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 •'^^"■•■■i 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PRINTED IN 
 
 U. a. A. 
 
 (Of 
 
 NO. 23233 
 
a Cornell University 
 y Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3542299 
 
THE 
 
 MYSTEET OF LIFE A]^D ITS AETS. 
 
^ 
 
 THE 
 
 MYSTERY OF LIFE 
 
 ITS ARTS 
 
 BV 
 
 JOHN EH SKIN, 
 
 Avrnon of "hodekn faintebs," bto. 
 
 NEW TOEK: 
 JOHN WILEY & SON, 
 
 2 CLINTON HALL, ABTOR PLACE 
 1869. 
 

 ?Uo[^^('^^^'^^'''' 
 
 The New York Printing Company, 
 8ij 83, and 85 Centre St., 
 New York. 
 
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND ITS ARTS. 
 
 When I accepted the privilege of addressing you to- 
 day, I was not aware of a restriction with respect to tlie 
 topics of discussion which may be brought before this 
 Society — a restriction which, though entirely wise and 
 right under the circumstances contemplated in its intro- 
 duction, would necessarily have disabled me, thinking as 
 I think, from preparing any lecture for you on the sub- 
 ject of art in a form which might be permanently useful. 
 Pardon me, therefore, in so far as I must transgress such 
 limitation ; for indeed my infringement will be of the 
 letter — ^not of the spirit — of your commands. In what- 
 ever I may say touching the religion which has been the 
 foundation of art, or the policy which has contributed to 
 its power, if I offend one, I shall offend all ; for I shall 
 take no note of any separations in creeds, or antagonisms 
 in parties : neither do I fear that ultimately I shall offend 
 any, by proving — or at least stating as capable of positive 
 proof — %h& connection of all that is best in the crafts and 
 
2 THE MTSTEEY OF LIFE 
 
 arts of man, ' with the simplicity of his faith, and the 
 sincerity of his patriotism. { 
 
 But I speak to you under another disadvantage, by 
 which I am checked in frankness of utterance, not here 
 only, but everywhere; namely, that I am never fully 
 aware how far my audiences are disposed to give me 
 credit for real knowledge of my subject, or how far they 
 grant me attention only because I have been sometimes 
 thought an ingenious or pleasant essayist or speaker upon 
 it. For I have had what, in many respects, I boldly call 
 the misfortune, to set my words sometimes prettily to- 
 gether ; not without a foolish vanity in the poor knack 
 that I had of doing so, until I was heavily punished for 
 this pride, by finding that many people thought of the 
 words only, and cai-ed nothing for their meaning. Hap- 
 pily, thei-efore, the power of using such pleasant lan- 
 guage-r-if indeed it ever were mine — ^is passing away 
 from me ; and whatever I am now able to say at all, I 
 find myself forced to say with great plainness. For my 
 thoughts have changed also, aa my words have ; and 
 whereas in earlier life, what little influence I obtained 
 was due perhaps chiefly to the enthusiasm with which I 
 was able to dwell on the beauty of the physical clouds, 
 and of their colours in the sky;Tso all the influence I now 
 desire to retain must be due to the earnestness with 
 which I am endeavouring to trace the form and beauty 
 of another kind of cloud than those ; the bright cloud, of 
 which it is written — \ 
 
AITD nS AKTS. 3 
 
 " What is yoiir life ? It is even as a vaponr that ap- 
 peareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." 
 
 I suppose few people reach the middle or latter period 
 of their age, without having at some moment of change 
 or disappointment felt the truth of those bitter words ; 
 and been startled by the fading of the sunshine from the 
 cloud of their life, into the sudden agony of the knowledge 
 that the fabric of it was as fragile as a dream, and the 
 endurance of it as transient as the dew. But it is not 
 always that, even at such times of melancholy sui-prise, 
 we can enter into any true perception that this human 
 life shares, in the nature of it, not only the evanescence, 
 but the mystery of the cloud; that its avenues are 
 wreathed in darkness, and its forms and courses no less 
 fantastic, than spectral and obscure ; Sso^ that not only in 
 the vanity which we cannot grasp, but in the shadow 
 which we cannot pierce, it is true of this cloudy life of 
 ours, that "man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquiet- 
 eth himself in vain." 1 
 
 And least of all, whatever may have been the eagerness 
 of our passions, or the height of our pride, are we able to 
 understand in its depth the third and most solemn 
 character in which our life is like those clouds of heaven ; 
 that to it belongs not only their transience, not only their 
 mystery, but also their power ; that in the cloud of the 
 human soul there is a fire stronger than the lightning, 
 and a grace more precious than the ram ; and that though 
 of the good and evil it shall one day be said alike, that 
 
4 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 the place that knew them knows them no more, there is 
 an infinite separation between those whose brief presence 
 had there been a blessing, like the mist of Eden that 
 went up from the earth to water the garden, and those 
 whose place knew them only as a drifting and changeful 
 shade, of whom the heavenly sentence is, that they are 
 " wells without water ; clouds that are carried with a 
 tempest, to whom the mist of darkness is reserved for 
 ever." 
 
 To those among us, however, who have lived long 
 enough to form some just estimate of the rate of the 
 changes which are, hour by hour in accelerating catas- 
 trophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, the arts, and 
 the creeds of men, it seems to me, that now at least, if 
 never at any former time, |he thoughts of the true nature 
 of our life, and of its powers and responsibilities, should 
 present themselves with absolute sadness and sternnessJ 
 And^ although I know that this feeling is much deepened 
 in my own mind by disappointment, which, by chance, 
 has attended the greater number of my cherished pur- 
 poses, I do not for that reason distrust the feeling itself, 
 though I am on my guard against an exaggerated degree 
 of it : nay, I rather believe that in periods of new effort 
 and violent change, disappointment is a wholesome medi- 
 cine ; and that in the secret of it, as in the twilight so 
 beloved by Titian, we may see the colours of things with 
 deeper truth than in the most dazzling sunshine. And 
 because these truths^ about the works of men, which I 
 
AND ITS AETS. 5 
 
 want to bring to-day before you, are most of them sad 
 ones, though at the same time helpful ; and because also 
 I believe that your kind Irish hearts will answer more 
 gladly to the truthful expression of a personal feeling 
 than to the exposition of an abstract principle, I will 
 permit myself so much unreserved speaking of my own 
 causes of regret, as may enable you to make just allow- 
 ance for what, according to your sympathies, you will 
 call either the bitterness, or the insight, of a mind which 
 has surrendered its best hopes, and been foiled in its fa- 
 vourite aims. 
 
 I spent the ten strongest years of my life, (from twenty 
 to thirty,) in endeavouring to show the excellence of the 
 work of the man whom I believed, and rightly believed, 
 to be the greatest painter of the schools ^f England 
 since Reynolds. I had then perfect faith in the power 
 of every great truth of beauty to prevail ultimately, and 
 take its right place in usefulness and honour ; and I strove 
 to bring the painter's work into this due place, while the 
 painter was yet alive. But he knew, better than I, the 
 uselessness of talking about what people could not 
 see for themselves. He always discouraged me scorn- 
 fully, even when he thanked me — and he died before 
 even the superficial efiect of my work was visible. I 
 went on, however, thinking I could at least be of use to 
 the public, if not to him, in proving his power. My 
 books got talked about a little. The prices of modern 
 
 pictures, generally, rose, and I was beginning to take 
 
 1* 
 
THE MTSTEEY OF LIFE 
 
 some pleasure in a sense of gradual victory, when, fortu- 
 nately or unfortunately, an opportunity of perfect trial 
 undeceived me at once, and for ever. The Trustees of the 
 National Gallery commissioned me to arrange the Turner 
 drawings there, and permitted me to prepare three hun- 
 dred examples of his studies from nature, for exhibition 
 at Kensington. At Kensington they were and are, 
 placed for exhibition: but they are not exhibited, for the 
 room in which they hang is always empty. 
 
 Well — this showed me at once, that those ten years of 
 my life had been, in thesir chief purpose, lost. For that, 
 I did not so much care ; I had, at least, learned my own 
 business thoroughly, and should be able, as I fondly sup- 
 posed, after such a lesson, now to use my knowledge with 
 
 better effect. But what I did care for, was the — to me 
 
 • I — 
 
 frightful — discoveryj/that the most splendid genius in the 
 
 arts might be permitted by Providence to labour and per- 
 ish uselessly ; that in the very fineness of it there might 
 be something rendering it invisible to ordinary eyes ; but, 
 that with this strange excellence, faults might be mingled 
 which would be as deadly as its virtues were vain ; that 
 the gloi-y of it was perishable, as well as invisible, and 
 the gift and grace of it might be to us, as snow in sum- 
 mer, and as rain in harvest. 
 
 That was the first mystery of life to me. But while 
 my best energy was given to the study of painting I 
 had put collateral effort, more prudent, if less enthusias- 
 tic, into that of architecture; and in this I could not 
 
AND ITS ABTS. 7 
 
 complain of meeting with no sympathy. Among several 
 personal reasons which caused me to desire that I might 
 give this, my closing lecture on the subject of art here, in 
 Ireland, one of the chief was, that in reading it, I should 
 stand near the beautiful building, — the engineers' school 
 of your college, — which was the first realization I had the 
 joy to see, of the principles I had, until then, been en- 
 deavouring to teach, but which, alas, is now, to me, no 
 more than the richly canopied monument of one of the 
 most earnest souls that ever gave itself to the arts, and 
 one of my truest and most loving friends, Benjamin 
 Woodward. Nor was it here in Ireland only that I re- 
 ceived the help of Irish sympathy and genius. "When, to 
 another friend. Sir Thomas Deane, with Mr. Woodward, 
 was entrusted the building of the museum at Oxford, the 
 best details of the work were executed by sculptors who 
 had been born and trained here ; and the iirst window of 
 the fagade of the, building, in which was inaugurated the 
 study of natural science in England, in true fellowship 
 with literature, was carved from my design by an Irish 
 sculptor. 
 
