e world is perfect; that
it was created by a perfect being, and is therefore necessarily
perfect. The next moment, these same persons will tell us that the
world was cursed; covered with brambles, thistles and thorns, and that
man was doomed to disease and death, simply because our poor, dear
mother ate an apple contrary to the command of an arbitrary God.

A very pious friend of mine, having heard that I had said the world was
full of imperfections, asked me if the report was true. Upon being
informed that it was, he expressed great surprise that any one could be
guilty of such presumption. He said that, in his judgment, it was
impossible to point out an imperfection. "Be kind enough," said he,
"to name even one improvement that you could make, if you had the
power." "Well," said I, "I would make good health catching, instead of
disease."

The truth is, it is impossible to harmonize all the ills, and pains,
and agonies of this world with the idea that we were created by, and
are watched over and protected by an infinitely wise, powerful and
beneficent God, who is superior to and independent of nature.

The clergy, however, balance all the real ills of this life with the
expected joys of the next. We are assured that all is perfection in
heaven--there the skies are cloudless--there all is serenity and peace.
Here empires may be overthrown; dynasties may be extinguished in blood;
millions of slaves may toil 'neath the fierce rays of the sun, and the
cruel strokes of the lash; yet all is happiness in heaven. Pestilence
may strew the earth with corpses of the loved; the survivors may bend
above them in agony--yet the placid bosom of heaven is unruffled.
Children may expire vainly asking for bread; babies may be devoured by
serpents, while the gods sit smiling in the clouds. The innocent may
languish unto death in the obscurity of dungeons; brave men and heroic
women may be changed to ashes at the bigot's stake, while heaven is
filled with song and joy. Out on the wide sea, in darkness and in
storm, the shipwrecked struggle with the cruel waves, while the angels
play upon their golden harps. The streets of the world are filled with
the diseased, the deformed and the helpless; the chambers of pain are
crowded with the pale forms of the suffering, while the angels float
and fly in the happy realms of day. In heaven they are too happy to
have sympathy; too busy singing to aid the imploring and distressed.
Their eyes