of decay and restoration continually going on. The dark forest springs up and flourishes on the ruins of the groves of ages long since past; and though now it may toss its giant limbs to heaven, defying the blast of the tornado, very soon it will be gone. The flowers that adorn the fields in summer are withered by the early frosts of autumn, only to spring up in new beauty when the vernal breeze is felt and the joyous earth puts on her mantle of green. Thus the whole vegetable world undergoes a complete change every few years. So it is with animal life the body of the living creature comes to the light, increases in strength and size, for a longer or shorter period, as the case may be, and then wastes away till it mingles, undistinguished, with its native dust and yet no part of it is lost; it forms new relations, and enters into new combinations with other substances, but is still in existence. Since, then, no particle of unthinking matter, which is worthless and vile, is destroyed, what reason have we for believing that every atom (if I may be allowed such an expression) of what we call spirit, which guides the corporeal and senseless, is annihilated? There is, in my view, none-such an opinion is absurd. Is there any thing in the nature of the event itself, which we call death, to cause the being of the soul to cease? We are conscious of the existence of the living principle within, from its manifestations through the organs of the body. These manifestations cease, then, of course, at death. Two important questions here arise, and the point in debate turns upon the anWhen the organs of the body are impaired, do the faculties of the soul suffer proportionably? Is a suspension of the action of the bodily organs evidence of the destruction of the living agent?

swer.

(1.) When the organs of the body are impaired, do the faculties of the soul suffer proportionably? It can be plainly shown that the mind is entirely independent of the body. Sometimes, when the latter has been brought, by protracted disease, to extreme weakness, the former has exhibited indications of surprising and unwonted vigor. The one often appears rather to be a dead weight on the energies and powers of the other, a clog, ever disturbing and throwing into disorder its nice mechanism. The body is but the instrument of the soul, often injured, sometimes unfitted for use, and finally entirely destroyed. The microscope is but another eye for man, imperfect, however, as the work of mortals must be, when compared with that of Infinite Wisdom. We may walk with a cork leg as really as with one of flesh and blood, though not as well. We may feel an object with a stick in our hand, not so acutely, to be sure, as with the hand alone, because the latter is more intimately connected with the mind than the former. Cut off a man's finger-he is as much a man as ever. Cut off an arm or a leg-he is still the same; and so, as Horace plucked the hairs, one by one, from the tail of the horse, I might strip the covering, bit by bit, from the soul of man, without injuring it in the least. So long as the organs of the body remain in a perfect state, the soul acts through them; when they are destroyed, the evidence of its action of course ceases, but not on that account the reality of it. The action of the body is dependent on external objects; the eye

sees only when there is light and something to look at; the ear hears only when a body is struck and atmosphere is present to convey the vibrations to the tympanum; and so with all the senses. But the mind, shutting out every external object, can hold communion with itself, calling before it the forms of the distant and dead, winging its back to the scenes of by-gone years, scanning the mysterious future, and reveling in its own fanciful creations.

way

(2.) Is a suspension of the action of the bodily organs an evidence of the destruction of the living agent? Far from it. How very like death is the state of sleep! The eye sees not the ear hears notthe limbs move not-every muscle is at rest: the nerves, the swift messengers of the brain, conveying sensations to and from all parts of the body, lay aside for a time their usual activity, and were it not for the mere beating of the pulse, there would be no indication of animal life. But while the outward organization is in this state of quiescence, the soul may be pursuing its airy phantoms, limited in its flight only by the bounds of the universe: it may be holding converse with absent friends; gazing with delight on familiar faces; trembling with fear and transported with rage; in short, in the highest state of activity. Instances almost without number, of partial drowning, trances, injuries of the brain, &c., might be adduced, all tending to establish the fact, that the mind, although giving evidence of its existence through the corporeal organs, is nevertheless wholly independent of these for that existence. It may be asked, Why give this argument, which is at the most but negative, so much prominence? I answer, Because the only reason which can be urged, with any degree of plausibility, in favor of annihilation, is the intimate connection between the soul and the body, and the alledged probability, that when the one goes to ruin the other goes to ruin with it. This has been a favorite argument with infidels at all times, though it has been shown, as I think, to have little or no foundation.

The above are a few of the arguments for the soul's immortality, that may be derived from the light of nature, unassisted by revelation. They amount, it is true, to a mere probability, but a probability so

strong, that every man is bound to act. To this same conclusion, the philosophers of old groped their way amid the darkness of paganism. Surveying the various changes that were taking place about them, and then turning their attention within, and marking the workings of their own spirits, they judged that the soul was immortal, and proclaimed this truth openly to the world. Their judgment has been sustained by the voice of those who have followed them. Every new discovery in science has added to the strength of the argument, till such a blaze of light is concentrated about the truth, that those who remain unconvinced may justly be charged with stubbornness.

Only on the supposition that the soul is immortal, and that another state of existence awaits us, can we account for the facts that present themselves daily to our view. Men in all ages have seen with astonishment vice triumphing over virtue. While the one revels in the palaces of haughty monarchs, and commands the homage of the multitude, the other toils in the lowly cottage, disregarded and

despised. The man who gives the reins to his ambition and strides on through fields of blood, valuing a crown more than a million lives, and trampling with contempt on expiring liberty, is lauded by the poet and the historian, while he in whose soul burns the purest patriotism, and whose highest aim is his country's good, is led in ignominy to the scaffold, or finishes his life on the field of battle, contending for human right. Innocence sighs and groans within the walls of a dungeon, while guilt stalks unblushingly amid the rich and the great: Benevolence is itself reduced to want, whilst Avarice beholds its heaps of unused gold constantly increasing: Humility, in lowly garb, excites the pity or contempt of the multitude, while Pride attracts the gaze and wins the admiration of all. But not thus shall it always be; the day of reckoning is at hand: when Virtue shall lift up her head with exultation, and Vice call on the rocks and mountains to crush her-when the former, with a golden crown and a robe of white, shall enter the abode of happiness, but the latter shall go where eternal darkness and despair reign.