 You may perhaps think that no man ought to speak of 
 disappointment, to whom, even in one branch of labour, so 
 much success was granted. Had Mr. Woodward now I 
 been beside me, I had not so spoken ; but his gentle and i 
 passionate spirit was cut off from the fulfilment of its i 
 purposes, and the work we did together is now become 
 vain. It may not be so in future; but the architecture 
 
8 THE MYSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 we endeavoured to introduce is inconsistent alike with the 
 reckless luxury, the deforming mechanism, and the squalid 
 misery of modem cities ; among the formative fashions of 
 the day, aided, especially in England, by ecclesiastical 
 sentiment, it indeed obtained notoriety; and sometimes 
 behind an engine furnace, or a railroad bank, you may de- 
 tect the pathetic discord of its momentary grace, and, 
 .with toil, -decipher its floral carvings choked with soot. I 
 felt answerable to the schools I loved, only for their in- 
 jury. I perceived that this new portion of my strength 
 had also been spent in vain ; and from amidst streets of 
 iron, and palaces of crystal, shrank back at last to the 
 carving of the mountain and colour of the flower. 
 
 And still I could tell of failure, and failure repeated, as 
 years went on ; but I have trespassed enough on your 
 patience to show you, in pai-t, the causes of my discour- 
 agement. \Now let me more deliberately tell you its 
 results. ' You know there is a tendency in the minds of 
 many men, when they are heavily disappointed in the 
 main purposes of their life, to feel, and perhaps in warn- 
 ing, perhaps in mockery, to declare, that life itself is a 
 vanity. Because it has disappointed them, they think its 
 nature is of disappointment always, or at best, of pleasure, 
 that can be grasped in imagination only ; that the cloud 
 of it has no strength nor fire within ; but is a painted 
 cloud only, to be delighted in, yet despised. You know 
 how beautifully Pope has expressed this particular phase 
 of thought : — 
 
ABD rrS AETS. 9 
 
 " Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays, 
 These painted clouds that beautify our days. 
 Each want of happiness by hope supplied, 
 And each vacuity of sense, by pride. 
 Hope builds as fast as Knowledge can destroy ; 
 In Polly's cup, still laughs the bubble joy. 
 One pleasure past, another still we gain, 
 And not a vanity is given in vain.' 
 
 But the effect of failure upon my own mind has been 
 just the reverse of this. The more that my life disap-^ 
 pointed me^ the more solemn and wonderful it became to ' 
 me. It seemed, contrarily to Pope's saying, that the van- 
 ity of it was indeed given in vain ; but that there was 
 something behind the veil of it, which was not vanity. It 
 became to me not a painted cloud, but a terrible and im- 
 penetrable one : not a mirage, which vanished as I drew 
 near, but a piUar of darkness, to which' I was forbidden 
 to draw near. Eor I saw that both my own failure, and 
 such success in petty things as in its various triumph 
 seemed to me worse than failure, came from the want of 
 sufficiently earnest effort Jto understand the whole Jaw and 
 meaning of existence, and to bnngit to noble and due 
 end; as, on the other hand, I saw more and more clearly 
 that all enduring success in the arts, or in any other occu- 
 pation, had come from the ruling of lower purposes, not 
 by a conviction of their nothingness, but by a solemn 
 faith in the advancing power of human nature, or in the 
 promise, however dimly apprehended, that the mortal part 
 
10 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 of it would one day be swallowed up in immortality ; and 
 that, indeed, the arts themselves never had reached any 
 vital strength or honour but in the effort to proclaim this 
 immortality, and in the service either of great and just 
 religion, or of some unselfish patriotism, and law of such 
 national life as must be the foundation of religion. 
 Nothing that I have ever said is more true or necessary — 
 nothing has been more misunderstood or misapplied — 
 than my strong assertion, that the arts can never be right 
 themselves, unless their motive is right. It is misunder- 
 stood this way : weak painters, who have never learned 
 their business^ and cannot lay a true line, continually 
 come to me, crying out — " Look at this picture of mine ; 
 it Tnust be good, I had such a lovely motive. I have put 
 my whole heart into it, and taken years to think over its 
 treatment." Well, the only answer for these people is — 
 if one had the cruelty to make it — " Sir, you cannot think 
 over anything any number of years, — you haven't the 
 head to do it ; and thougli you had fine motives, strong 
 enough to make you burn yourself in a slow fire, if only 
 first you could paint a picture, you can't paint one, nor 
 half an inch of one ; you haven't the hand to do it." 
 
 But, far more decisively we have to say to the men 
 who do know their business, or may know if they choose 
 — " Sir, you have this gift, and a mighty one ; see that 
 you serve your nation faithfully with it. It is a greater 
 trust than ships and armies : you might cast tJiem away 
 if you were their captain, with less treason to your people 
 
AND rrs AETS. 11 
 
 than in casting your own gloriouB power away, and serv- 
 ing the devil with it instead of men. Ships and armies 
 you may replace if they are lost, but a great intellect, 
 once abnsed, is a curse to the earth for ever. 
 
 This, then, I meant by saying that the arts must have 
 noble motive. This also I said respecting them, that 
 they never had prospered, nor could prosper, but when 
 they had such true purpose, and were devoted to the 
 proclamation of divine truth or law. And yet I saw also 
 that they had always failed in this proclamation — that 
 poetry, and sculpture, and painting, though only great 
 when they strove to teach us something about the gods, 
 never had taught us anything trustworthy about the 
 gods, but had always betrayed their trust in the crisis of it, 
 and, with their powers at t^e full reach, became ministers 
 to pride and to lust. And I felt also, with increasing 
 amazement, the unconquerable apathy in ourselves the 
 hearers, no less than in these the teachers ; and that, while 
 the wisdom and rightness of every act and art of life 
 could only be consistent with a right understanding of 
 the ends of life, we were all plunged in a languid dream 
 — our heart fat, and our eyes heavy, and our ears closed, 
 lest the inspiration of hand or voice should reach uss- 
 iest we should see with our eyes, and understand with 
 our hearts, and be healed. 
 
 This intense apathy in all of us is the first great mys- 
 tery of life ; it stands in the way of every perception, 
 every virtue. There is no making ourselves feel enough 
 
12 THE MYSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 astonishment at it. That the occupations or pastimes of 
 life- should have no motive, is understandable ; but that 
 life itself should have no motive — that we neither care to 
 find out what it may lead to, nor to guard against its 
 being for ever taken away from us^here is a mystery 
 indeed. For just suppose I were able to call at this mo- 
 ment to any one in this audience by name, and to tell 
 him positively that I knew a large estate had been lately . . 
 left to him on some curious conditions ; but that, though 
 I knew it was large, I did not know how large, nor even 
 where it was — whether in the East Indies or the "West, 
 or in England, or at the Antipodes'. I only knew it was 
 a vast estate, and that there was a chance of his losing it 
 altogether if he did not soon find out on what terms it 
 had been left to him. Suppose I were able to say this 
 positively to any single man in this audience, and he 
 knew that I did not speak without warrant, do you think 
 that he would rest content with that vague knowledge, 
 if it were anywise possible to obtain more ? "Would 
 he not give every energy to find some trace of the facts, 
 and never rest till he had ascertained where this place 
 was, and what it was like ? And suppose he. were a 
 young man, and all he could discover by his best en- 
 deavour was, that the estate was never to be his at all 
 unless he persevered during certain years of probation in 
 an orderly and industrious life ; but that, according to the 
 circumspection of his conduct, the portion of the estate 
 assigned to him would be greater or less, so that it 
 
AHD ITS AETS. 13 
 
 literally depended on his behaviour from day to day 
 whether he got ten thousand a-year, or thirty thousand a- 
 year, or nothing, whateyer — would you not think it 
 strange if the youth never troubled himself to satisfy the 
 conditions in any way_, nor even to know what was re- 
 quired of him, but lived exactly as he chose, and never in- 
 quired whether his chances of the estate were increasing or 
 passing away. "Well, you know that this is actually and 
 literally so with the greater number of the educated persons 
 now living in Christian countries. Certainly nearly every 
 man and woman, in any company such as this, outwardly 
 professes to believe — and a large number unquestionably 
 think they believe — much more than this ; not only that 
 a quite unlimited estate is in prospect for them if they 
 please the Holder of it, but that the infinite contrary of 
 such a possession — an estate of perpetual misery, is in 
 store for them if they displease this great Land-Holder, 
 this great Heaven-Holder. And yet there is not one in 
 a thousand of these human souls that cares to think, for 
 ten minutes of the day, where this estate is, or how beau- 
 tiful it is, or what, kind of life they are to lead in it, or 
 what kind of life they must lead to obtain it. You fancy 
 that you care to know this : so little do you care that, 
 probably, at this moment many of you are displeased 
 with me for talking of the matter ! You came to hear 
 about the art of this world, not about the life of the next, 
 and you are provoked with me for talking of what you 
 can hear any Sunday in church. But do not be afraid. 
 
