MARHAM. You mean that God would not have made the world, but for the human race to live in. AUBIN. Yes, I think so, uncle; and I mean, that, as the world itself is not eternal, therefore we ourselves must be. The Infinite must have an infinite end in what he does. And in the making of this world, we human beings are the infinity. It is our souls which are the everlastingness of God's purpose in this earth. And so we must we are, immortal. be, CHAPTER XXIX. Then woke Stirrings of deep Divinity within, And, like the flickerings of a smouldering flame, Yearnings of a hereafter. Thou it was, When the world's din and passion's voice was still, AUBIN. SHALL I shut the window, uncle? MARHAM. Not for me, Oliver; for it is quite warm this afternoon, though the heat of the season is over now, I think. AUBIN. On the hedges, what fresh leaves come out are pale and hardly green. And as you stand under the elms, the inner leaves are turned yellow. And see in the air, and hanging among the trees, there is that blue mist that is so peculiar to the latter weeks of August. How still it is! Even on the poplar, the leaves hang without one stirring. There is not the least wind. It is as though every thing in nature were hushed and still, to see summer and autumn meet, and part again almost as soon as met. There is this meeting of the seasons at every vine, and under every apple, and peach, and plum tree. And summer looks at the fruits with her large, glowing eyes, and says, "All these are my ripening"; and then autumn claps her hands and cries, "But my gathering! they are for me to gather.' And for a few days they dwell in the woods together. At first, autumn has only one or two yellow trees to sit in; but every day she gets more and more, till, at last, summer has only an oak-tree left her for a throne. Then comes a misty morning, and the oak is not green any longer; and summer is quite gone, and the whole world is autumn's. And she, as fast as she gets, she loses it; and scarcely is summer vanished, before autumn is gone too. MARHAM. And such is life, - an appearance for a little time, and hardly for that, it is so vanishing. AUBIN. Promise, promises from day to day, etition of promises; this is what life feels to me. It is going, the summer is. O the woods and the hill-sides, the meadows and the gardens, the valley with the river in it, summer morning with its long shadows in the moist grass, and summer evening going away in the west, calm and sublime, like the last words of a blessing! O, in all these things, the beauty there has been, what has it been, and what is it now? It is God; and so it is what my soul will be As I sat here and and yet it was living in for ever, very soon. looked at this beautiful scene, rather as though it were looking into me, than I at it, there was a persuasion in me which said, "This, this wast thou made for." And now I know something of how a soul may gaze upon God, and think of nothing else, and want nothing more for ages; because the reflection of the face of God may be, in the depths of the soul, a joy everlasting; and will be, for all other delights will but make God the dearer, and all other knowledge will but clear our spirits to know him the better. MARHAM. It is a great pleasure, Oliver, to listen to your anticipations of the future life; but I cannot quite feel as you do, for hope is not certainty. Though sometimes, while hearing you talk, I could forget that there are such things as hell and reprobation. AUBIN. And so could become a perfect Christian. Do you wonder at me, uncle? Well, I do believe there is a hell; but I am not frightened at its existence, for it is not outside and beyond the dominions of God. Even hell is not so utterly unblest as not to be known to God. Painful is it? So is this earth very often; and yet there has grown in me here such faith as that, to my eyes, hell itself would not be without a look of beauty, if the Divine hand pointed me into it, to go into it. MARHAM. There is a perfect love which casts out fear; that is certain; for so St. AUBIN. And certain it is, that we might and ought to feel it, as well as St. Paul. Apostle was he? So he was, and chief of sinners once. Religion is not hopeful enough, and I do not know that it ever has been in Protestant times; presumptuous it has been too often, but very seldom hopeful. And yet Christians are saved by hope, as St. Paul says. Yes, hope is light, and strength, and peace, and virtue, and salvation. And let a soul be Christian, be a new creature in Christ, and then it can get for itself high, grand evidence out of hope. A life to come we hope for, and so we shall see it. I trust so. MARHAM. AUBIN. I could be sure so, if it were only because I can hope it. MARHAM. Sure of a thing because you hope it! AUBIN. Yes, uncle, though you smile at the notion. For how have we come by hope? Have angels |