NEW THOUGHTS FOR THE SCHOLARS.

The little class which has been introduced to the reader came together the next Lord’s Day interested and expectant, yet not knowing what to expect. They had chosen a course of study, yet they could not tell what that course was to be. They had tried to think of something definite about it, but could fix their minds upon nothing. In fact, the whole subject was new, and they could not decide where or how to take hold of it. They came together, therefore, with no more knowledge of the subject than when they separated.

Mr. Wilton himself came before his class in a state of doubt. He had given the subject many hours of thought, and had carried it to his closet and besought the guidance of the Holy Spirit, for he believed the divine Spirit to be the best guide in understanding the works as well as the word of God. He felt that his prayer had been heard and answered. He was prepared, therefore, to speak with the force of clear understanding and positive convictions. But the precise line of study he had left to be determined by circumstances, perhaps by the previous studies of his class in their academic course. This was to be decided by further consultation.

“Since no lesson was assigned upon which you could prepare yourselves,” Mr. Wilton said, after the opening exercises of the school were finished, “I shall spend the half hour to-day in a kind of conversational lecture. You may call this the preface or introduction to the lessons which will follow. I shall try to make plain some general principles which we must keep in mind, whatever department of God’s works we shall attempt to examine. I wish you to feel entirely free to interrupt me at any time, and ask any question or present any objection which may strike your minds. We must, if possible, have no prowling bands of enemies in the rear. I wish to make everything as plain as the case will admit.

“One thing let me remind you of in the beginning: I shall not try to prove to you that there is a God. I shall not try to prove that the world had a creator. There are some things which men do not believe merely on account of good evidence, nor disbelieve for want of proof. Men believe in their own existence, but not from a course of argument. Most men believe in the real existence of the outward world—the earth, the hills, the rivers, the trees, everything which we see and hear and feel—but not on account of proof. Here and there a strange man is found who professes to disbelieve the real existence of all material things, but he disbelieves not for want of proof. Men believe that their sight and hearing and touch do not deceive them, but their confidence in them is not the result of a course of reasoning. To believe in our own existence, and in the existence of the world outside of us, and in the truthfulness of our senses, is natural; to disbelieve these things is unnatural: it shows a state of disordered mental action. When such disbelief is not practically corrected by a man’s understanding he is counted insane, and is treated accordingly.

“Belief in the existence of God is also a natural belief. A denial of God’s existence shows, not disordered mental action, but a disordered moral and spiritual state. It shows the absence of that spiritual faculty by which we receive spiritual impressions, and are brought into contact with the spiritual world, and hold intercourse with God and Christ and the Holy Spirit. Men must be convinced of the existence of God through their conscience, their moral and spiritual nature. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say that good evidence cannot be brought to prove to one’s reason the existence of God, but God has not left his existence to be proved: he has revealed himself to men’s consciences and to their faith; and those in whom conscience and faith are well developed, sound, and right do not need an elaborate argument to prove the divine existence. I shall simply try to show that the works of creation exhibit the wisdom and goodness of God. If any man, looking at such indications of wisdom and kindness, can believe that it all comes by chance or is the work of some evil agency, and that no Being of boundless intelligence, wisdom, power, and goodness has anything to do with the making and governing the world, he certainly shows great prejudice: he does not want to recognize God’s existence. He must be one of those spoken of by the Psalmist who say, ‘no God.’

“During my recent visit to Greenville I visited a mill, the largest of its kind in the country. In one room was a machine, something like a huge straw-cutter, working with great power. In another room was a large steam boiler hung upon a shaft and made slowly to revolve while filled with steam. In a third room were large oval tanks, or cisterns, which might be filled with water. Across each tank was a heavy shaft carrying a drum set with steel blades, and as the drum revolved these blades passed other blades in the bottom of the tank, cutting whatever came between like scissors. In a fourth room were certain long and complicated machines. Each machine was composed mostly of rollers. There were large rollers and small rollers, solid rollers of enormous weight, and hollow rollers to be heated by steam within. Over and around a portion of these rollers passed a broad wirecloth belt. Over others passed a like belt of felted cloth. With these machines before you, could you tell me whether the inventor were a wise and skillful machinist?”“How could we tell,” asked Peter, “without knowing what kind of work the machine was designed to do?”

