It is not true that character is the aim of life. Happiness should be the aim--and as a matter of fact is and always has been the aim, not only of sinners, but of saints. The saints seemed to think that happiness was better in another world than here, and they expected this happiness beyond the clouds. They looked upon the sinner as foolish to enjoy himself for the moment here, and in consequence thereof to suffer forever. Character is not an end, it is a means to an end. The object of the saint is happiness hereafter--the means, to make himself miserable here. The object of the philosopher is happiness here and now, and hereafter,--if there be another world. If struggle and temptation, misery and misfortune, are essential to the formation of what you call character, how do you account for the perfection of your angels, or for the goodness of your God? Were the angels perfected through misfortune? If happiness is the only good in heaven, why should it not be considered the only good here? In order to be happy, we must be in harmony with the conditions of happiness. It cannot be obtained by prayer,--it does not come from heaven--it must be found here, and nothing should be done, or left undone, for the sake of any supernatural being, but for the sake of ourselves and other natural beings. The early Christians were preparing for the end of the world. In their view, life was of no importance except as it gave them time to prepare for "The Second Coming." They were crazed by fear. Since that time, the world not coming to the expected end, they have been preparing for "The Day of Judgment," and have, to the extent of their ability, filled the world with horror. For centuries, it was, and still is, their business to destroy the pleasures of this life. In the midst of prosperity they have prophesied disaster. At every feast they have spoken of famine, and over the cradle they have talked of death. They have held skulls before the faces of terrified babes. On the cheeks of health they see the worms of the grave, and in their eyes the white breasts of love are naught but corruption and decay. ***** THE WASTE FORCES OF NATURE.--For countless years the great cataracts, as for instance, Niagara, have been singing their solemn songs, filling the savage with terror, the civilized with awe; recording its achievements in books of stone--useless and sublime; inspiring beholders with the majesty of purposeless force and the wastefulness of nature. Force great enough to turn the wheels of the world, lost, useless. So with the great tides that rise and fall on all the shores of the world--lost forces. And yet man is compelled to use to exhaustion's point the little strength he has. This will be changed.