back upon one’s past life for complacency and self-gratulation, in order to assure one’s self how well one has used one’s powers and opportunities--how much one has done for society--how lofty and honourable a life one has led--and so forth,--O! what words can express the absurdity! If the consoler could but see the invisible array which comes thronging into the sick-room from the deep regions of the past, brought by every sound of nature without, by every movement of the spirit within; the pale lips of dead friends whispering one’s hard or careless words, spoken in childhood or youth--the upbraiding gaze of duties slighted and opportunities neglected--the horrible apparition of old selfishness and pusillanimities--the disgusting foolery of idiotic vanities; if the consoler could catch a momentary glimpse of this phantasmagoria of the sick-room, he would turn with fear and loathing from the past, and shudder, while the inured invalid smiles, at such a choice of topics for solace. Then it might become the turn of the invalid to console--to explain how these are but phantoms--how solace does abound, though it comes from every region rather than the kingdom of conscience--and how, while the past is dry and dreary enough, there are streams descending from the heaven-bright mountain-tops of the future, forever flowing down to our retreat, pure enough for the most fastidious longing, abundant enough for the thirstiest soul. The consoler may then learn for life how easily all personal complacencies may be dispensed with, while the sufferer can tell of a true “refuge and strength,” and “present help,” and of this “river that gladdens the city of God,” and flows to meet us as we journey towards it. But, the anxious consoler may say, Is it right so to banish these complacencies? If you really have served the world, however imperfectly in your own eyes--if you have sown thoughts in minds, and called forth affections in hearts--ought you to deny the facts, or that they are good?