14 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 T will tell you something before you go about pictures, 
 and carvings, and pottery, and what else you would like 
 better to hear of than the other world. Nay, perhaps 
 you say we want you to talk of pictures and pottery, be- 
 cause we are sure that you know something of them, 
 and you know nothing of the other world. Well — I 
 don't. That is quite true. But the very strangeness and 
 mystery of which I urge you to take notice is in this — 
 that I do not, nor you either. Can you answer a single 
 bold question unflinchingly about that other world^Are 
 you sure there is a heaven ? Sure there is a hell ? Sure 
 that men are dropping before your faces through the 
 pavements of these streets into eternal fire, or sure that 
 they are not ? Sure that at your own death you are 
 going to be delivered from all sorrow, to be endowed with 
 all virtue, to be giftq^ with all felicity, and raised into 
 perpetual companionship with a King, compared to whom 
 the kings of the earth are as grasshoppers and the nations 
 as the dust of His feet ? Are you sure of this ? or, if not 
 sure, do any of us so much as care to make it sure ? and, 
 if not, how can anything that we do be right — how can 
 anything we think be wise ; what honor can there be in 
 the arts that amuse us, or what profit in the possessions 
 that please. 
 
 Is not this a mystery of life ? 
 
 But farther, you may, perhaps, think it a beneficent 
 ordinance for the generality of men that they do not with 
 earnestness or anxiety, dwell on such questions of the fu- 
 
AND ITS AETS. 15 
 
 ture ; and that the business of the day could not be done 
 if this kind of thought were taken by all of us for the mor- 
 row. Be it so : but at least we might anticipate that the 
 greatest and wisest of us, who were evidently the appointed 
 teachers of the rest, would set themselves apart to seek out 
 whatever could be surely known of the future destinies of 
 their race, and to teach this in no rhetorical or ambiguous 
 manner, but in the plainest and most severely earnest 
 words. 
 
 Now, the highest representatives of men who have thus 
 endeavoured, inuring the Christian era, to search out these 
 deep things, and relate them, are Dante and Milton. There 
 are none who for earnestness of thought, for mastery of 
 word, can be classed with these. I am not at present, mind 
 you, speaking of persons set apart in any priestly or pas- 
 toral office, to deliver creeds to us, or doctrines ; but of 
 men who try to discover and set forth, as far as by human 
 intellect is possible, the facts of the other world. Divines 
 may perhaps teach us how to arrive there, but only these 
 two poets haye in any powerful manner striven to discover, 
 or in any definite words professed to tell, what we shall 
 see and become there, or how those upper and nether 
 worlds are, and have been, inhabited. 
 
 And what have they told us ? Milton's account of the 
 most important event in his whole system of the universe, 
 the fall of the angels, is evidently unbelievable to himself; 
 and the more so, that it is wholly founded on, and in a 
 great part spoiled and degraded' from, Hesiod's account of 
 
16 THE lirSTEET OF LDFE 
 
 the decisive war of the younger gods with the Titans. The 
 rest of his poem is a picturesque drama, in which every 
 artifice of invention is visibly' and consciously employed, 
 not a single fact being for an instant conceived as tenable 
 by any living faith. Dante's conception is far more in- 
 tense, and, by himself, for the time, not to be escaped from ; 
 it is indeed a vision, but a vision only, and tfiat one of the 
 wildest that ever entranced a soul — a dream in which every 
 grotesque type or phantasy of heathen tradition is renewed 
 and adorned ; and the destinies of the Christian Church, 
 under their most sacred symbols, become literally subordi- 
 nate to the praise, and are only to be understood by the 
 aid, of one dear Florentine maiden. 
 
 Do you know, as I strive more sternly with this strange 
 lethargy and trance in myself, and awake to the meaning 
 and pow;er of life, it seems daily more amazing to me that 
 men such as these should dare to play with the most pre- 
 cious truths, (or the most deadly untruths,) by which the 
 whole human race listening to them could be informed, or 
 deceived ; — all the world their audiences for ever, with 
 pleased ear and passionate heart ; — and yet, to this sub- 
 missive infinitude of souls, and evermore succeeding and 
 succeeding multitude, hungry for bread oi *life, they do but 
 play upon sweetly modulated pipes ; with pompous nomen- 
 clature adorn the councils of hell ; touch a troubadour's 
 guitar to the courses of the suns ; and fill the openings of 
 eternity, before which prophets have veiled their faces, and 
 which angels desire to look into, with idle puppets of their 
 
AST) ITS AETS. 17 
 
 scholastic imagination, and melancholy lights of frantic 
 faith, in their lost mortal love. 
 
 Is not this a mystery of life ? But more. We have to 
 remember that these two great. teachers were both of them \ 
 warped in their temper and thwarted in 'their search for 
 truth. They were men of intellectual war, unable, through 
 darkness of controversy, or stress of personal grief, to dis- 
 cern where their own ambition modified their utterances 
 of the moral law ; or their own kgony mingled with their 
 anger at its violation. Biit greater men thaii, these 'have 
 been — men , innocent hearted — too great for contest. Men , 
 like Homer and Shakespeare, of so unrecognized person- 
 ality, that it disappears in future ages, and becomes ghost- 
 ly, like the tradition of a lost heathen god. Men, there- 
 fore, to whose unoffended, nncondemning sight, the whole 
 of human nature reveals itself in a pathetic weakness, with 
 which they will not strive, or in mournful and transitory 
 strength, which they dare not praise. And all Pagan and 
 Christian civilization thus becomes subject to them. It 
 does not matter how little, or how much, any of us have 
 read, either of Hamer or Shakespeare : everything round 
 us, in substance, or in thought, has been moulded by them. 
 All Greek gentlemen were educated under Homer. All 
 Eoman gentlemen, by Greek literature. All Italian, and 
 French, and English gentlemen, by Eoman literature, and 
 by its principles. Of the scope of Shakespeare, I will say 
 only, that the intellectual measure of every man since born, 
 in the domains of creative thought, may be assigned to 
 
18 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 him, according to the degree in which he has been taught 
 by Shakespeare. Well, what do these two men, centres 
 of mortal intelligence, deliver to ns of conviction, respect- 
 ing what it most behoves that intelligence to grasp. "What 
 is their hope ; their crown of rejoicing ? what manner of 
 exhortation have they for us, or of rebuke ? what lies next 
 their own hearts, and dictates their undying words ? Have 
 they any peace to promise to our unrest — any redemption 
 to our misery ? 
 
 Take Homer first, and think if there is any sadder 
 image of human fate than the great Homeric story. The 
 main features in the character of Achilles are its intense 
 desire of justice, and its tenderness of afiection. And in 
 that bitter song of the Iliad, this man, though aided con- 
 tinually by the wisest of the gods, and burning with the 
 desire of justice in his heart, becomes yet, through ill- 
 governed passion, the most unjust of men ; and, full of 
 the deepest tenderness in his heart, becomes yet, through 
 iU-governed passion, the most cruel of men; intense alike 
 in love and in friendship, he loses, first, his mistress, and 
 then his friend ; for the sake of the ope he surrenders 
 to death the armies of his own land ; for the sake of 
 the other, he surrenders all. Will a man lay down his 
 life for his friend? Yea — even for his dead friend, 
 this Achilles, though goddess-born, and goddess-taught, 
 gives up his kingdom, his country, and his life— casts 
 alike the innocent and guilty, with himself, into one 
 gulf of slaughter, and dies at last by the hand of 
 
AOT) ITS. ABTS. 19 
 
 the basest of his adversaries. Is not this a mystery of 
 life? 
 
 But what, then, is the message to us of our own poet, 
 and searcher of hearts, after fifteen hundred years of 
 Christian faith have been numbered over the graves of 
 men ? Are his words more cheerful than the heathen's — 
 is his hope more near — his trust more sure — his reading 
 of fate more happy ? Ah, no ! He differs from the 
 heathen poet chiefly in this — that he recognizes, for 
 deliverance, no gods nigh at hand ; and that, by petty 
 chance — by momentary folly — by broken message — by 
 fool's tyranny — or traitor's snare, the strongest and most 
 righteous are brought to their ruin, and perish without 
 word of hope. With necessary truth of insight, he in- 
 deed ascribes the power' and modesty of habitual devo- 
 tion, to the gentle and the just. The death-bed of Katha- 
 rine is bright with vision of angels ; and the great soldier- 
 king, standing by his few dead, acknowledges the pre- 
 sence of the- hand, that can save alike, by many or by 
 few. But from those, who with deepest spirit, meditate, 
 and with deepest passion, mourn, there are no such words 
 as these ; nor in their hearts such consolations. Instead 
 of the perpetual sense of the helpful presence of the 
 Deity, which through all heathen tradition is the source 
 of heroic strength, in battle, in exile, and in the valley of 
 the shadow of death, we find only in the great Christian 
 poet, the consciousness of a moral law, through which 
 " the gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instru- 
 
20 THE MYSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 ments to scourge us ; " and of the resolved arbitration of 
 the destinies, that con elude into precision of doom what 
 we feebly and blindly began; and force us, when our 
 indiscretion serves us, and our deepest plots do paU, to 
 the confession, that " there's a divinity that shapes our 
 ends, rough hew them how we will." 
 
 Is not this a mystery of life ? 
 
 Now observe : about this liuman life that is to be, or 
 that is, the wise religious pien tell us nothing that jre can 
 trust ; and the wise contemplative men, nothing that can 
 give us peace. But there is yet a third class, to whom we 
 may turn — ^the wise practical men. We have sat at the 
 feet of the poets who sang of heaven, and they have told 
 us their dreams. We have listened to the poets who sang 
 of earth, and they ha^ve chanted to us dirges, and words 
 of despair. But there is one class of men more : — men, 
 not capable of vision, nor sensitive to sorrow, but firm of 
 purpose — practised in business ; learned in all that can 
 be, by handling, known. Men, whose hearts and hopes 
 are wholly in this present world, from whom, therefore, 
 we may surely learn, at least, how, at present, conve- 
 niently to live in it. What will they say to us, or show 
 us by example? These kings — these councillors — 
 these statesmen and builders of kingdoms — these capi- 
 talists and men of business, who weigh the earth and 
 the dust of it in a balance. They know, the world 
 surely ; and what is the mystery of life to us is none 
 to them. They can surely show us how to live while 
 
AND ITS ARTS. 21 
 
 ■we live, and to gatlier out of the present world what is 
 best. 
 
