This seems the most that the best can say. And that this is so, appears to me sad. God’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; and I puzzle about this long and universal history of successes which are but half-failures. Inveterate as is the evil of our nature, vast as has been its fall, yet, I ask myself, is there any limit to the stores of God’s grace? And, with such an armoury, ought the fight to be so sorry, only just not a defeat? I know we cannot attain; I know that perfection must fly before us, and ever elude our grasp, in this state. I know, by a guess, that the nearer we seem to it, in the view of others, surely the farther we shall, in our own view, appear to be behind it, the more vainly striving after it. And I know, nevertheless, that the soul hungry and thirsty for righteousness shall have even here some daily bread, to satisfy just the most restless gnawing of its desire, and that hereafter it shall fully feast, and be satisfied, at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. But what distresses me is this: that even truly good men are often, if not always, so disappointing. You were awakened to the loveliness of Christianity, and yearning for sympathy and advice; you sought one of those ideals which seemed, to hope and fancy, sure to be embodiments of it--and how often a chilling want of gentleness, or patience, or tenderness, closed up the heart’s opening blossom! Or carrying some opportunity for serving Christ in the person of a poor member of His Body, to one who, you felt sure, would, at least, meet you with kindliness, if unfortunately other calls precluded aid: how often a cold manner or a chilling snub disappoints and damps you! There is frequently too much bloodless, abstract faith, where you expected warm human interest; and wounded and hurt and baffled, you betake yourself to the only perfect sympathy, that of God. There is hardness, where you had taken for granted Christ’s tenderness would be found; there is bitterness, where you had counted upon Christ’s badge of love (St. John xiii. 35); there is pride, even, where you had never dreamed of finding anything but absolute humility. There is anxiety about worldly matters, where you had pictured a perfect, restful trust in God; carefulness and trouble about many things, where you had looked forward to seeing at last the calm sitting at the Saviour’s feet. There is irritability, and fussiness at trifles, where you had dreamed that things of eternal moment would alone have greatly moved: there is, upon the whole, disappointment, where you had looked for the realisation of that Ideal which you possess, and after which you did not wonder to find your own weak self vainly toiling. The winds and the blights seem too much for poor human nature, that will not draw, as it might, upon Divine grace; and upon every branch that we examine, there is not a leaf that is not sadly marred and imperfect; no, not one.