“You could not tell,” answered Mr. Wilton; “you would need to know both what the machine was designed to do and all the processes by which the work was to be carried on. This brings out the first point which I wish you to fix in mind. It is this: To judge of the wisdom of any contrivance, we must understand the purpose, or object, which the inventor had in view; we must understand the work to be accomplished, and also the difficulties to be overcome. An ordinary locomotive steam-engine is admirably fitted to run on iron rails, but he would be a foolish man who should purchase such an engine to draw a train of loaded wagons over a common road of earth. On such a road it could not even move itself. It is good for that for which it was made, and for nothing else. How would you apply this principle to the subject we are now considering? You may answer, Samuel.”

“I think you mean,” said Samuel, “that, in order to judge of the wisdom and goodness of God in creating and governing this world, we must know the object he had in view in making such a world.”

“That is my meaning, and I am glad that you understand me so perfectly. If this world were created with no other object than to be the grazing-field for herds of cattle, which see no difference between the beauty of the violet and the dull shapelessness of the cold earth upon which it grows, and never lift their eyes above the horizon, then all the beauty of earth and sky would be useless; there would be no wisdom or goodness in the creation of this beauty. There would be no wisdom or goodness in laying up in store beds of coal, buried deep beneath the surface of the earth, if God designed the world to be inhabited only by savages too rude and ignorant ever to mine it, and turn it to some practical use.

“But let me give you another illustration, which can better be applied to the condition of things in this world. Just in the outskirts of one of our inland cities I once saw a large and elegant building, whether a private dwelling or a public institution I could not at first tell. It stood high and airy, commanding the most pleasing prospect that all the region presented. We will follow a visitor as he goes to examine that noble establishment.

“As he comes nearer, he sees that the edifice is simple and classic in its style and chaste in its architectural adornment. It is a pleasure for the eye to rest upon its graceful symmetry. But in place of the light and graceful fence which he expects to find enclosing its grounds, he sees a stockade strong and high. The janitor turns the heavy key, the rusty bolt flies back, and the visitor enters the enclosure. Within the stockade he finds a portion of the ground laid out with taste and cultivated with choice and beautiful flowers; another part is devoted to the culture of garden vegetables. He finds workshops also for the manufacture of pails and tubs, brooms and mattresses. The visitor is ushered into the mansion itself. He finds everything more than comfortable; the rooms are heated from furnaces below; every part is perfectly ventilated; the windows command a view of the country around which must please the most cultivated eye; a school-room is provided with all needed apparatus for the most thorough instruction. ‘Surely,’ says the visitor, ‘the founder of this institution must have been both wise and good. He must have loved the young in order to study and supply all their needs so completely.’ But some things strike the visitor painfully. The windows are grated with iron, and some of the rooms are almost like prison cells. ‘Can it be possible,’ he thinks within himself, ‘that the young need to be confined by a stockade in so pleasant a place and shut in by grates of iron for the enjoyment of such advantages?’ The master as he teaches his pupils seems as kind and gentle as a mother, yet there is a firmness and authority in his tones and a rigidity in his training, as if his government were kept braced against a mutinous spirit. The means of punishment also are provided, and, when occasion requires, stern chastisement is employed. All this seems to the visitor like an enigma. The institution appears to him like a bundle of contradictions. A father could not have provided a pleasanter home or larger advantages for his children, but fathers do not commonly surround their homes with stockades, and cover their windows with bars of iron, and train their obedient children with a hand of such firm, unyielding force. ‘Pray, sir,’ he says to the master, ‘what is this strange contradictory institution?’ ‘It is the State Reform School,’ the master answers. ‘And who are these lads and young men for whom all this work and wisdom is expended?’ ‘They are those who have taken the first steps in crime, but have not as yet become hardened and fixed in wickedness, and are sent here with the hope of overcoming their vicious propensities and training them to virtue and an honorable manhood.’