If we are immortal, how important does life become to us, how insignificant the world! "Life is real, life is earnest!" We are hastening fast" to that bourne from which no traveler e'er returns," but we go not to non-entity. And what is more important still, our situation there is determined by our conduct here. How tremendous the thought! My destiny during those interminable ages is depending on my course during this brief moment of existence. I am immortal. Hence, then, every debasing thought, every unholy word, every mean action! This state, when compared to the one to come, in duration, is as nothing to infinity-in value, as a grain of sand to a universe of gold. Rob me, then, of wealth, of pleasure, of power, and of reputation, but give me virtue here, and hereafter Immortality.

THEORETICAL VERSUS PRACTICAL MEN.

use our reason.

MEN may be divided into two classes-the practical and the theoretical. The influence which practical men exert is active, and is therefore seen. The influence which theoretical men exert, inasmuch as they are concerned with principles, is passive or silent, and is therefore unseen. To appreciate the worth of the former, we have only to use our senses; to appreciate the worth of the latter, we must And here it is where error creeps in. We are so prone to judge of this world merely by what we see, that we forget that all that is exhibited to the eye is but the scum upon the surface; the outward expression, if I may so call it, of an inner world. Hence, if we would judge correctly, our senses alone are not sufficient. We must go beyond the mere exterior, and examine more deeply into the philosophy of things. But this many are unwilling to do. They prefer to use their senses rather than their reason. With such, then, theoretical men must ever expect to be little esteemed. Just as it is in the drama, as the several parts are introduced, they at once attract our notice; our minds become wholly engrossed with what merely passes before us; we forget all about previous design, hidden wires, secret strings, and all the magic paraphernalia of the stage. So, on the great theatre of life; practical men are those who move before the eye and interest the attention, while philosophers, and those who operate upon the world by a secret or secondary influence, take the place of the hidden machinery. Hence they are not seen; their worth is not appreciated, and it becomes the glory of many to be called merely practical. But is this right? May not the man whose influence is unseen, the results of which cannot be stated in precise numbers, may not such a one be actually doing more good than he who prides himself upon his practical talent.

The practical man does but begin where the theoretical man leaves off. It is the latter who discovers truth, while the former only acts in accordance with it. To whom, then, are we most indebted? To the man who from the mists of ignorance brings out useful and enduring knowledge, or to the man who merely applies what is put into his hands? Who, I ask, deserves the more credit, as we are borne safely along over the ocean's waves, the pilot or he who first constructed the chart, the compass, and the chronometer, and taught their uses? But the discoverer is lost sight of, while we give our thoughts and our thanks to the man without philosophy, without originalitythe mere practitioner. Often is it the case that a pastor labors with his people for years, it may be, and sees no apparent good resulting therefrom. By-and-by there comes along an Evangelist who knows little or nothing about the philosophy of the Bible, or the doctrines therein contained. He prides himself upon his practical talent, and always preaches in a hortatory style, because he always must. But, lo! he speaks, and the Church are aroused, the Spirit of God is poured out, and sinners are brought by scores into the kingdom. To

the man who judges by sense, the Evangelist, humanly speaking, seems worthy of all the honor. He is cried up in enthusiastic terms, as the good, the faithful, the successful. But the man who uses his reason sees clearly where the honor belongs. It is the faithful pastor, who cleared up the rugged ground, tilled the soil, sowed the seed, watched over its growth, and all that the Evangelist has done is simply to harvest the pastor's crops. Never mind, faithful man; the fullness of the harvest only indicates the extent of thy labors; and though we do not see, yet God sees, and can appreciate, labors such as thine. What would you think of the weather-cock, which should pride itself on its lofty elevation, and, as it swung round and round, should glory, like the practical man, in its happy adaptation to the times. Might you not remind it that it was glorying in being supported, that it had forgotten its dependence upon materials beneath. Let it leave its base, and see what it will come to. This, then, in fine, is the glory of the practical man, that "others labor, and he enters into their labors."

Still further, with regard to men who study principles merely; may there not be a presumption in their favor, from the fact that their influence is hidden. They operate behind the curtain,—they act upon the world through others. Such is the influence which teachers exert. Such is a mother's influence; through her son she may bless or curse the world. All the little influences which are brought to bear in the formation of one's character, may be, in a certain sense, chargeable with the acts of that one's after life. But who shall estimate these influences? Who can tell what a tremendous power they may have had, while we thought but little of them? That is not of the most consequence which thrusts itself most upon the attention ;that is not of the greatest importance which makes the greatest noise. The dashing rivulet, as it bounds along over its stony bed, gives ample evidence of its own shallowness. But when you see a stream moving forward, with no spray upon its surface, slowly and silently, as if conscious of its real dignity, you feel at once that there is depth and power. So with the every-day man, compared with him who searches into the philosophy of things, who deals in principles, instead of merely isolated facts. Moreover, such men operate on too large a scale to have their influence taken in at a single view. He who gives to the world a truth, influences the world forever, for truth is eternal. No man who, searching amid ignorance and error, brings to light a single hidden principle, lives for his age alone; and though he may not now be appreciated, yet he will be, when in the long results of time it shall be seen what he has accomplished. I shall be pardoned for introducing the name of Luther-a name which, though often referred to, is yet one which, from this very fact, stands before us as an unmistakable proof how truly Luther was not a man of his own day. The good which he did cannot be cooped up into the narrow limits of a physical life. He lives for all time, and the more we see of the blessed fruits of his labors, the more we love the man. With the past before us, we can now throw ourselves back into the period