 I think I can best tell you their answer, by telling you 
 a dream I had once. For though I am no poet, I have 
 dreams sometimes : — I dreamed I was at a child's May- 
 day party, in which every means of entertainment had 
 been provided for them, by a wise and kind host. It was 
 in a stately house, with beautiful gardens attached to it ; 
 and the children had been set free in the rooms and gar- 
 dens, with no care whatever but how to pass their after- 
 noon -rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know much 
 about what w^as to happen next day; and some of them, I 
 thought, were a little frightened, because there was a 
 chance of their being sent to a new school where there 
 were examinations ; but they kept the thoughts of that 
 out of their heads as well as they could, and resolved to 
 enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful 
 garden, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers ; 
 sweet grassy banks for rest ; and smooth lawns for play ; 
 and pleasant streams and woods; and rocky places for 
 climbing. And the children were happy for a little 
 while, but presently they separated themselves into par- 
 ties; and then each party declared, it would have a piece 
 of the garden for its own, and that none of the others 
 should have anything to do with that piece. Next, they 
 quarrelled violently, which pieces they would have ; and 
 at last the boys took up the thing practically, and fought 
 in the flower-beds till there was hardly a flower left stand- 
 
22 THE MTSTEEY OF LIFE 
 
 ing ; there they trampled down each other's bits of the 
 garden out of spite ; and the girls cried till they could 
 cry no more ; and so they all lay down at last breathless 
 in the ruin, and waited for the time when they were to 
 be taken home in the evening. Meanwhile, the children 
 in the house had been making themselves happy also in 
 their manner. JFor them, there had been provided every 
 kind of in-doors pleasure : there was music for them to 
 dance to ; and the library was open, with all manner of 
 amusing books ; and there was a museum, full of the most 
 curious shells, and animals, and birds ; and there was a 
 workshop, with lathes and carpenter's tools, for the in- 
 genious boys ; and there were pretty fantastic dresses, 
 for the girls to dress in ; and there were microscopes and 
 kaleidoscopes; and whatever toys a child could fancy; 
 and a table, in the dining-room, loaded with everything 
 nice to eat. 
 
 But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or three of 
 the more practical children, that they would like some 
 of the brass-headed nails that studded the chairs, and they 
 set to work ,to pull them out. Presently, the others, who 
 were reading or looking at shells, took a fancy to do 
 the like ; and, in a little while, all the children nearly 
 were spraining their fingers, in pulling out brass-headed 
 nails, "With all that they could pull out, they were not 
 satisfied ; and then, everybody wanted some of somebody 
 else's. And at last, the reaUy practical and sensible ones 
 declared, that nothing was of any real consequence, that 
 
AOT) ITS AETS. 23 
 
 afternoon, except to get plenty of brass-headed nails ; and 
 that the books, and the cakes, and the microscopes, were- 
 of no use at all in themselves, but only, if they conld be 
 exchanged for nail-heads. And, at last, they began to 
 fight for nail-heads, as the others fought for the' bits of 
 garden. Only here and there, a despised one shrank 
 away into a corner, and tried to get a little quiet with a 
 book, in the naidst of the noise ; but all the practical ones 
 thought of nothing else but counting nail-heads all the 
 afternoon — even though they knew they would not be 
 allowed to carry so much as one brass knob away with 
 them. But no — it was — " who has most nails ? I have a 
 hundred, and you have fifty ; or, I have a thousand and 
 you have two. I must have as many as you before I 
 leave the house, or I cannot possibly go home in peace." 
 At last, they made so much noise that I awoke, and 
 thought to myself, " what a false dream that is, of chil- 
 dren,y The child is the father of the man ; and wiser. 
 Children never do such foolish things. But men do. 
 
 But there is yet one last class of persons to be interro- 
 gated. The wise reli^^kJus men we have asked in vain ; 
 the wise contemplative men, in vain; the wise worldly 
 men, in vain. But there is another group yet. In the 
 midst of this vanity of empty religion — of tragic contem- 
 plation — of wrathful and wretched ambition, and dispute 
 for dust, there is yet one great group of persons, by whom 
 all these disputers live — the persons who have deter- 
 mined, or have had it by a beneficent Providence deter- 
 
24 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 mined for them, that they will do something useful ; that 
 whatever may be prepared for them hereafter, or happen 
 to them here, they will, at least, deserve the food that God 
 gives them by winning it honourably ; and that, however 
 fallen from the purity, or far from the peace of Eden, they 
 will carry out the duty of human dominion, though they 
 have lost its felicity ; and dress and keep the wilderness, 
 though they no more can dress or keep the garden. 
 
 These, — hewers of wood, and drawers of water — these, 
 bent under burdens, or torn of scourges — these, that dig 
 and weave — that plant and build ; workers in wood, and 
 in marble, and in iron — by whom all food, clothing, habi- 
 tation, furniture, and means of delight, are produced, for 
 themselves, and for all men beside ; men, whose deeds are 
 good, though their words may be few ; men, whose lives 
 are serviceable, be they never so short, and worthy of 
 honour, be they never so humble ; — from these surely, at 
 least, we may receive some clear message of teaching : and 
 pierce, for an instant, into the mystery of life, and of its 
 arts. 
 
 Yes ; from these, at last, we do receive a lesson. But 
 I grieve to say, or rather — for that is the deeper truth of 
 the mattei' — I rejoice to say — this message of theirs can 
 only be received by joining them — not by thinking about 
 them. 
 
 You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have 
 obeyed you in coming. But, the main thitig I have to 
 tell you is, — that art must not be talked about. The fact 
 
AlTD ITS ABTS. 25 
 
 that there is talk about it at all, signifies that it is ill done, \ 
 or cannot be done. No true painter- ever speaks, or ever ', 
 has spoken, much of his art. The greatest speak nothing. | 
 Even Eeynolds is no exception, for he wrote of all that J 
 he could not himself do, and was utterly silent respecting 
 all that he himself did. 
 
 The moment a man can really do his work, he becomes | 
 speechless about it. All words become idle to him — all | 
 theories. 
 
 Does a bird need to theorize about building its nest, or 
 boast of it when built. All good work is essentially done 
 that way — without hesitation, without difficulty, without 
 boasting ; and in the doers of the best, there is an inner 
 and involuntary power which approximates literally to 
 the instinct of an animal — nay, I am certain that in ^the 
 most perfect human artists, reason does not supersede 
 instinct, but is added to an instinct gs much more divine 
 than that of the lower animals as the human body is more 
 beautiful than theirs ; that a great singer sings not with 
 less instinct than the nightingale, but with more — only 
 more various, applicable, and governable; that a great 
 architect does not build with less instinct than the beaver 
 or the bee, but with more — with an innate cunning of pro- 
 portion that embraces all beauty, and a divine ingenuity 
 of £kill that improvises all construction. But be that as 
 it may — ^be the instinct less or more than that of inferior 
 animals — ^like or. unlike theirs, still the human art is de- 
 pendent on that first, and then upon an amount of prac- 
 
26 ' THE MTBTEEY OF LIFE 
 
 tice, of science, — and of imagination disciplined by 
 thought, -which the true possessor of it knows to be in- 
 communicable, and the true critic of it, inexplicable, ex- 
 cept through long process of laborious years. That jour- 
 ney of life's conquest, in which hills over hills, and Alps 
 on Alps arose, and sank, do you think you can make 
 another climb it painlessly, by talking ? Why you cannot 
 even carry us up an Alp with talking. Tou can guide us 
 up it, step by step, no otherwise — even so, best silently. 
 You girls who have been among the hills know how the 
 bad guide chatters and gesticulates, and it is " put your 
 foot here," and " mind how you balance yourself there ; " 
 but the good guide walks on quietly, without a word, only 
 with his eyes on you when need is, and his arm like an 
 iron bar, if need be. In that slow way, also, art can be 
 taught — if you have faith in your guide, and will let his 
 arm be to you as an iron bar when need is. But in what 
 teacher of art have you such faith ? Certainly not in me ; 
 for, as I told you at first, I know well enough it is only 
 because you think I can talk, not because you think I 
 know my business, that you let me speak to you at all. 
 If I were to tell you anything that seemed to you strange, 
 you would not believe it, and yet it would only be in tell- 
 ing you strange things that I could be of use to you. I 
 could be of great use to you — infinite use, with brief 
 saying, if you would believe it ; but you would not, just 
 because the thing that would be of real use would go 
 against the grain vsdth yon. Tou are all wild for 
 
AND ITS AETS. 27 
 
 instance, with admiration of Gustave Dore. Well, sup- 
 pose I were to tell you, in tlie strongest terms I could use, 
 that Gustave Dora's art was bad — ^bad, not in weakness, 
 not in failure, but bad with dreadful power — the power of 
 the Furies and the Harpies mingled, enraging, and pollu- 
 ting ; that, so long as you looked at it, no perception of 
 pure or beautiful art was possible for you. Suppose I 
 were to tell you that ! What would be the use ? Would 
 you look at Gustave Dore less ? Kather, more, I fancy. 
 On the other hand, I could soon put you into good 
 humour with me, if I chose. I know well enough what 
 you like, and how to praise it, to your better liking. I 
 could talk to you about moonlight, and twilight, and 
 spring flowers, and autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of 
 Raphael — how motherly ! and the Sibyls of Michael An- 
 gelo — ^how majestic! and the Saints of Angelico — ^how 
 pious ! and the Cherubs of Correggio — ^how delicious ! 
 Old as I am, I could play you a tune on the hai-p yet, 
 that you would dance to. But neither you nor I should 
 be a bit the better or wiser ; or, if we were, our increased 
 wisdom could be of no practical effect. For, indeed, the > 
 arts, as regards teachableness, differ from the sciences also| 
 in this, that their power is founded not merely on facts 
 which can be communicated, but on dispositions which! 
 require to be created. Art is neither to be achieved by 
 effort of thinking, nor explained by accuracy of speaking. |^ 
 It is the instinctive and necessary result of powers which 
 can only be developed through the mind of successive 
 
28 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 generations, and which finally bnrst into life under social 
 conditions as slow of growth as the faculties they regulate. 
 Whole seras of mighty history are summed, and the pas- 
 sions of dead myriads are concentrated, in the existence of 
 a noble art ; and if that noble art were among us, we 
 should feel it and rejoice, and not care to hear lectures on 
 it ; and since it is not among us, be assured we have to go 
 back to the root of it, or, at least, to the place where the 
 stock of it is yet alive, and the branches began to die. 
 