“Everything is now made plain. The need of the stockade, and the grated windows, and the rigid government, as well as of the pure air, the garniture of beauty, and the kind loving care, is manifest. It is a place unsuited to a family of obedient children, and equally unsuitable as a place of confinement for confirmed criminals, shut up, not for reform, but for punishment. It is wisely adapted to the work designed to be accomplished, and to no other.

“In like manner, if we would judge of the wisdom and goodness of God in the creation and government of this world, we must understand the use for which the world was designed. Is this plain to you, Ansel, and does it seem reasonable?”“Yes, sir; I think I understand it, and I can see no objection to the principle. I think even Mr. Hume could find no fault with that. But how shall we know the object for which God made and governs the world?”

“That is the next point to be considered. Perhaps you will tell us what seems to you to be that object? Young people sometimes have thoughts and opinions upon the greatest questions.”

“I have never formed an opinion of my own,” Ansel replied, “but I have always heard it said that God designed to show how perfect and good and beautiful a world he could make. But many things in the world seem to me neither perfect, nor good, nor beautiful.”

“Why, Ansel!” exclaimed Samuel; “the Bible says that ‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.’”

“And, Mr. Wilton,” asked Peter, “does not the Bible say that ‘God created all things for his own glory’?”

“Before answering any of these questions, let me ask Samuel a question. What do you understand to be the meaning of the words you quoted from the last verse of the first chapter of Genesis?—‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.’”

“I suppose it means,” answered Samuel, “that God made everything just as good and beautiful as it can be, so that any change must be a change for the worse. The lecturer last winter said that if men could entirely destroy any one of the most troublesome species of insects, their destruction would be a great loss to the world, and that if a single atom of matter belonging to the earth were annihilated, it might throw the solar system out of balance, so that it would finally be destroyed.”

“I remember,” said Mr. Wilton, “that some lecturer last winter made statements of that kind, and I have heard other people declare that the least possible change in the world would be injurious, if not destructive, to the interests of man, and that the most troublesome beasts and insects and the most loathsome reptiles are necessary to human happiness. Does that seem to you to be true, Samuel?”

“I have always tried to believe it, because I thought I ought to believe it. It has seemed to me to be dishonoring God to believe that he did not make the best possible world.”“You are right in trying to believe what seems to be right and true, even though difficulties do lie in the way. Difficulties do not by any means show that an opinion is false. We must certainly believe that God made this world perfect for the object which he had in view in making it. But not a few skeptics deny the existence of a good, wise, righteous Creator and Governor, because they have a wrong idea of the end for which the world was created, and, consequently, a wrong idea of that in which its perfection must consist. Let me ask you a few questions which will lead your minds in the right direction. Do not men produce by cultivation better fruits and vegetables than Nature ever grows when left to herself?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ansel; “the peach and apple and potato have been brought up to their present state of excellence by great care and exertion. Originally, they were almost worthless.”

“And not only that,” said Mr. Wilton, “but when once that careful culture is relaxed they begin to return to their former badness. Again, do we not improve upon Nature by drainage and improve upon the climate by irrigation?—in fact, do not men by drainage and irrigation and all manner of culture greatly improve the natural climate of a country?”

“I think that is true,” said Ansel.

“I never thought of that before,” said Peter.

“Moreover, do you not suppose that heaven will be more beautiful than the earth, and that a thousand troublesome things besides sin—loathsome sights, discordant and jarring noises, disgusting and nauseous odors—will be absent from that ‘better land’?”

“And I never thought of that before,” said Samuel. “I am sure that many unpleasant things besides those which sin has brought into the world will not be found in heaven. I see that this world might be changed and not be made worse for holy beings to live in.”

“The world is very good,” said Mr. Wilton, “for the purpose for which it was created, but we need not look upon it as designed for a specimen of the most beautiful, pleasant, and desirable world which the Creator could produce.”

“But you have not told us,” said Peter, “what the Bible means when it says that God created all things for his own glory. Does it not mean that he made the world so good and perfect that all creatures ought to praise him on account of it?”

