true in fact, if capital could be transferred as easily as the word is spoken,—if laborers could on the instant turn to new employments which they never learnt,—— and if during the period they were on short time, or no time, they could intimate the laissez-faire principle to the stomach-that noisy radical member, which endures not parley, but rises in rebellion immediately. With these and sundry other impossible, miserable ifs, dearths might be remedied, gluts pass away, and supply and demand again approach each other. But saying this is no credit to political economy, for here, as in everything else, res nolunt diu male administrari―Things refuse to be long mismanaged.' If the physician cannot cure the patients, fever and death will-still we do not call Fever an artist, or Death a philosopher, but he whose skill prevents, or speedily cures, the evil. When a glut occurs (and in some place or trade they are constantly occurring) it is quite true that the ruin of a number of capitalists, and the starvation of a quantity of operatives, will, like every storm, clear the atmosphere. What Political Economy does is this-it dresses up this conclusion in abstract language, and calls it Science,—but alas! it needed no ghost, not even of an economist, to tell us that all error and wickedness necessarily produce their painful consequences.

It is here, indeed, that we get a glimpse into the fundamental error of the competing-principle. It is true that all things balance against each other, not only in the material, but also in the moral world. Both he who stumbles, and he who stands erect, obey the law of gravity, but the latter counteracts its ill effect by his vital and muscular force. Nevertheless we do not praise the man who stumbles because he acts in accordance with the natural law of gravity, but rather him who uses the artificial effort. So too in political economy, it is quite true that the selling price always tends to equal the cost of production, but how much and fearful evil may be occasioned by its being actually above or below that price! In the common argument for machinery, it is quite true that a large portion of the benefits decentralize,-i.e. become in process of time diffused among mankind, but how much immediate evil might have been obviated had wise arrangements existed for adopting and diffusing those benefits at first. It is true that these conditions tend, in years, generations, or ages, to approach each other, but is life so long, or human misery so small a matter, that the living can afford to wait till time adjusts these proportions? Besides, new disturbances are continually arising: and unless we are prepared to control the causes or to modify their effects (either of which is to attack the laissez-faire principle), we still perpetuate evil, tho we change its character or its direction.

OF PRAYER AND OTHER THINGS.

BY JANUARY SEARLE.

RAYER is a holy exercise good for all men, and, when real, it brings God very close to the heart. I cannot imagine a prayerless man, nor do I believe that history can furnish us with one example of this kind, for it is as unnatural for a man to live without prayer as without hope. I know that atheism, like an obscure chimera, professes to exist alone in the Saharras of the world, and to mock at faith and aspiration, but notwithstanding this, and the weight of darkness and defilement which vice piles upon the nature of man, the Soul will, at times, assert its divine right, and, escaping from its bondage, hold communion with the infinite.

I am deeply interested to observe how antique and universal is prayer. It is the voice of that indestructible enthusiasm which makes the stars to shout for joy in the songs of the ancient Bards, and fills the earth with the beauty and glory of the Divine presence thrö the pious illuminations of the Patriarchs and the far-seeing vision of the Prophets. It is, indeed, as old and omnipresent as man himself, and recommends itself to us by the sanctions and practices of the highest persons of history, as well as by the dictates of the common-heart.

Prayer is an effort of the Soul to realize its lost likeness and estate. It is the wings of a fiery extasy which cleaves the vault of heaven, and carries us up to the immortal cities amongst old seraphic relations and dim remembrances of eternity. We cannot shut out, in our meditations on Prayer, those silent, shining eyes which looked upon us with such love and mystic meaning in our vision. I, at least, can speak for myself, and shall know my sisters again. I have faith in these revelations that Prayer opens up to my nature, because they speak of those high and eternal beatitudes which I know to be written in the old charter of my lost heritage, and which I hope yet to regain. This confession may sound strange to the general ear, which we all know to be fastidious, if not quite deaf, as to the reception of such intangible stuff; but I believe the Ideal to be quite as solid as the world of Facts, and will trust my dreams and extasies—as John and Plato did-against all the gospels of Science.

