I know this must be, in a measure, in this wingless, fallen state. I know that in the sight of God and of angels, yea, of our own selves, if we have at all really learned what goodness is, the best of us are but weak buffeters of those waters of evil in which many around us are drowning. Still, without taking an Angel’s point of view, might not our light, at least before men, shine a little more brightly and consistently, and not be made up of mere alternations of spasmodic flares and dimness or darkness? Must there be so many spots of inconsistency, so many rents of surely elementary and avoidable unloveliness; so many high places not taken away, even though God be served somewhat in His Temple; such marring flies making even genuine and precious ointment to stink? Oh, I often think that in this world and in this day, there lies a great opportunity unclaimed! When we see the powerful influence which even a broken and unequal attempt at service, at fulfilling the mere elements of our duty to God and to man, exerts upon a world where it is the rare exception even to _attempt_ earnestly, then I think, what might not a perseverance beyond the first steps (and God’s grace knows no stint), what might not a steady advance towards perfection work in this sceptical, critical, anxious, weary world? This world narrowly watches for flaws, and, finding them, strengthens itself in its carelessness and godlessness. But if compelled to acknowledge a reality, a fulfilment of those theories which it has come to consider as scarcely meant, quite impossible, to be reduced to practice; if forced to acknowledge a sterling goodness, human and yet Divine, which stands the searching tests by which men try profession; it will then fall vanquished before it, and, in many things, surrender itself to the influence of a goodness alike strict, gracious, and glad. If the good man set sentinels at all sides of his life, and not only at one or two chosen posts; if he were ever trimming his lamp, seeking and pouring in more oil; not letting any slovenly black fungus grow on the wick, and dim part of the flame--how much might a few such bright and steady lights do in reproving the darkness, and bringing out sister gleams! How might we, thus rebuked, instead of resting proud of our sickly glimmer, set to work in good earnest, with watchfulness and prayer, to mend our flame, until the noble rays of the lighthouse, and the clustering lesser lights beneath, might lure some that were driven and tossed homelessly upon the treacherous, troubled seas. Now the lights often go out when they are wanted, and the beacon is dark just when a despairing look was cast towards it; and so the dreary, hopeless course is renewed.