 And now, may I have your pardon for pointing oiit, 
 partly with reference to matters which are at this time of 
 greater moment than the arts — that if we undertook such 
 recession to the vital germ of national arts that have 
 decayed, we should find a more singular arrest of their 
 power in Ireland than in any- other European country. 
 For in the eighth century, Ireland possessed a school of 
 illumination, in many of its qualities — apparently in all 
 essential qualities of invention and refinement — quite 
 without rival ; seeming as if it might have advanced to 
 the highest triumphs in architecture and in painting. 
 But there was one fatal flaw in its nature, by which it, 
 was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness of pause to 
 which there is no parallel ; so that long ago, in tracing 
 for the students of Kensington, the progress of European 
 schools from infancy to. strength, I chose for them, in a 
 lecture since published, two characteristic examples of 
 early art, of equal skill ; but in the one case, skill which 
 was progressive — in the other, skill which was at pause ; 
 
AND ITS AET8. 29 
 
 in the one case, it was work necessarily receptive of cor- 
 rection — ^hungry for correction — and in the other, work 
 which inherently rejected correction. I chose for them a 
 corrigible Eve, and an incorrigible Angel, and I grieve to 
 say, that the incorrigible Angel was also an Irish Angel ! 
 
 And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In both 
 pieces of art there was an equal falling short of the needs 
 of fact ; but the Lombardic Eve knew she was in the 
 wrong, and the Irish Angel thought himself all right. 
 The 8ager Lombardic sculptor, though firmly insisting on 
 his childish idea, yet showed in the irregular broken 
 touches of the features, and the imperfect struggle for 
 softer lines in the form, a perception of beauty and law 
 that he could not render; there was the strain of effort 
 under conscious imperfection in every line. But the Irish 
 missal painter had drawn his angel with no sense of fail- 
 ure, in happy complacency, and put red dots into the 
 palms of each hand, and rounded the eyes into perfect cir- 
 cles, and, I regret to say, left the mouth out altogether, 
 with perfect satisfaction to himself. 
 
 May I, without offence, ask you to consider whether 
 this mode of arrest in ancient Irish art may not be indi- 
 cative of points of character which even yet, in some 
 measure, arrest your national power ? I have seen much 
 of Irish character, and have watched it closely, for I have 
 also much loved it. And I think the form of failure to 
 which it is most liable is this, that being generous- 
 hearted, and wholly intending always to do right, it does 
 
 2* 
 
30 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 not attend to the external laws of right, but thinks it 
 /. must necessarily do right because it means to do so, and 
 therefore does wrong without finding it out ; and then 
 when the consequences Of its wrong come upon it, or 
 upon others connected with it, it cannot conceive that the 
 wrong is in any wise of its causing or of its doing, but 
 flies into wrath, and a strange agony of desii'e for justice, 
 as feeling itself wholly innocent, which leads it farther 
 astray, until there is nothing that it is not capable of 
 doing with a good conscience. • 
 
 But mind, I do not mean to say that in past or present 
 relations between Ireland and England you have been 
 wrong, and we right. Far from that ; I believe that in all 
 great questions of principle, and in all details of adminis- 
 tration of law, you have been usually right and we wrong, 
 sometimes in misunderstanding you, sometimes in resolute 
 iniquity to you. '\ Nevertheless, in all disputes between 
 states, thbugh "tiie strongest is nearly always mainly in 
 the wrong, the weaker is often so in a minor degree ; and 
 I think we sometimes admit the possibility of our being 
 in" error, and you never do. 
 
 And now, returning to the broader question, what 
 these arts and labours of life have to teach us of its 
 nystery, this is the first of their lessons — that the more 
 jeautiful the art, the more it is essentially the work of 
 )eople who feel themselves wrong — who are striving for 
 jthe fulfilment of the law and the realization of a loveli- 
 ness which they have not yet attained, which they feel 
 
AHX> ITS XRTS. 31 
 
 even farther and farther from attaining, the inore they 
 strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense, it is the work 
 of people who know also that they are right — and that 
 this very sense of inevitable error from their purpose 
 marks the perfectness of that purpose, and the manifold 
 sense of failure arises from the opening of the eyes more 
 clearly to all the sacredest laws of truth. 
 
 This is one lesson. The second, is a very plain, and 
 greatly precious one, namely : — that whenever the arts 
 and labours of life are fulfilled in this spirit of. striving 
 against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, 
 honourably and perfectly, they invariably bring happi- 
 ness, as much as seems possible to the nature of man. In 
 all other paths, by which that happiness is pursued, there 
 is disappointment, or destruction ; for ambition and for 
 passion there is no rest — ^no fruition ; the fairest pleasures 
 of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past 
 light ; and the loftiest and purest love too often does but 
 inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, 
 ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of 
 / human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives 
 peace. Ask the labourer in the field, at the forge, or in 
 the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or 
 the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in 
 . marble, and with the colours of light ; and none of these, 
 who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they ha,ve 
 found the law of heaven an unkind one— that in the 
 sweat of their face they should eat bread, till they return 
 
32 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 to the ground ; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded 
 obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the 
 command — " Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do — do it 
 with thy might." 
 
 These are the two great and constant lessons which our 
 labourers teach us of the mystery of life. But, there is 
 another, and -a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, 
 which we must read on their tombstones. 
 
 " Do it with thy might." There have been myriads 
 upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this 
 law — ^who have put every breath and nerve of their being 
 into its toil — who have devoted eveiy hour, and exhausted 
 every faculty — who have bequeathed their unaccomplished 
 thoughts at death — who being dead, have yet spoken, by 
 majesty of memory, and strength of example. And, at 
 last, what has all this might of humanity accomplished, in 
 six thousand years of labour and sorrow ? . What has it 
 done? Take the three chief occupations and arts' of men, 
 one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with 
 the first — the lord of them all — agriculture. Six thousand 
 years have passed since we were set to till the ground, 
 from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled ? 
 How much of that which is, wisely or well ? Why, in the 
 very centre and chief garden of Europe — where the two 
 forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses — 
 where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the 
 noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, 
 for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties — there the un- 
 
Airo ITS AUTS. 33 
 
 checked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation ; and 
 the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem with 
 a year's labour, still blast their helpless inhabitants into 
 fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe ! 
 While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of 
 the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, 
 ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of 
 the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not 
 find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no 
 more ; but, stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of 
 them perish of hunger. 
 
 Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, takes the next 
 head of human arts — weavin g^ the art of queens, honoured 
 of all noble Heathen women, in the person of their virgin 
 goddess — ^honoured of all Hebrew women, by the word of 
 their wisest king^" She layeth her hands to the spindle, 
 and her hands hold the distaff;^ she stretcheth out her 
 hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her 
 household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. 
 She maketh herself covering of tapestry ; her clothing is 
 silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, 
 and delivereth girdles to the merchant." What have we 
 done in all these thousands of years with this bright art 
 of Greek maid and Christian matron ? Six thousand years 
 of weaving, and have we learned to weave ? Might not 
 every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and 
 every feeble breast fenced with sweet colours from the 
 cold ? What have we done ? Our fingers are too few, it 
 
34 THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 
 
 seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. 
 We set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with 
 fire, to turn our spinning-wheels — and, are we jet clothed? 
 Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with 
 sale of cast clouts and rotten rags. Is not the beauty of 
 your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, 
 with better honour, nature clothes the brood of the bird 
 in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den. And 
 does not every winter's snow robe what you have not 
 robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded ; and every 
 winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to wit- 
 ness against you hereafter, by the voice of their Christ. — 
 " I was naked, and ye clothed me not." 
 
 Lastly — take the Art of Building — the strongest — 
 proudest — ^most orderly — most enduring, of the arts of 
 man ; that, of which the produce is in the surest manner 
 accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced ; but if 
 once well done, will stand more strongly than the un- 
 balanced rocks — more prevalently than the crumbling 
 hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride 
 and sacred principle ; in which men record their power — 
 satisfy their enthusiasm — make sure their defence — de- 
 fine and make dear their "habitations. And, in six thou- 
 sand years of building, what have we done? Of the 
 greater part of all that skill and strength, no vestige is 
 left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and im- 
 pede the streams. But, from this waste of disorder, and 
 of time, and of rage, what is left to us ? Constructive and 
 
Am) ITS AKTB. 35 
 
 progressive creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and 
 forming hands, capable of fellowship, and thirsting for 
 fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of 
 the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea. 
 The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by / 
 poor atoms of scarcely nascent life, but only ridges of 
 formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our 
 noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for 
 each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering 
 heaps, in homes that consume them like graves ; and 
 night by night, trom the corners of our streets, rises up 
 the cry of the homeless — "I was a stranger, and ye took 
 me not in." 
 