In my profaner moods I have sometimes tried to analyze the Sentiment (as it is called) in which Prayer originates, but have always failed in the attempt. Not that I could not give some plausible solutions of it, but because these solutions always leave a sediment behind them, which baffles my ingenuity and refuses to answer me. It seems to lie too deep for any plumb line of the Reason to fathom. We know it best by feeling it, and solve it best by trusting it. For whatever in man relates to the Divine, is supersensuous, and cannot be arraigned for trial in any court of the intellect, without violence and illegality. Let us give the Holy Organ of the Soul free play for its manifestations. We may know too much by unveiling the Sacred Image. I believe in the wonder and mystery of Man's nature,

and am never more deeply penetrated with the attributes and power of the Unspeakable, than when I meditate on man's heart and life. I am filled with a far deeper joy in pondering the unfathomable abysses of man, than in attempting to resolve the fathomable. If I could read myself, and trace all my impulses, desires, passions, thoughts, and aspirations to their source, I should think I had lived too long, and, by an act of felo de se, try what fortunes might next befall me. Our smallest actions, however, have such remote fathers that we cannot unravel their genealogy; for men are linked together over wide seas, continents, and gulfs of time, by other magnetisms and relationships than those of generation, and each man is a mystery to himself and to others.

It must not surprize us, therefore, that we cannot render a satisfactory account of the faculty and function of Prayer. We say much when we affirm it to be mystical and holy, for it has its roots in our deepest nature; but it is an expression both of the weakness and greatness of the soul. It is an auroral ladder which leads up to heaven and then down again. No one can remain long in this attitude, for the Age of Absorption is past, and it is only in our highest moments that we can experience the divine enthusiasm which Prayer kindles in the soul. At all other times prayer is a vain and unsatisfactory effusion; for it is selfish to ask favors and earthly blessings, and implies a distrust of the Providence of God; but the prayer of adoration, thankfulness, gratitude, and love, is so ravishing and extatic a thing, that God cannot but be pleased with it.

Nevertheless I would not attempt to restrict the free movements of the soul, nor, whilst declaring my own ideal of Prayer, be understood to prescribe laws to other men. Every one, in this respect, should trust himself, and obey his impulse. Let him, however, carefully eschew all formality when he approaches the Unnameable Spirit, and put selfishness under his knees, for God does not dispense chattels nor care for property, but, leaving these to the laws and necessities which regulate mundane affairs, he gives grace and beauty to the humble lover of his ways, and breathes immortal fire into the heart of his true worshiper. Formality is selfishness on stilts, and kills the soul with its dead and mocking pride. A direct and pious word reaches the Ear of God quicker than all the adulations wherewith our set divines preface their long prayers. It is a subject whereon I would not speak highly, and yet I am strongly tempted to laugh sometimes, when I hear our congregational-mocking-birds ape the inspiration and extasy of Prayer at their seventh day meetings. All my sympathies and associations incline me to the worship of the assembly, and I occasionally join in it when my disposition is sufficiently holy, yet I could never bring myself to believe that these meetings were not more profane than sacred-altho I have the profoundest reverence for the Ideal which brings them together. Set days for Prayer and Worship remind me too much of the mart and charter of custom. I like the irregular seasons of the descending Spirit much better, and love not to be seen when I am overshadowed by the wings of fire.

Privacy and Silence are more favorable to contemplation and worship than publicity; or if there must be publicity and talk in so solemn a business, let us have silence at least until the Pentecost come. The followers of George Fox might teach our noisy sects a wise and salutary lesson in this matter. Let them learn to make less steam, and to condense their heat according to the true Econo

mics. Religion does not brawl; it is a meek dweller with the Everlasting, and has too much love, and awe, and wonder, and reverence in its heart, to vent itself in loud words. It is as still as the moonlight, and is felt by its radiations alone. Creeds and opinions have nothing to do with its sacred nature. "I am He," says Thomas á Kempis, "that teacheth without the noise of words, and without the confusion of opinions." Every great and true thing is eloquent only by its silence. Who can look into Heaven,

And see the splendor of the starry race

Whose awful eyes keep watch in that lone place,

without feeling the foolishness of words? When a man's spirit is overpowered by the immensities of creation, or the extasies of reverence, let him burn. It is the privilege of the Seraph.

I make no account of external worship, altho I love the pure man and the saint. Aids to Devotion' are contemptible in my eyes, and abuse the dignity of the soul. They are mechanical contrivances to scale the Divine heights, which can never be accessible by such means; and in general what the good people call 'Aids' are but obstructions and hindrances. When I see such pious books advertized, I cannot help thinking that the authors are quack Pillmen, who desire to sell their own nostrums for the drugs of God. If the soul trust itself, it will be devout enough. The intervention between us and God, of any man with his 'Aids', is like the shadow of the Devil floating between two worlds, and eclipses the soul with moral darkness. God is light enough, if we will but let him shine upon us. I, at least, stand absolved of all human help in this high matter, and believe that whoso trusts the Master, shall be sustained in the Lodge.

