the theatre of strenuous toils and besetting cares. Within doors is work to be done; that work which is proverbially “never done;" and without, the soil is to be tilled, the weeds and brambles are to be rooted up, fences are to be builded, of wood or stone, and to be kept in repair; and all this is to be done with tools and instruments that are not perfect, but must be continually mended; the axe and the scythe grow dull with use; the plough and the harrow are sometimes broken; the animals which man brings in to assist his labours, have no instincts to make them do the very thing he wishes, they must be trained to the yoke and the collar, with much pains and some danger.

Now the evil in all this is, not the task that is to be performed, but the grand mistake that is made about the spiritual purpose and character of that task. Most men look upon such a state of life as mere labour, if not vexation; and many regard it as a state of inferiority, and almost of degradation. They must work in order to obtain sustenance, and that is all they know about this great dispensation of labour. But why did not the Almighty cast man's lot beneath the quiet shades and amid embosoming groves and hills, with no such task to perform; with nothing to do, but to rise up and eat, and to lie down and rest? Why did he ordain, that work should be done, in all the dwellings of life, and upon every productive field, and in every busy city, and on every ocean wave? Because-to go back to the original reason-it pleased God to give man a nature destined to higher ends than indolent repose and irresponsible indulgence. And because, in the next place, for developing the energies of such a nature, work was the proper element. I am but repeating, perhaps, what I have said before to you; but I feel, that in taking this position, I am standing upon one of the great moral landmarks which ought to guide the course of all mankind; but on which, seen through a mist, or not seen at all, the moral fortunes of millions are fatally wrecked. Could the toiling world but see that the scene of their daily life is all spiritual, that the very implements of their toil, or the fabrics they weave, or the merchandise they harter, were all designed for spiritual ends, what a sphere of the noblest