greater portion of the world. He drew no comparisons,--he never
considered that, as absolutely as day is day and night is night, his
own beautiful and placid life, lived in the faith of God and Christ,
was tortured by no such storm-tossed tribulation as that which
affected the lives of many others,--and that the old trite saying,
almost despised because so commonplace, namely that "goodness makes
happiness," is as eternally true as that the sun shines in heaven,
and that it is only evil which creates misery. To think of himself
in the matter never occurred to him; had he for a moment entertained
the merest glimmering of an idea that he was better, and therefore
happier than most men, he would, in his own opinion, have been
guilty of unpardonable arrogance and presumption. What he saw, and
what sincerely and unselfishly grieved him, was that the people of
this present age were unhappy--discontented--restless,--that
something of the simple joy of existence had gone out of the world,-
-that even the brilliant discoveries of science and the so-called
"progress" of men only served apparently to increase their
discontent,--that when they were overcome by sorrow, sickness, or
death, they had little philosophy and less faith to support them,--
and that except in the few cases where Christ was still believed in,
they gave way altogether and broke down like frightened children in
a storm.

"Thou hast a few names, even in Sardis!" A few names! But how few!
Universal weariness of life seemed a disease of the time,--there was
nothing that seemed to satisfy--even the newest and most miraculous
results of scientific research and knowledge ceased to be
interesting after the first week of their triumphant public
demonstration and acceptance.