 Must it be always thus? Is our life for ever to be 
 ■without profit — without possession? Shall the strength 
 of its generations be as barren as death; or cast away 
 their labour, as the wild figtree casts her untimely figs? 
 Is it all a dream then — ^the desire of the eyes and the 
 pride of life — or, if it be, might we not live in nobler 
 dreams than these? The poets and prophets, the wise 
 men, and the scribes, though they have told us nothing 
 about a life to come, have told us much about the life 
 that is now. They have had — they also, — their dreams, 
 and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed of 
 mercy, and of justice ; they have dreamed of peace and/ 
 good-will ; they have dreamed of labour undisappointed, 
 and of rest undisturbed ; they have dreamed of fulness in 
 harvest, and overflowing in store ; they have dreamed of 
 
36 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 wisdom in council, and of providence in law ; of gladness 
 of parents, and strength of children, and glory of gray 
 hairs. And at these visions of theirs we have mocked, 
 and held them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccom- 
 plishable. What have we accomplished with our reali- y^ 
 ties ? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried 
 against their folly? this, our mightiest possible, against 
 their impotent ideal ? or, have we only wandered among 
 the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the 
 tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty ; and walked 
 after the imaginations of our evil hearts, instead of after 
 the counsels of Eternity, until our lives — not in the like- 
 ness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell — 
 have become " even as a vapour, that appeareth for a 
 little time, and then vanisheth away " ? 
 
 Does it vanish then? Are you sure of that? — sure 
 that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this 
 troubled nothingness; and that the coiled shadow, which 
 i disquieteth itself in vain, cannot change into the smoke 
 of the torment that ascends for ever? Will any answer 
 that they are sure of it, and that there is no fear, nor 
 hope, nor desire, nor labour, whither they go ? Be it so ; 
 will you not, then, make as sure of the life that now is, 
 as you are of the death that is to come ? Tour hearts are 
 wholly in this world — will you not give them to it wisely, 
 as well as perfectly ? And see, first of all, that you ham 
 hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have 
 no heaven to look for, ia that any reason that you should 
 
AND ITS AETS. 37 
 
 remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, 
 which is surely and instantly given you in possession ? 
 Although yonr days are numbered, and the following 
 darkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the 
 degradation of the brute, because you are condemned to 
 its mortality; or live the life of the moth, and of the 
 worm, because you are to companion with them in the 
 dust? Not so ; we may have but a few thousand of days 
 to spend, perhaps hundreds only — perhaps, tens ; nay, the 
 longest of our time and best, looked back on, will be but 
 as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye ; but yet, we are 
 men, not insects ; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. 
 He maketh the winds his angels ; the flaming fire, his 
 ministers. And shall we do less than these ? Let ns do 
 the work of men while we bear the form of them, and as 
 we snatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, 
 snatch also our narrow but glorious inheritance of passion 
 out of Immortality — even though our lives be as a vapour, 
 that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.^ 
 But there are some of you who believe not this — who 
 think this cloud of life has no such close — that it is to 
 fioat, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven 
 in the day when He cometh with clouds, and every eye 
 shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five 
 or ten or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment 
 will be set, and the books opened. If that be true, far 
 more than that must be true. Is there but one day of 
 judgment? Why, for us every day is a day of judgment 
 
38 THE MTSTEET OF LBFE 
 
 — eveiy day is a Dies Irse, and writes its irrevocable ver- 
 dict in the flame of the west. Think you that judgment 
 waits till the doors of the grave are opened. It waits at 
 the doors of your houses — ^it waits at the corners of your 
 streets ; we are in the midst of judgment — the creatures 
 whom we crush are our judges — ^the moments we fret 
 away are our judges — the elements that feed us judge as 
 they minister — and the pleasures that deceive us judge as 
 v^ they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men 
 while we bear the Form of them, since those lives are 
 Not as a vapour, and do Not vanish away. 
 
 " The work of men " — and what is that ? "Well, we 
 may any of us know it very quickly, on the condition of 
 being wholly ready to do it. But many of ns are for the 
 most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but of what 
 we are to get ; and the best of us are sunk into the sin of 
 Ananias, and it is a mortal one — we want to keep back 
 part of the price ; and we continually talk of taking- up 
 our cross, as if the only mischief in a cross was the weight 
 of it — as if it was only a thing to be carried, instead of to 
 be <;rucified upon. " They that are His have crucified 
 the flesh, with the aflfections and lusts." Does that mean, 
 think you, that in time of national distress, of religious ' 
 trial, of crisis for every interest and hope of humanity — ; 
 none of us will cease jesting, none cease idling, none put 
 themselves to any wholesome work, none take so much as 
 a tog of lace off their footman's coats, to save the world ? ' 
 Or does it rather mean, that they are ready to leave 
 
AOT) ITS ABTS. 39 
 
 houses, lands, and kindreds— yes, and life, if need be ? 
 Life ! — some of us are ready enough to throw that away, 
 joyless as we have made it. But " station in Life " — ^how 
 many of us are ready to quit that ? Is it not always the 
 great objection, where there is question of finding some- 
 thing useful to do — " We cannot leave our stations in 
 Life?" 
 
 Now, those of us who really cannot — ^that is to say, who 
 can only maintain themselves by continuing in some busi- 
 ness or salaried office, have already something to do ; and 
 all that they have to see to, is that they do it honestly and 
 with all their might. But with most people who use that 
 apology, "remaining in the station of life to which Pro- 
 vidence has called them," means keeping all the carriages, 
 and all the footmen and large houses they can possibly 
 pay for ; and, once for all, I say that if ever Providence 
 put them into stations of that sort — ^which is not at all a 
 matter of certainty — Providence is just now very dis- 
 tinctly calling them out again. Levi's station in life was 
 the receipt of Custom, and Peter's the shore of Galilee, 
 and Paul's the antechambers of the High Priest, which 
 "station in life " each had to leave with brief notice. 
 
 And, whatever our station in life may be, at this crisis, 
 those of us who mean to fulfil our duty ought first, to live 
 on as little as we can ; and secondly, to do all the whole- 
 some work for it we can, and to spend all we can spare in 
 doing all the sure good we can. 
 
 And sure good is first in feeding people, then in dressing 
 
iO THE MTSTEEY OF LIFE 
 
 people, then in lodging people, and lastly in ri^tly pleas- 
 ing people, with arts, or sciences, or any other subject of 
 thought. 
 
 I say first in feeding ; and, once for all, do not let your- 
 selves be deceived by any of the common talk of indiscri- 
 minate charity. The order to us is not to feed the deserv- ; 
 ing hungry, nor the industrious hungry, nor the amiable and 
 well-intentioned hungry, but simply to feed the hungry. 
 It is quite true, infallibly true, that if any man will not 
 work, neither should he eat — think of that, and every time 
 you sit down to your dinner, ladies and gentlemen, say 
 solemnly, before you ask a blessing, " How much work 
 have I done to-day for my dinner " — but the proper way 
 to enforce that order on those below you, as well as on 
 yourselves, is not to leave vagabonds and honest people to 
 starve together, but very distinctly to discern and seize 
 your vagabond, and shut your vagabond up out of honest 
 people's way, and very sternly then see that, until he has 
 worked, he does not eat. But the first thing is to be sure 
 you have the food to give ; and, therefore, the organization 
 of vast activities in agriculture and in commerce, for the 
 production of the wholesomest food, and proper storing and 
 distribution of it, so that no famine shall any more be pos- 
 sible among civilized beings. There is plenty of work in 
 this business alone, and at once, for any number of people 
 who like to engage in it. 
 
 Secondly, dressing people — that is to say, urging every- 
 one within reach of your influence to be always neat and 
 
AND ITS AETS. 41 
 
 clean, and giving them means of being so. In so far as 
 they absolutely refuse, you must give up the effort with 
 respect to them, only taking care that no children within 
 your sphere of influence shall any more be brought up with 
 such habits, and that every person who is willing to dress 
 with propriety shall have encouragement in doing so. And 
 the first absolutely necessary step towards this is the gra- 
 dual adoption of a consistent dress for different ranks of 
 persons, so that their rank shall be known by their dress ; 
 and the restriction of the changes of fashion within certain 
 limits. AU which appears for the present quite impossi- 
 ble ; but it is only so far as even difiicult as it is difficult to 
 conquer our vanity, frivolity, and desire to appear what we 
 are not. 
 
 And it is not, nor ever shall be, creed of mine, that 
 these mean and shallow vices are unconquerable by Chris- 
 tian women. 
 
 And then, thirdly, lodging people, which you may think 
 should have been put first, but I put it third, because wc 
 must feed and clothe people where we find them, and 
 lodge them afterwards. And providing lodgment for 
 them means a great deal of vigorous legislation, and cut- 
 ting down of vested interests that stand in the way, and 
 after that, or before that, so far as we can get it, thorough 
 sanitary and remedial action in the houses that we have; 
 and then the building of more, strongly and beautifully, 
 but in groups of limited extent, kept in proportion to their 
 streams, and walled round, so that there might be no fes- 
 
42 THE MTSTEET OF LIFE 
 
 tering and wretched suburb anywhere, but clean and busy 
 street here, and the open country there, with a belt of 
 beautiful garden and orchard round the walls, so that from 
 any part of the city perfectly fresh air and grass, and sight 
 of far horizon might be reachable in a few minutes' walk. 
 This the final aim ; but in immediate action every minor and 
 possible good to be instantly done, when and as we can ; 
 roofs mended that have holes in them — fences that have 
 gaps in them — walls that totter — and floors that shake ; 
 cleanliness and order enforced with our own hands and 
 eyes, till we are breathless, every day. And all the fine 
 arts vri.ll healthily follow. I myself have washed a fiight 
 of stone stairs all down, with bucket and broom, in a Savoy 
 inn, where they hadn't washed their stairs since they fijst 
 went up them, and I never made a better sketch than that 
 afternoon. 
 