“We ought,” said Mr. Wilton, “to praise God for the wisdom and goodness displayed in the works of creation. That is the teaching of the Bible in many places; it is also the sentiment of the Bible that God created the world and carries on all things for his own glory, but it nowhere uses the exact language which you have employed. In Isa. xliii. 7, speaking of ‘every one that is called by my name,’ the Lord says, ‘I have created him for my glory.’ In Prov. xvi. 4 it is written, ‘The Lord hath made all things for himself; yea, even the wicked for the day of evil;’ and the four and twenty elders fell before the throne of God saying: ‘Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honor and power; for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are’—that is, exist—‘and were created.’ I might quote other texts of similar meaning. We are taught also that our first and supreme aim in all our conduct should be the glory of God. ‘Whatever ye do, do it all to the glory of God.’ But here two questions arise: What is the glory of God? and, What is it for God to glorify himself by his works of creation and government? Who will tell us?”

All were silent, and Mr. Wilton went on speaking: “The word glory means, first and literally, a halo of light. The glory of God is the radiance, or halo, so to speak, of his infinite attributes and holy character. God glorifies himself when he reveals himself, and makes known his character, and causes the uncreated splendor of his attributes to break forth, so that his creatures recognize them and adore him. This, you see, is very different from the idea of glory among ambitious men. God glorified himself in the creation of the physical world, because from that creation his wisdom, power, and goodness are manifest. He glorified himself in the creation of angels and men, because they were created in the image of God and are finite pictures, so to speak, of the infinite Creator—a revelation of his spiritual being and personality. He glorifies himself in his government of the world, because his administration of affairs exhibits his justice, mercy, and holiness. This is what we mean by the glory of God and his working all things for his own glory. This is somewhat difficult for persons of your age, so we will leave it and return to the exact subject of discussion. Admitting that God created the world and governs it for his own glory—that is, to reveal himself—for what specific purpose did he design this earth?”

“I don’t know,” said Peter, “that we understand what you mean by ‘specific purpose.’”

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Wilton; “I will suggest the answer. Does the world seem as if fitted up to be the dwelling-place of holy beings?”

“I have never thought of the question before,” said Ansel; “but it seems to me that many things in this world would give pain even to angels if they lived here with bodies like ours.”

“I agree with you, Ansel. If men were sinless and holy as the angels of heaven, many things in this world would bring them distress. But does it seem reasonable that the world was designed merely as a place of punishment for men by reason of their wickedness?”

“Some men are not wicked,” replied Samuel. “There have always been men willing to die rather than disobey God. Surely, God does not punish such men. And many beautiful and pleasant things are found in the world—arrangements plainly designed for the welfare and happiness of men.”

“I think you are right, Samuel. But, without asking further questions, I will give you the conclusions to which my study upon this subject has brought me, and some of the reasons for those conclusions.

“This world was made chiefly as the dwelling-place of man. The world was not planned merely as the abode of brute animals. Men are nobler than the brutes. Men have permanent interests and advantages. Aside from the glory of God, men are an end unto themselves. To become and be men is the noblest object of human life, but the animal tribes exist for the use and benefit of others. To be an end to itself, a creature must be immortal; but the brutes exist for the use and advantage of man, live out their transient life, and exist no more. This is the view presented in the sacred Scriptures. God gave to man lordship over the earth—not only over the soil to subdue it, and over the great forces of Nature to bring them into subjection for human advantage, but also over the brute creation, ‘over the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, and every living thing that moveth upon the earth.’ I conclude also that God did not prepare this world as a prison-house and place of punishment for rebels against his government. Too many pleasant things abound for me to believe that. The pleasant breezy air, the glorious sunlight, the refreshing showers, the treasures of mineral wealth stored up in the earth, the fertile land and golden wheat, the beauty spread over all nature, the sweet consciousness of existence, so that just to live and act is joy, and the comfort and hope of immortal pleasure enjoyed by truly Christian men,—all these things, and many more, assure me that not the subtle shrewdness of a tormentor nor the unmingled justice of an inexorable judge, but the heart of a kind and loving Father, planned our earthly dwelling-place. You said, Samuel, with truth, that there are many pious men in the world who are dear to God, and Paul says, ‘We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.’ For those dear ones Christ has such love that he counts everything—whether good or bad—that is done to them as if done to himself. ‘Inasmuch,’ he says, ‘as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ Moreover, Jesus said: ‘For God so loved the world, that he sent his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ From these words of Jesus we see that there is love manifested in the dealings of God with the inhabitants of our world. Were it not so, there would nothing remain but a ‘fearful looking-for of judgment and fiery indignation, which shall devour the adversaries.’

