theless, in all disputes between states, though the strongest is nearly always mainly in the wrong, the weaker is often so in a minor degree; and I think we sometimes admit the possibility of our being in error, and you never do.

And now, returning to the broader question, what these arts and labours of life have to teach us of its mystery, this is the first of their lessons-that the more beautiful the art, the more it is essentially the work of people who feel themselves wrong -who are striving for the fulfilment of a law and the realization of a loveliness which they have not yet attained, which they feel even farther and farther from attaining, the more they strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense, it is the work of people who know also that they are right-and that this very sense of inevitable error from their purpose marks the perfectness of that purpose, and the manifold sense of failure arises from the opening of the eyes more clearly to all the sacredest laws of truth.

This is one lesson. The second, is a very plain, and greatly precious one, namely:-that whenever the arts and labours of life are fulfilled in this spirit of striving against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, honourably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness, as much as seems possible to the nature of man. In all other paths, by which that happiness is pursued, there is disappointment, or destruction for ambition and for passion there is no rest-no fruition; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past light;

and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the labourer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artizan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors of light; and none of these, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found the law of heaven an unkind one-that in the sweat of their face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the command -“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do-do it with thy might."

These are the two great and constant lessons which our labourers teach us of the mystery of life. But, there is another, and a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones.

"Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this law-who have put every breath and nerve of their being into its toil-who have devoted every hour, and exhausted every faculty-who have bequeathed their unaccomplished thoughts at deathwho being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and strength of example. And, at last, what has all this might of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labour and sorrow? What

has it done? Take the three chief occupations and arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the first—the lord of them all— agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or well? Why, in the very centre and chief garden of Europe-where the two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses-where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties—there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation; and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem with a year's labour, still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of hunger.

Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, takes the next head of human arts-weaving, the art of queens, honoured of all noble Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess-honoured of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king-"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the

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poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." What have we done in all these thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian matron ? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colours from the cold? What have we done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheels-and, are we yet clothed? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with sale of cast clouts and rotten rags. Is not the beauty of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with better honour, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den. And does not every winter's snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voice of their Christ." I was naked, and ye clothed me not."

Lastly-take the Art of Building the strongestproudest-most orderly-most enduring, of the arts of man; that, of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be re

placed; but if once well done, will stand more strongly than the unbalanced rocks—more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle; in which men record their power-satisfy their enthusiasm— make sure their defence-define and make dear their habitations. And, in six thousand years of building, what have we done? Of the greater part of all that skill and strength, no vestige is left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and impede the streams. But, from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage, what is left to us? Constructive and progressive creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forming hands, capable of fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea. The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life, but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that consume them like graves; and night by night, from the corners of our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless "I was a stranger, and ye took me not in."

Must it be always thus? Is our life for ever to be without profit-without possession? Shall the strength of its generations be as barren as death; or cast away their labour, as the wild figtree casts her untimely figs? Is it all a dream then-the desire of