 These, then, are the three needs of civilized life ; and the 
 law for every Christian man and woman is, that they shall 
 be in direct service towards one of these three needs, as 
 far as is consistent with their own special occupation, and 
 if they have no special business, then wholly in one of these 
 services. And out of such exertion in plain duty all other 
 good will come ; for in this direct contention with material 
 evil, you will find out the real nature of all evil ; you will 
 discern by. the various kinds of resistance, what is really 
 the fault and main antagonism to good ; also you will find 
 the most unexpected helps and profound lessons given, and 
 truths will come thus down to us which the speculation of 
 
AOT3 ITS AETS. 43 
 
 all our lives would never have raised us up to. You will 
 find nearly every educational problem solved, as soon as 
 you truly want to do something ; everybody will become of 
 use in their own fittest way, and will learn what is best for 
 them to know in that use, Competitive examination will 
 then, and not till then, be wholesome, because it will be 
 daily, and calm, and in practice ; and on these familiar 
 arts, and minute, but certain and serviceable, knowledges, 
 will be surely edified and sustained, the greater arts and 
 splendid theoretical sciences. '^^ 
 
 But much more than this. On such holy and simple 
 practice will be founded, indeed, at last, an infallible reli- 
 gion. The greatest of all the mysteries of life and the most 
 terrible, is the corruption of even the sincerest religion, 
 which is not daily founded on rational, effective, humble,^ 
 and helpful action. Helpful action, observe ! for there is 
 just one law, which obeyed, keeps all religions pure — for- 
 gotten, makes them all false. Whenever in any religious 
 faith, dark or bright, we allow our minds to - dwell upon 
 the points in which we differ from other people, we are 
 wrong, and in the devil's power. That is the essence of 
 the Pharisee's thanksgiving — " Lord, I thank thee that I 
 am not as other men are." At every moment of our lives 
 we should be trying to find out, not in what we differ with 
 other people, but in what we agree with them ; and the 
 moment we find we can agree as to anything that should 
 be done, kind or good, (and who but fools couldn't?) then 
 do it ; push at it together ; you can't quarrel in a side-by- 
 
44: THE MTSTEET OF LTFE 
 
 side push; but the moment that even the best men stop 
 pushing, and begin talking, they mistake their pugnacity 
 for piety, and it's all over. I will not speak of the crimes 
 which in past times have been committed in the name of 
 Christ, nor of the follies which are at this hour held to be 
 consistent with obedience to Him ; but I will speak of the 
 morbid corruption and waste of vital power in religious 
 sentiment, by which the pure strength of that which should 
 be the guiding soul of every nation, the splendour of its 
 youthful manhood, and spotless light of its maidenhood, is 
 averted or cast away. You may see continually girls who 
 have never been taught to do a single useful thing thor- 
 oughly ; who cannot sew, who cannot cook, who cannot 
 cast an account, nor prepare a medicine, whose whole life 
 has been passed either in play or in pride ; you will find 
 girls like these, when they are earnest-hearted, cast all 
 their innate passion of religious spirit, which was meant 
 by God to support them through the irksomeness of daily 
 toil, into grievous and vain meditation over the meaning 
 of the great Book, of which no syllable was ever yet to be 
 understood but through a deed ; all the instinctive wisdom 
 and mercy of their womanhood made vain, and the glory 
 of their pure consciences warped into fruitless agony con- 
 cerning questions which the laws of common serviceable 
 life would have either solved for them in an instant, or 
 kept out of their way. Give such a girl any true work 
 that will make her active in the dawn, and weary at night, 
 with the consciousness that her fellow-creatures have in- 
 
AND ITS AETS. .45 
 
 deed been the better for her day, and the powerless sorrow 
 of her enthusiasm will transform itself into a majesty of 
 radiant and beneficent peace. 
 
 So with our youths. We once taught them to make 
 Latin verses, and called them educated ; now we teach 
 them to leap and to row, and to hit a ball with a bat, and 
 call them educated. Can they plough, can they sow, can 
 they plant at the right time, or build with a steady hand ? 
 Is it the effort of their lives to be chaste, knightly, faithful, 
 holy in thought, lovely in word and deed ? Indeed it is, 
 with some, nay with many, and the strength of England 
 is in them, and the hope ; but we have to turn their cou- 
 rage from the toil of war to the toil of mercy ; and their 
 intellect from dispute of words to discernment of things ; 
 and their knighthood from the errantry of adventure to the 
 state and fidelity of a kingly power. And then, indeed, 
 shall abide for them and for us an- incorruptible felicity, 
 and an infallible religion ; shall abide for us Faith, no 
 more to be assailed by temptation, no more to be defended 
 by wrath and by fear ; — shall abide with us Hope, no more 
 to be quenched by the years that overwhelm, or made 
 ashamed by the shadows that betray ; — shall abide for us, 
 and with us, the greatest of these — the abiding will — the 
 abiding name of our Father — for the greatest of these is 
 Charity. 
 
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 Hbadquaetees of the Aemt, 
 WASHiHaTos, Sept. .6, 1861. 
 DE.iB Sib: 
 
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 Tours very truly, 
 
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 Prof. D. H. MAHAjf, 
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Ai\ ELEMENTARY HEBREW GRAMMAR, 
 
 W^ITH TABLES, EEADING EXERCISES, AlTD A VOCABULAET. 
 BY WM. HENRY GREEN, 
 
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 It is chiefly with this view that this Elementary Grammar has been prepared. Its 
 size is so trifling that its contents can soon be mastered. And it may, perhaps, 
 gain admission as an optional study in colleges, where time could not be afforded 
 for a larger book ; or, where this is impracticable, the student will find little diffi- 
 culty in going through it by himself. And the modicum of knowledge which can 
 be gained by thoroughly familiarizing himself with these primary lessons will be of 
 essential service to him in entering upon his theological course. 
 
 This book may also meet the wants of non-professional students who seek a 
 general knowledge of this venerable and sacred tongue rather than a thorough 
 acquaintance with it, and who might be repelled by a large and more costly 
 apparatus. 
 
 Conrunendations of the Worl£. 
 
 " Chioaoo, Ins., Nov. 22, 1866. 
 " I have received a copy of your edition of the Rev. Dr. Green's • Manual of Hebrew Gram- 
 mar." It is a model book of the kind. , ., ^, ,. j, 
 " I heartily endorse the Key. Dr. Green's opinion in regard to the desirableness, on the part of 
 theological students, of having some knowledge of Hebrew before entering the Theological 
 Beminaiy. It would greatly promote the study of Old Testament exegesis. 
 
 " With such a Manual available for their use, candidates for the ministry might easily acquire 
 a rudimentary knowledge of the Hebrew lanauage during their academical course. 
 " Tours very respectfully, 
 
 " OhAKLKS EltlOTT, 
 
 " Prof Presbyt Theo. 8em. of the N. W." 
 
 " I have examined Prof Green's Elementary Hebrew Grammar, and do not hesitate to com- 
 mend it to beginners as admirably suited to introduce them to the knowledge of this sacred 
 
 "1 should be most happy to see this Manua. adopted by our Colleges m the cnrrioulnm of a 
 liberal education, that some measure of acquaintance with that venerable classic, the Old Testa- 
 ment, In its original, might he seonred to our educated men in the future, and especially that 
 
they who arc to cDter the sacred profession might come to our seminaries with at least this o!e- 
 mentcry knowlortge of the Hebrew tongue. 
 
 " M. W. Jacobus, 
 
 " Prof. Bib, Lit, 
 
 " Allegheny Theo. Sera.^ 
 
 "The grateful acknowledgments of all who hare eccasion to teach the rudiments of the 
 Hebrew language are due to the author and the publishers of Dr. Green's Elementary Hebrew 
 Grammar. It is an admirable compilation, presenting in clear and concise forms the indis- 
 pensable requisites for beginning the study of the language, and leaving the principles of the 
 Grammar to be learned as the generalizations of more extended research. To theological 
 students it would be of inestimable importance to become, in. coUeffe^ thorough masters of thla 
 little manual as a preparation for more extensive study and higher criticism in the Theological 
 Seminary. ' 
 
 " Very respectfully years, 
 
 *' Easton, Penbt., Oct. 12, 1866. Lyman Colbman." 
 
 " I think the plan of Prof. Green's Elementary Hebrew Grammar excellent and well executed. 
 The portions or the Hebrew Grammar that leed to be memorized by the learner are compara- 
 tively few, and the rest may be learnt by practice, and these have been eliminated here with 
 judgmentand skill, I intend hereafter to hare this abridgment used in our course of study as 
 an accompaniment to the larger Hebrew Grammars. 
 
 "■W. B. Haokett, 
 "Newton Theological Ihstitutiok, Nov. 8, 1866." 
 
 " Geneva, Oct 11, 1866. 
 " Enclosed please find the amount which yon indicated as the price you would expect me to 
 pay for a copy of Green's Elementary Hebrew Grammar. 
 
 " I have not had an opportunity to examine It minutely in detail, Bat Its plan is admirable, 
 and the book appears to me to be just what we have for a longtime been greatly in want of. 
 
 " BespectfuUy yoorp, 
 
 "W. D. Wilson." 
 