“On the other hand, I conclude that God made the world as the dwelling-place, not of obedient, holy children, but of those who are disobedient, fallen, and alienated. These disobedient and alienated ones he holds under discipline and chastisement, in order to keep their wickedness in check, to recover them from their sins, and train them up in virtue and holiness, or to remove from the obstinate and incorrigible all excuse for their sins and all plea against their final condemnation. In doing this he glorifies himself by manifesting his wisdom, goodness, mercy, and holiness.

“This opinion seems probable from the fact that this is the purpose for which God has actually used and is now using the world. Here he keeps and governs the human race. This race is made up neither of holy beings nor of hopeless reprobates. They are the creatures of God; fallen indeed, yet loved; sinful, but objects of divine compassion; deserving of righteous wrath, but the recipients of the offers of salvation through Christ. Even penitent believers in Christ and devoted servants of God are not free from evil propensities, but need to be kept under constant training and discipline. This is the use to which the Creator has actually put the world. Is it not reasonable to believe that he designed it for their use? Ought we to believe that God planned the world for an object for which it never has been and never will be employed?

“If sin were removed from the world, the chief part of human suffering would be removed. This no man can deny. Wars would cease; the want, disease, and woe resulting from selfishness, idleness, and vice would disappear, and nothing would stand between man and his Maker. What new life and joy would fill the world if free communication were restored between man and God, and the divine smile were again to enlighten the world! It would seem that heaven had enlarged her borders to embrace this earthly ball. But the fact would still remain that this physical world is unfitted to be the dwelling-place of sinless beings. The constitution of the world would bring upon them pains and evils which would seem a most unworthy heritage for loving and obedient children of our heavenly Father. Let sin be taken away, and wearisome toil in subduing the earth would remain. The soil of the earth is hard and clogged with stones, and clammy with stagnant waters, and sown well with the seeds of noxious weeds, and overgrown with thorns and thistles. Endless watchfulness and toil is the price of a livelihood. With the sweat of his face man must eat his bread. An army of enemies have pre-empted the soil which man must till. This state of things the word of God refers to sin: ‘Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life. Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.’ The necessity of toiling as we do now for our daily bread, God denounced upon man as a curse on account of sin. We cannot, therefore, regard this as a suitable condition for sinless beings.“This burden of toil is lightened by the progress of modern sciences and inventions much less than some men think. Every step of progress has been made by the sacrifice of hecatombs of human lives. From our laboratories and workshops products of human skill, rich and rare, are sent forth; but what are they but smelted and hammered and graven and woven human bones and sinews, the health and life of men? No means have been discovered by which the most necessary processes of the arts can be made otherwise than dangerous to health. Only when thousands of miserable workmen had perished was Sir Humphrey Davy’s safety-lamp invented; and now the danger, to say nothing of the hard toil, of the collier’s life is only lessened, but not removed. Still, our furnaces roar and the whole tide of civilization goes on by the health-destroying servitude of men, buried alive as it were in the dark bosom of the earth. Would that seem to be a fitting employment for the sinless children of the all-loving Father? EmployÉs in many kinds of manufacture slowly sink under the accumulated evils of daily toil, and no means of making their employments healthful have been discovered. The friction-match, which has become so nearly a necessity, is made by a process so destructive to health that only a certain class of laborers can be prevailed upon to do the work. I might go on to speak of other painful circumstances in which men find themselves by the almost antagonistic attitude of Nature. But if we reject these dangerous processes of manufacture and art, we go back at once to the wooden plough, the distaff and tinder-box of primitive times, and also to primitive poverty and primitive toil, and, I may also add, to primitive exposure to the hostile and pitiless forces and inclemencies of Nature. Purge the earth of sin, and wearisome toil would still remain. Nature must be nursed and cultivated or she yields no bread. Her hostile attitude must be overcome; the thorns and thistles must be rooted out; and every step of progress, won by suffering, must be held by painful work and watchfulness; otherwise Nature returns to the wild and savage state. Relax the culture of the choicest fruit, and it begins to deteriorate; leave the best-blooded breed of cattle to itself, and it returns again to the level of native, uncultured stock.

