STEPPING-STONES ΤΟ HIGHER THINGS. A CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. 'That men may rise on stepping stones TENNYSON. STORY is told of a young lady who had just come out in society, and had been taken by her mother to her first ball. While dancing, a blood vessel was ruptured. She was at once carried home, and laid on her bed, while medical aid was summoned. The doctor upon examination, seeing there was no chance of recovery, called the father aside, and told him of his daughter's dangerous condition, begging him at the same time to acquaint her, that she might prepare for her end. 'I cannot tell her,' said the father; 'she is my only child-I love her too dearly. Surely she is not dying! The doctor then informed the mother, imploring her to warn her daughter of the approaching end, but only received a similar reply. Prompted by a strong sense of duty, the doctor then took upon himself the task from which the parents shrank. He felt it strangely hard to tell a young lady, who naturally looked forward to enjoying life, that already her course had run, and that she was to be cut off in her youth and beauty— her magnificent dress soon to be exchanged for a shroud. Gently and kindly he told her the plain truth. The poor girl shrieked out in all the agony of despair: 'Oh, doctor, save me-save me! I cannot die!' Then to her mother, 'Oh, mother, you taught me to live, but you never taught me to die !' And thus, poor girl, she passed away, having missed the aim and object of life. It is easy to understand the brute beast living for the present, as he knows of no future existence. One can even understand the savage living for the present only, as his views of a future state are, to say the least, somewhat vague and indistinct. But it is very difficult to understand how civilized men, who even go so far as to 'profess and call themselves Christians,' are to be found with hardly a thought beyond this life. An atheist at dinner, looking round the table, said in rather a lofty tone: 'I suppose I am the only living creature present who does not believe in a God.' After a momentary pause, a lady's voice at the head of the table replied: 'I think you are not quite alone; my dog on the hearthrug there does not believe in a God.' Man without a God to please, a Bible to guide his life, a future to live for, is very little raised above the brute creation. It has been remarked that when once infidelity can persuade men that they shall die like beasts, they will soon be brought to live like beasts. Of course there are a few of great and even of noble characters who do not believe in a God; but the great bulk of men of no faith have not any higher object in life than pleasing themselves, i.e., satisfying the appetites and passions of the body, and pleasing their neighbours. 'How are the mighty fallen!' Man, made in the image of God, fallen from his high estate, and the dignity of manhood, lowered to the level of animal creation, and in some cases even so low that the more noble traits of character, such as devotion and affection, are conspicuous rather in the dog or horse than in the man. And yet one cannot but believe that, among the great number who are apparently living only for the things of this world, are to be found some who do think now and then about eternity. Even the most careless and indifferent are not entirely strangers to a longing for better things. Life is, nevertheless, with many frittered away in learning how to live, and when suddenly they are brought face to face with death, they, for the first time, realize the awful truth that their period of probation has passed beyond recall. It then dawns upon them that, whatever else they may have gained, they have missed the one great object of creation, preparation for the life to come. There are many who, in the midst of exciting pleasures or engrossing business, feel that this life is not all, and that it is not satisfying. They feel conscious of having been made for something higher, nobler, and purer, and yet their lives are no indications of their convictions. There is an uncertainty about the future which disturbs them, and death to them would be at the best but a terrible leap in the dark. However necessary pleasure may be as a means of recreation, it can never satisfy an anxious soul. It is not, and never was intended to be, the object of life. Man is an eternal being, and nothing can truly satisfy him that has not reference to eternity. Unless our Saviour soon returns he must die; and then, however much satisfaction he may have found in health and strength among the fleeting pleasures of time, they will bring him none when he most needs it: ''Tis religion that can give Truest pleasures while we live. Solid comfort when we die.' 'The pleasures of the world cannot comfort a man when he draws near death. The brilliant ball-room, the merry dance, the midnight revel, the party to Epsom races, the card-table, the box at the opera, the voices of singing men and singing women-all these are at length distasteful things. To hear of hunting and shooting engagements gives him no pleasure. To be invited to feasts, and regattas, and fancy-fairs, gives him no ease. He cannot hide from himself that these are hollow, empty, powerless things. They jar upon the ear of his conscience. They are out of harmony with his condition. They cannot stop one gap in his heart, when the last enemy is coming in like a flood. They cannot make him calm in the prospect of meeting a holy God. Books and newspapers cannot comfort a man when he draws near death. The most brilliant writings of Macaulay or Dickens will pall upon his ear. The most able article in the Times will fail to interest him. The Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews will give him no pleasure. Punch and the Illustrated News, and the last new novel, will lie unopened and unheeded. Their time will be past; their vocation will be gone. Whatever they may be in health, they are useless in the hour of death.'* Sooner or later it must dawn on every thinking person that pleasure in itself can never satisfy, whether we speak of the innocent pleasures of real recreation, or pleasure in its lower, grosser, and more sensual forms of enjoyment. We soon grow weary of gay friends, and get even bored in the midst of so-called enjoyment. A time must come when they lose their charm and freshness and become stale and unexciting. I said of laughter it is mad, and of mirth what doeth it?' Many who have found mere pleasure fail to satisfy them, turn from it to the pursuit of honour, glory, distinction, and the fame of this world. By earning a reputation on the battlefield, or obtaining a great name as a statesman, lawyer, medical man, or merchant, they hope to satisfy themselves by becoming the object of envying and admiring crowds, as if such a bubble *The Bishop of Liverpool. reputation could satisfy them. On a great occasion, when an enormous crowd once assembled to do honour to Napoleon, a friend asked him if such a gathering did not give him great pleasure, and satisfy his ambition. His brief reply was, 'A still larger crowd would come to see me hung.' The glare and glitter of what men call renown may conceal many an aching heart, but it has certainly never really satisfied one. 'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul.'* Others make the acquisition of money the highest object of life. With them it becomes quite a feverish passion. The more they obtain, so much the more they want. They grasp at it, and heap it up in piles; if not in some old chest like the miser of olden days, at all events in very large sums lodged at their bankers', or invested in business. They grow old and feeble in the pursuit of wealth, and still they clutch it, and crave for it as eagerly as when young. The passion is a growing one; they are never satisfied, ever wanting more. Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit. Others there are who turn aside to the nobler pursuits of the study of literature, science, professional occupation, and other objects which distinguish civilized races from the rude and barbarous. However important and interesting in themselves, they fail to satisfy when taken up as the object of life. Each height attained only opens up to view more heights beyond of knowledge unattained, till the seeker in despair realizes his utter incapacity to reach the summit on which alone he can rest with satisfaction. He feels the truth of our Saviour's words, 'Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again;'t and well would it be for him if, like the Psalmist of old, he could cry out, 'As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for the living God.' *Mark viii. 36. † John iv. 13. Psa. xlii. 1, 2. |