ing of the legitimate completion of his service. It may throw him back upon the nature of the act itself, and compel him to find his satisfaction there. Many a man who, having served his brethren in public or in private, has looked up from his work with a true human longing that his work should be recognized, and heard no sound of gratitude, has then retreated to the self-sacrifice itself and found, in the mere doing of that, an even deeper, even keener joy than he could have gathered from the most spontaneous and hearty thanks. That has been the support, the inner triumph of many a despised reformer and misunderstood friend. Men have found a joy which they could not have had in a world undisturbed, and whose moral order was perfect. The essence of any act is more and finer than its consequences are. It is better to live in the essence of an act than in its consequences or rewards. The consequences of an act are meant to interpret and manifest its essence; but if at any time the withholding of its consequence can drive us home more deep into its essence, is it not a blessing?

I think we cannot doubt that Christ's life manifested the essential and eternal joy of serving God, the dignity and beauty of helping man, as it could not have done if it had been heralded by the trumpets and followed by the cheers of human gratitude. Because He was "despised and rejected of men," we are able to see more clearly how truly He was His Father's "well-beloved Son." And if, as it may be, you, with no morbidness, no self-conceit, no querulousness, know that you have been helping some man, or some hundred men, from whom you get no gratitude, the manly thing for you to do in that withholding of the natural completion of your life is just what

Christ did first own that the world is out of order, and do not look with any certain confidence for a recognition which could be certain only in a world of moral perfectness; and then let its withholding drive you home to the blessedness of the service of other men in and for itself, recognized or unrecognized, thanked or unthanked, and to companionship with God, who understands it all.

As we come into the regions of more truly spiritual experience this truth of the withheld completions of life becomes more striking, and often much more puzzling. As we come to that history which goes on within a man's own heart, and where the action of other men does not intrude, it seems more strange that each cause cannot produce its full effect, and each growth blossom to its appointed flower. But even here I think that if we keep in mind the two considerations which I have been speaking of we shall find in them, if not the sufficient explanations, at least the supporting consolations of the withheld completions of our life. Look, for instance, at the copnection of duty and happiness. Happiness is the natural flower of duty. The good man ought to be a thoroughly bright and joyous man. This is no theoretical conviction. It is the first quick instinct of the human heart. We do not know, I think, how deep in us lies this assurance that goodness and happiness belong together, how impossible it would be to take it out of us without deranging all our life. Just think, if there were no such assurance, what a dreadful thing happiness would be in the world. If to be happy meant nothing, or meant badness, if it had no connection with being good, how a laugh in the street would be dreadful to us, and the look of a bright, gay, happy face would strike upon our con

science like a cloud that sweeps across the sun. But no. From the innocence of childhood uttering itself in the child's sunny joy, on through the whole of life, there runs one constant conviction that goodness and happiness belong together. That conviction meets a thousand contradictions, but it is too strong for them all. It runs like a mountain stream along a course all blocked with rocks of difficulty; but none of them can permanently hinder it or turn it back. It slips under or around them all, this deep and live conviction that the tendency of goodness is to happiness. In this conviction lies the poetry of human life. This conviction has planted the Edens which all races haye discerned behind them, and painted the Heavens which they have all seen before them. It is bound up with all belief in God. To cease to believe it would be to bow down at the footstool of a devil or a chance, and which of these would be the most terrible master who can say? With this conviction strong in us we come to some man's life, a life which we are sure is good; to call it wicked is to confuse all our idea of wickedness and goodness. And that life is all gloomy. Duty is done day after day, but done in utter dreariness; there is no smile upon the face, no ring of laughter in the voice; a good man, a just and pure man, a man who hates sin and whom you would not dare to think of tempting, and yet a sad man, not a glad man; a man to whom life is a burden, not an exhilaration and a joy. Such men there are; good without gladness, shocking and perplexing our deep certainty that to be good and to be glad belong together. To them we want to bring the two considerations which I dwelt on when 1 was speaking of self-sacrifice and gratitude.

To recognize that it is unnatural, and so to struggle against it, not to yield to it, and yet, while it must last, to get what blessing we can out of it, by letting it drive us down deeper for our joy and comfort, into the very act and fact of doing righteousness, that is all that we can do, and that is enough to do when the golden link is broken and doing righteousness does not blossom into being happy. "I am trying to do right," a man says, "and yet the world is all dark to me; what can you say to me? Will you tell me still that there is a natural connection between doing right and being happy?" Surely I will, I answer. I will insist on your remembering it. I will warn you never to forget it, nor to get to counting gloominess the natural air and atmosphere of duty. I will beg you never to think it right, that when you are trying to be good you should still be unhappy. You must struggle against it. And yet, you must let the very fact that the connection can be broken prove to you that while the union of duty and joy is natural it is not essential and unbreakable. The plant ought to come to flower, but if the plant fails of its flower it is still a plant. The duty should open into joy, but it may fail of joy and still be duty. If the joy is not there, still hold the duty, and be sure that you have the real thing while you are holding that. Be all the more dutiful, though it be in the dark. Do righteousness and forget happiness, and so it is most likely that happiness will come. This is all that one can say, and this is enough to say. It will help the man neither despondently to submit to nor frautically to rebel against the unnatural postponement of the happiness which belongs to his struggle to do right. It will help him to be hopeful without impatience, and patient without despair.

But take another case, that comes still more distinctly within the limits of Christian experience. There are promises in the Bible, many of them, which declare that dedication to God shall bring communion with God. "Draw near to me and I will draw near to you," says God. And even without the special promise, that whole revelation of God which the Bible gives us involves such a necessity. It cannot be that a God all love surrounds us with His life, presses upon us, waits for us on every side, and yet the meanest soul can really turn to Him and throw itself open before Him, and not receive Him into its life. And yet sometimes the man does give himself to God, and the promise seems to fail. The heart draws near to God in conscious dedication, and it seems as if no answering communion came. The soul is laid upon the altar, and no hand of fire is seen reached out from heaven to take it up in love. Day follows day, year follows year, it may be, and the man given to God trembles when he hears other men talk of the joy of divine communion, because no such ever comes to him. Once more, to such a soul, to any such soul which is here to-day, there are the same two messages to bring. Never, no matter how long such exclusion from the presence of God may seem to last, though it go on year after year and you are growing old in your seeming orphanhood; never accept it, never make up your mind to it that it is right; never cease to expect that the doors will fly open and you will be admitted to all the joy of your Father's felt love and of unhindered communion with Him. Never lose out of your soul's sight the seat which is set for you in the very sanctuary of divine love. And what beside? Seek even more deeply the satisfaction which is in your