“The inhabitants of this world are also liable at all times to diseases and destructive accidents. This condition of things could not be changed without changing the entire structure and plan of the world. Is that a fit dwelling-place for a sinless being where chilling winds one day shrivel his skin and fill his bones with rheumatic pains, and the next, sweltering heats pervade all his system with languid lassitude—where miasma lies in wait unseen to poison his blood, kindle the malignant fever, and bring him to the shades of death, and every form of accident crouches in ambush, ready to spring upon his victim unawares and tear him limb from limb? We cannot see that the absence of sin would dissipate this liability to disease and the danger of accidents. Nay, this liability and danger are written upon the very constitution of the human body. The finger of God has engraved it upon every muscle and bone and life-cell. The Creator gave the body that wonderful power called the vis medicatrix—the power of recovering from injuries and repairing damage done to itself. Pull a leg from a grasshopper and another grows in its place. By this we know that the Creator understood the liability of this little insect to lose a limb, and prepared him for it. In like manner the power in man’s body to heal a wound or join a broken bone gives us to understand that the Creator expected man to live in the midst of danger. The precaution proves the risk.

“These accidents are such as no possible carefulness could guard against. To say nothing of the fact that all our knowledge of these perils comes from a painful experience of danger and death, what care, even after ages of sad experience, could ward off the thunderbolt? What carefulness could guard against the tornado on the land, or the hurricane and the cyclone upon the sea? Who should stand sentinel against the unseen poison borne upon the wings of the wind? What power should save him from the bursting of the volcano and the jaws of the earthquake? What care could give him knowledge of the qualities of all natural substances, that he might avoid their dangerous properties? We can suppose a divine care over man that should do all this and save men from harm, but it would be a providence superseding all human knowledge and exertion—it must be a providence to which the human race is now a stranger; miracles would then be the rule, and the undisturbed course of Nature the exception.“If, however, we suppose that God designed the world as a training-school, so to speak, of fallen beings, such as the word of God declares the human race to be, all is plain, everything is suitable and harmonious. We can see the fitness of at least the chief outlines of man’s earthly condition, and can perceive God’s wisdom and goodness in the constitution of the world.

“The pain and woe-producing agencies of Nature are seen to be not at all contradictory to goodness, but on the other hand eminently wise and righteous. The whole sum of human misery expresses God’s displeasure at sin. By their sufferings men learn how abhorrent is sin in God’s sight. By the consequences of evil-doing they learn not to transgress. As none are free from the taint of depravity, none are free from pains. The necessity of labor—one of the elements of the primal curse—is a check to sin on the part of the vicious, and a discipline and trial to virtue on the part of the penitent. The multiform trials of life—which can indeed be borne well only by the grace of God—while they teach the evil of sin and keep the heart chastened and subdued, nourish heroic and dauntless virtue in the faithful. ‘Daily cares’ become ‘a heavenly discipline.’ Dangers and calamities startle the stupid conscience, and keep alive the sense of responsibility to God on the part of the wicked; they quicken the sense of weakness and dependence in the believing and educate their faith in God. The more sudden and overwhelming these evils, and the more these dangers are placed beyond the possibility of being warded off by human care, the more do they awaken in men a sense of the divine presence and of responsibility to God.

