perspective and more various throng. The dim abstracted look that often settles on the features of the old, what means it? Is it a mere fading of the life? an absence, begun already, from the drama of humanity? a deafness to the cry of its woes and the music of its affections? Not always so: the seeming forgetfulness may be but brightened memory; and if the mists lie on the outward present, and make it as a gathering Night, the more brilliant is the lamp within, that illuminates the figures of the Past, and shows again, by their flitting shadows, the plot in which they moved and fell.

It is through such natural experiences,—the treasured sanctities of every true life,-that God "discovereth to us deep things out of darkness, and turneth into light the shadow of Death." They constitute the lesser religions of the soul; and, say what you will, they come and go with the greater, and put forth leaf and blossom from the same root. We are so constituted throughout,-in memory, in affection, in conscience, in intellect, that we cannot rest in the literal aspect of things as they materially come to us. No sooner are they in our possession, than we turn them into some crucible of thought, which saves their essence and precipitates their dross; and their pure idea emerges as our lasting treasure, to be remembered, loved, willed, and believed. What we thus gain then,-is it a falsification? or a revelation? What we discard,-is it the sole constant, which alone we ought to keep ? or

the truly perishable, which we deservedly let slip? If the vision which remains with us is fictitious, then is there a fatal misadjustment between the actual universe and the powers given us for interpreting it; so that precisely what we recognise as highest in us,—the human distinctions of Art, of Love, of Duty, of Faith,must be treated as palming off upon us a system of intellectual frauds. But if the idealizing analysis be true, it is only that our faculties have not merely passive receptivity, but discriminative insight, are related to the permanent as well as to the transient, and are at once prophetic and retrospective; and thus are qualified to report to us, not only what is, but what ought to be and is to be. Did we apply the transforming imagination only to the present, so as to discern in it a better possibility beyond, it might be regarded as simply a provision for the progressive improvement of this world,—an explanation still carrying in itself the thought of a beneficent Provider. But we glorify no less what has been than what now is; and see it in a light in which it never appeared beneath the Sun; and this is either an illusion, or a prevision.

The problem, whether the transfiguring powers of the mind serve upon us an imposture, or open to us a divine vision, carries in its answer the whole future of society, the whole peace and nobleness of individual character. High art, high morals, high faith, are impossible among those who do not believe their own

inspirations, but only court and copy them for pleasure or profit. And for great lives, and stainless purity, and holy sorrow, and surrendering trust, the souls of men must pass through all vain semblances, and touch the reality of an eternal Righteousness and a neverwearied Love.

Confirmation Address.

MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,

I have asked you to meet me here this morning, that we may complete our survey of the Christian rite of Communion, and establish the link of final connexion between its history in the world and its private meaning for ourselves. The task of clearing away what is false and dangerous from the rite is brought to a close: to conciliate critical objection I have no more to say; and in the narrower circle that draws together here I may without offence take for granted a general sympathy with the sentiments embodied in this most ancient usage of Christendom. I may assume therefore that the question which you have at heart to answer is simply this: What it is for the first time to take up these sentiments and consciously profess them as your own.

In one sense the act involves nothing that is new, and makes no change in any duty or affection which you may bring to it; but is a mere natural continuation of the order of life and tone of feeling ever familiar to us as the best. It is no sudden conversion, no passage from an unregenerate to a regenerate mind, no

emergence from a darkness of nature to the illumination of grace, that befalls the disciple on first joining the guest-table of Christ. Born within the circle of Christian conditions, you cannot but see life in the light which they shed upon it: they even colour the very eye through which you look at it; and what you admire, what you love, what you feel to be right or wrong, is largely determined by the moral climate of Christendom that has thus far formed and matured your mind. This spontaneous order of taste and sentiment, this free action of character, there is nothing in this day to arrest or change. God's spirit has always lived with you, making your hearts burn with many a noble aspiration, and secretly showing you many a beauty, and remonstrating with you in many a remorse; and he will go on to live with you no otherwise, telling you what is highest, and drawing you variously to himself by sympathy with things holy, true, and good. In him there is no change; in our nature no magical re-construction. Our worship, our commemoration, does not make that Real Presence which never has failed and never will fail us, and which would pity and help us still, were we even to deny it. Remembered or forgot by us, he pursues his eternal ways: he needs not our notice, to be here; and whether we come to him or not, he will find us out, though it be in darkness and without a name.

But in another sense, the disciple, at his first com