 Published and for sale by 
 
 JOHN WILEY & SON, 
 
 2 Clinton Hall, 
 
 A.stor Place » 
 
 JOHN WILEY & SON pubUsh also 
 
 PROF. W. H. GREEN'S LARGE GRAMMAR OF THE HBBRE'V?' LAN- 
 GUAGE. 1 vol. 8vo., cloth Price, $3.50, 
 
 do. INCLUDING ELEMENTARY GRAM- 
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 HEBREW CHRESTOMATHT. 1 vol. 8vo., cloth $2,00, 
 
 *^* Either of the above mailed and prepaid on the receipt of 
 the price. 
 
HEBREW BIBLES. 
 
 Hebeew Bible, new large print. Thick 8vo., full boiond. $2 50 
 
 BAGSTER'S EDITION HEBREW BIBLE, Foolacap 8vo., dotli 7 50 
 
 DittOp ditto, ditto. Without Points. Foolscap 8vo., cloth 6 60 
 
 ARABIC GRAMMARS, DICTIONARY, &c. 
 
 A GRAMMAR OF THE ARABIC LANGUAGE. Translated from the German of Cas- 
 pari. With additions and corrections. By Wm. Wright, of the MS. Department 
 of the British Museum. One vol. 8vo., cloth , 8 00 
 
 A PRACTICAL GRAMMAR OF THE ARABIC LANGUAGE. With Reading Lessons, 
 Dialogues, and Yocabnlary. By Fajus El-Shidiac and Rev. H. G. WiLi^tAMS, Prof, of 
 Arabic in the University of Cambridge. One vol. 18mo 2 60 
 
 AN ENGLLSH AND ARABIC DICTIONARY. In Two Parts. Arabic and English, and 
 English and Ai-abic, &c. By Joseph Catapago, of Aleppo in Syria. Bound in one 
 vol. 8vo., cloth 20 00 
 
 ARABIC READING LESSONS. With a Compendious Grammar. One vol. 18mo., cloth, 2 26 
 
 GREEK TESTAMENTS, LEXICONS, &c. 
 
 THE LARGE-PRINT CRITICAL GREEK NEW TESTAMENT. Contaiuing Various 
 Readings from Lachmann, Scholz, Griesbach, and Tischendorf. With copious 
 Parallel Passages. An elegant volume 8vo., half morocco, new style 5 00 
 
 GREEK TESTAMENT. Foolscap 8vo., thin cloth 2 25 
 
 THE POLYMICRIAN GREEK NEW TESTAMENT. With Various Readings, Parallel 
 References, explanation of Roots, and Maps. 32mo., smaU pocket volume, half 
 morocco, new style 2 60 
 
 Ditto. WithLexicon. One vol. half morocco, new style 3 50 
 
 CRITICAL GREEK AND ENGLISH NEW TESTAMENTS. Consisting of the Greek 
 Text of Scholz, with the Readings, both Textual and Marginal, of Griesbach; and the 
 Variations of the Editions of Stephens, 1555; Beza, 1598; -and the Elzevir, 1033. With 
 the Enghsh Authorized Version and its Marginal Readings. One vol. 18mo., morocco, 
 $5.50; veUum, $4.00; cloth 3 00 
 
 Ditto, ditto. WithLexicon. One vol. 18mo., morocco, $6.75; vellum, $5.25; cloth, 4 25 
 
 THE TRAVELLING NEW TESTAMENT. A pocket volume, containing the , Critical 
 Greek and English New Testament, witJi a Lexicon and a Concordance; bound in 
 limp morocco, witiL projecting morocco edges, and an elastic band 10 00 
 
 A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE STUDY OF THE GREEK NEW TESTAMENT. Small 
 
 8vo 1 75 
 
 A MANUAL FOR GREEK STUDENTS, Consisting of— I. A Practical Guide to the Lan- 
 guage ; U. The whole New Testament, Greek and English ; m. A Lexicon. SmaU 
 8vo., half bound 6 00 
 
 THE ANALYTICAL GREEK LEXICON TO THE NEW TESTAMENT. In this Lexicon 
 the words of the Greek text, however inflected, are placed in alphabetical order, ana- 
 lyzed, and referred to their roots, which are copiously explained: so that the precise 
 grammatical force and English meaning of every word in the Greek New Testament 
 can be ascertained with very httle trouble, ito 6 60 
 
 A LEXICON TO THE NEW TESTAMENT SCRIPTURES. By the Rev. T. S. Gbeen, 
 M.A. In this Lexicon the meanings are carefully deduced from the primary signifi- 
 cations, in the order of their natural sequence. The quantity of the doubtful vowels 
 is marked; the words are distinguished as belonging to the later Greek period, or the 
 New Testament only, or to the New Testament, LXX., and Apocrypha. Small Svo — 2 00 
 
 GREEK CONCORDANCE TO THE NEW TESTAMENT SCRIPTURES. The Greek 
 New Testament binds conveniently with this Concordance and with a Lexicon. Pocket 
 volume, half morocco, new style 2 50 
 
 SEPTUAGINT. 
 
 VAN ESS'S SEPTUAGINT. 8vo., Leipzic, paper 3 60 
 
 BAGSTEK'S EDITION OF THE SEPTUAGINT. Fcap. 8vo., oloUl 5 80 
 
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 2 Clinton Sail, Astor Ptoce. 
 
 *t* Any Tolnme vSU be mailed, to order and prepaid, cm the lecelf t of the piica, 
 fW2 Caialcguei graiU. 
 
New Tobk, Septembbb, 1868, 
 
 TO STUDENTS AND PKOFESSOES 
 
 IN 
 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINABIES. 
 
 Thb following works are imported in quantities or published by the sub- 
 Bcribers, and are offered by them on very favorable terms at wholesale and 
 letaiL 
 
 HEBREW GRAMMARS, LEXICONS, BIBLES, ETC. 
 
 A GEAiTMAR OF THE HEBREW LANGTTAGE. By Prof. W. H. Gkeen, of Princeton 
 
 Tlieological Seminary, N. J. One vol. 8vo., with copious indexes, cloth $3 60 
 
 Ditto, ditto, including the Elementary Grammar. One vol. 8vo., cloth 4 00 
 
 AN ELEMENTARY HEBREW GRAMMIAR. With Tables, Reading Exercises, and a Vo- 
 cabulary. By Prof. W. H. Green. One vol. 12mo., cloth 1 60 
 
 A HEBREW CHRESTOMATHY. A Sequel to tlie Grammar, and designed to facilitate 
 the progress of beginners in the Hebrew Language. By Prof. W. H. Green. One 
 vol. 8vo., cloth 2 00 
 
 Ditto, Second Part. The more elementary poi-tion contained in these few pages is 
 intended to accompany the first study of the Grammar, and the earhest lessons in 
 translation. By Prof. W. H. Geeen. 8vo., paper cover 26 
 
 *'This Grammar, a few years earlier, would have saved me endless perplexities, 
 and encouraged and aided m.e not a little in the study of the language." — Lynum 
 Oohncm, D.D. 
 
 "His Grammar is likely to supersede those in common iise." — Presbyterian. 
 
 " We have introduced it, and regard it as fitted to supply the wants of our theological 
 •eminaries." — Dr. M. W. Jacolms, 
 
 " I have examined Prof. Green's Elementary Hebrew Grammar, and do not hesitate 
 to commend it to beginners." — M. W. Jacobus, D.D. 
 
 "We feel no hesitation in recommending botii these books to teachers of Hebrew 
 classes as by far the best works of the kind now extant in tiie English language." — 
 MeUiodist. 
 
 THE ANALYTICAL HEBREW LEXICON. By this work the student may easily ascer- 
 tain the correct parsing and the Enghsh equivalent of every word in the Old Testament 
 Scriptures. All the words of the least frequent occxurreuce (which constitute three- 
 fourths of the whole number) are supplied with a reference to their place in 
 Scripture. Under each Root is given a siunmary of the whole of its derivatives. The 
 Gramm^atical Inti'oduction contains a complete series of Paradigms, which are 
 
 referred to constantly throughout the work. Second edition, qiiarto 16 60 
 
 "It is the vltimalum. of Hebrew Lexicography, and will leave the Theologian who 
 
 remains atih ignorant of the sacred tongue, absolutely without excuse." 
 
 GESENIUS'S HEBREW LEXICON, with additions. In this edition the tyi^ographical 
 arrangements gi-eatiy assist tiie student to discriminate the primary and subordinate 
 
 meanings of the words. By S. P. Tregelles, LL.D. Foiu-th edition. Quarto 11 50 
 
 "The careful revisal to which the Lexicon has been subjected by a faithful and 
 orthodox Translator, exceedingly enhances the practical value of this edition." — Edin- 
 burgh Ecclesiastical Jov/mal. 
 
 THE POCKET HEBREW LEXICON. The arrangement of this manual Lexicon combinea 
 two things— the etymological order of roote, and the alphabetical order of words. This 
 arrangement tends to lead the learner onward ; for, as he becomes more at home 
 with roots and derivatives, he learns to turn at once to the root, without first search- 
 ing for the particular word in its alphabetical order. One vol. ISmo., cloth : . 2 60 
 
 •*This is the most beautiful, and at the same time the most correct and perfect 
 Manual Hebrew Li^xicon we have ever used." — Eclectic jBew'ew. 
 
 "It is a condensation of the larger Lexicons, and it is surprising to see how much 
 that is satisfactory to the inquirer is given in brief, concise stiitements. "—Pres&y(ertan. 
 
 A MIANUAL FOR HEBREW STUDENTS. Consisting of— I. A Hebrew Grammar; IL An 
 Introductory Lesson Book grammatically analyzed ; IH. The whole Book of Psalms 
 interlinearly translated ; IV. A Lexicon. Small 8vo., half bound 6 00 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5261.M9 1869 
 
 The mystery of life and its arts. 
 
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