“But would not all these natural agencies subserve essentially the same ends in the discipline of unfallen and sinless beings? By no means. If sufferings came upon a sinless being, he could not feel that they came as chastisements; he could not feel them to be deserved. They would be to him a ‘curse causeless,’ and hence would bring no advantage. He could only cry out in astonishment, ‘Father, why am I, thine obedient son, thus smitten?’ Calamity falling upon the innocent would be an anomaly in the universe. But now the sufferer, pierced through and through with a sense of ill desert, meekly bows his head, murmuring, ‘Father, all thy judgments are just and right.’“One very important feature of the world we live in is its moral symbolism. The world is full of most suggestive symbols and emblems of moral good and evil. There are all beautiful and glorious things, to stand as types of goodness, truth, and righteousness; there are all loathsome, malignant, and hideous things, to serve as the types of folly and wickedness. Was it merely an accident that the dove was fitted to become the emblem of purity and of the Holy Spirit? the lamb, to be the emblem of gentleness, of Christ the gentle Sufferer, and of his suffering people? the ant, to be the type of prudent industry? the horse, of spirit and daring? and the lion, of strength and regal state? Was it only an accident that prepared cruel beasts and disgusting, poisonous reptiles as the types of evil passions and sins—that made the venom of the viper, the cunning of the fox, the blood-thirstiness of the wolf, the folly of the ape, and the filth of the swine, symbols of foul, subtle, malignant sin and folly? Nature is full of these emblems. The palm tree with its crown of glory, the cedar of Lebanon, the fading flower and withering grass, the early dew and the morning mist, the thorn hidden among the leaves of the fragrant rose, poisons sweet to the taste, and medicines bitter as gall,—how all these natural things preach to men sermons concerning spiritual verities! There is no virtue or grace which is not commended to man by its image of beauty in the animal tribes; there is no vice against which men are not warned by its loathsome, disgusting form shadowed out in the instinctive baseness of irresponsible brutes.

“Thus we find earth, air, and sky to be full of silent voices proclaiming in the ears of man that which he most of all needs to remember. These types and symbols of virtue and vice are specially needed by fallen beings. They seem fitted for beings whose spiritual eyes are blinded and all their spiritual senses blunted—beings with whom there is no longer ‘open vision’ of spiritual realities. These pictures of evil are most impressive to men who see in them the reflection of their own base passions. How the fetid goat and the swine wallowing in the mire speak to the lecherous man and the drunkard! In a world of sinless beings these mimic vices would seem rather to mar God’s handiwork.

“Set the human race, fallen as it is, in a world where the patience of daily industrious toil would not be needed, and the race would rot with putrid, festering vice. Remove all danger, and men would forget and deny that the Creator holds them responsible. Let no evil consequences follow evil-doing, and men would cease to make a distinction between right and wrong. Take away death, and they would deny the existence of a spiritual world. But in this world God has hedged men around with checks and penalties and painful discipline, such as are of use only in dealing with sinners.

“I conclude, therefore, that God prepared this world as it now is as a place of discipline for a fallen race. This is the use to which he has devoted it in the past; and when there is no longer need of such a world for the discipline of men, we learn from the word of God that a ‘new heaven and a new earth’ shall be provided. This world is thus declared to be an unfit abode for the glorified saints. To judge, then, of the wisdom and goodness of God in the works of nature, we must keep in mind the object for which the Creator prepared the world. Ansel, tell us how this strikes you.”

“I never thought of it in this way before,” he answered; “indeed I have thought very little of this subject, but—” Tinkle, tinkle went the bell upon the superintendent’s desk. This was the second time the superintendent had struck his bell, but Mr. Wilton had been so intent upon his subject that he did not hear the first ringing.

The school was dismissed, but Mr. Wilton remained with his class to fix upon the particular department of nature which they would study. He found that all were studying natural philosophy, and had recently gone over the subject of heat. At his recommendation, therefore, they agreed to examine, as a specimen of God’s works, his management of heat in the world. Mr. Wilton requested them to review the subject during the week, and be prepared to state and apply the general principles touching the nature, phenomena, and laws of heat which they had already learned. This work they will enter upon next Lord’s Day.