in planing and smoothing it. He smilingly observed that he did so to make it easy for himself, as he was resolved not to die till he had the right to sit upon it. And he was as good as his word. He lived to sit as a magistrate on the very bench he had sawed and planed. There was a man who believed in the cumulative effects of work; and his faith, like all rational faith, had its reward.

And we must not only be prepared to wait for success, but we must sometimes be prepared positively to fail. Failures are not agreeable, but they are often useful. At Cambridge the college authorities are very loath to give a man a scholarship in his first year. They think it makes him lazy; and so they always withhold it except in cases of extraordinary merit. I did not show that extraordinary merit, and I did not get the scholarship. I am very glad. My work was far better the second year than it would have been if I had succeeded the first. A failure is a most excellent tonic for any one who believes in the ultimate power of work.

And there is one thing more that should be said upon the subject, though it only applies to the few rare individuals who are greatly in advance of their age. These men must be content not only with temporary but even with permanent failure, so far

as the verdict of their contemporaries is concerned. And as a rule such men do not mind. Much as they would like to be understood and appreciated by their own age, they are buoyed up by the thought that an authoritative judgment can be passed by posterity alone. When Kepler had finished his great work, he did not expect that it would be received with enthusiasm; he was quite prepared to find it ignored. He said in the ever-memorable words-and there is no finer instance of the power of faith-"I may well wait a hundred years for a reader, since God has waited six thousand years for a discoverer."

Was die Schickung schickt, ertrage;

Wer ausharret wird gekrönt.

So much for patience in regard to work. Now let me say a word about patience in trouble, suffering, affliction, or whatever we may please to call it, for which we can see no reason, which appears irremediable, and which does not seem at all likely to lead to anything either for ourselves or others in this world or the next.

And here it is far harder to practise patience. Patient continuance in welldoing, when we have something to which we can look forward at the end, hard as it is, is comparatively easy. But how can you expect a man to be patient under what seems useless, needless, wasted

suffering? How can you expect a man to be patient under bereavement, when he has lost one who can never be replaced? How can you expect a man to be patient when, on looking back over his past life, he sees that it has all been a failure? Faith in himself is of no use. He feels, he knows that he is helpless. Faith in the power of work is here equally impossible; work can now do nothing for him, except perhaps momentarily to drown his grief. Under such circumstances patience is absolutely impossible, apart from faith in God and immortality. And this faith is what so few of us really have. Though we constantly say we " believe in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come," we chafe and fret when our wishes are thwarted as if there were no life but the present, as if the grave were the end of all things for us. When trouble comes upon us, we are as impatient as if we had never heard of God. We are always ready to preach patience; why cannot we practise what we preach? We can exercise faith for other men; shall we never exercise it for ourselves? Is it likely that in a well-ordered universe -and we profess to believe that the universe is well ordered-is is likely that our welfare alone has been overlooked? If it were our destiny to fight impotently against surrounding forces, which were bound

in the end to destroy us, then there would be an excuse for our impatience. But if there be a God, a loving God, a God who is making all things to work together for good, then our fretful impatience is puerile and contemptible. Have we not the glorious hope of everlasting life?

Yes; but this very hope often makes us impatient. We should like, instead of a hope, to have possessed a demonstration. We should like to know exactly the kind of existence that awaits us in the future. We should like to be allowed in this life some communion with those whom we have loved and lost. And yet in the present state of our mental development, it may be quite impossible for us to understand any fuller or clearer revelation than that which has been given to us. Even if it were possible, it might be supremely inexpedient. There is probably no other discipline so useful for us as that of the comparative ignorance in which we are compelled to remain. any rate I think we might bring ourselves to the sure and certain hope, that the Author of our being is caring for our future and doing in regard to it that which alone is best. Surely there is enough rationality in the universe, enough joy, enough beauty, enough glory, to discountenance the belief that the end of it all will be nothingness.

At

"Strive; yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day

Will not fade when you think to grasp it,
And melt in your hand away.
But another and holier treasure,
You would now perchance disdain,
Will come when your toil is over
And pay you for all your pain.

Wait; yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now

Will not come with its radiance vanished
And a shadow upon its brow.
Yet far through the misty future,

With a crown of starry light,

An hour of joy you know not

Is winging her silent flight.