of hearts. I will not adopt now
any professional argument to prove the great necessity of Religion as a
Help in Life. But I would take my stand, in imagination, at some corner
of yonder tumultuous street. How multiform the crowds that sweep by me;
how diverse the faces; what a kaleidoscope of human conditions! And yet,
when you attempt to classify them, how few are the actual _types_ of
men--how many fall into a common group; and when you try them by the
profoundest standard--that of a common experience and common wants--how
marvellously alike they all are! How similar in inward expression, the
rich man who walks yonder, to that poor drudging son of toil, who bows
his back and strains his sinews until they ache! How similar in effect
the burdens which they both bear--the burden of wealth, and the burden
of poverty, in the fact that they _are_ burdens upon the heart and the
soul! And are they not both struggling with the realities of life, and
moved by quenchless desires, and looking up into the same infinite
mystery? Ah! my friends, I hardly think it would be the most effectual
way to preach Religion in this church on Sunday, as a matter of
course--but to stand out there on week-days, and strike the deepest
chords throbbing unconsciously in the bosoms of those who pass me by. I
would appeal to you, O disappointed, almost heart-broken man, who for
years have endeavored to earn a competency to lift your head above the
sheer necessities of life, but have failed in the chase, and been beaten
back, and seen others who have exerted themselves not near as much, not
so honorably, perhaps, rise to the very top of the stream and sail clear
ahead;--or to you, O "favorite of fortune," as the world calls you, who
find your palace to be only a stately sepulchre, in which all genuine
feeling and simple enjoyment lies dead and wrapped in cerements of
chilling etiquette--whose daughter, perhaps, has mocked your fondest
plans; or whose son has turned out a miserable weed of dissipation--a
degenerate fopling, a rake, a fool;--or to you, O butterfly of fashion,
sailing with embroidered wings in search of admiration and of pleasure;
or still again, to you who have just gathered together the means of
enjoyment, and ease, and everything, to make life pleasant, and lo!
death has entered, and your hopes are darkened and in the dust; I appeal
to you, O types of this streaming humanity, that wears so many masks,
yet, carries under all a common hear