I would not mislead any one, however, by these confessions, and would have the weak man follow the stream. Neither do I despise the Church or the Conventicle, when I look at them thrö the eyes of civilization. For most men are mad and require keepers, and not a few of them need Hell as a straitwaistcoat. But it is more beautiful to have Heaven within the soul, and to walk with God in the garden, than to live in the old traditions. It is an ancient prophecy, in the falfilment of which I place the devoutest trust, that the time will come when neither on the mountain, nor at Jerusalem, shall men worship as at a holy place, but when all shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth. In the meanwhile the Temple is as needful as the Cloth-hall or the Exchange, and may serve the purpose of schooling men into justice and equity in their commercial transactions, and into kindness in their social relations, which, when high religious principle is wanting as the moving power of life, is no mean achievment.

I would have every Life a prayer and worship, and every dealing of man with man, a joyous and holy sacrament. For what is the good of our sacred Ideal, if we do not embody it in the practices of society? I deny that the Ideal is sacred to him who does not follow it out. He has stuck up some poetical Image in his heart, and has cheated himself into the belief that it is the Living Flame Image. But this is sorrowful delusion. The Flame Image stamps itself in beautiful fiery enamels upon all the works and words of those in whom it dwells. It will not hide. The other Image is but the semblance of it.

There is, I think, too much of the Theory of Religion, too much worship of the poetical image, amongst us at present, and indeed for a long time past. We

do not seem to understand how a man can pray without uttering his Paternoster, and live in the faith without at the same time living in the creed. I am sure creeds have had fair trial enough in the serious business of life, and we must all confess that they have failed to make good men. I am even inclined to believe that they have turned us all sour, and dried up the milk in the bosom of the Holy Virgin. It is certain at all events, that creeds have made sects, and sects divisions, and divisions strife-and we all know that where there is strife there is hate. Now Christianity seems to me a very beautiful and loveable thing, as I look at it thrō the divine glory of Jesus,-but a miserable effigy of pride, and a teacher of ignoble and profane gospels, which are not God's-spells, but devilspells, when I contemplate it thro the distorted medium of sectarianism. We are none of us so over-pious that we can afford to hate even the most abandoned of our fellow creatures, nor so wise and infallible that we can, with any decency, persecute our brother who differs from us in opinion. If it were not a sad sightthis of sectarianism-it would certainly be a very laughable one. To see the little narrow islands of Wesley, and Calvin, and Brown, and Priestley, send forth from their barren cliffs and obscure dens such ravenous flocks of Kites, Vultures, Choughs, and other obscene birds, to battle against one another for dominion in the face of heaven, or what is worse, for the mere sake of battle, is a thing to make the very gods uproarious. But leaving this figurative way of speech, I often wonder whether my religious friends (of whom I have, of the better sort, a large number) ever ask themselves, How the Father looks upon their doings ?—and in what light He regards their uncharity? I have heard, for instance, some otherwise worthy, but limited Islanders of the group above named, declare that they could not meet a Unitarian upon the platform, or sit down to the Lord's Table' with one holding that creed. Whereupon I have recalled the answer of old Rowland Hill, on a similar occasion: 'I beg your pardon, good friends, I thought the Table was the Lord's, and not yours. But the fact remained in both cases, to the dishonor of both parties, and how the good people could reconcile their papal protests with the spirit of Christianity is not for me to solve. But, I rather think that that Christianity which professes to reconcile men to God is something of a blunder if it cannot reconcile men to each other.

Suppose now, since creeds have failed to make good men, we try what love can do. I know that whilst it is quite easy to say 'I believe', it is hard to love the new neighbor, the outcast and the orphan, altho, according to Christ himself, this is to be the practical proof of our sincerity. I think it is better to love our fellow creatures, than to say we love God, for God can very well spare any thing we can give him, but man is not so independent. Life is a long consciousness, and it is better to fill it with fragrant remembrances than with unquiet and bleeding ghosts.

Personally, however, I am but little interested in the foolish war and strife of the sects, nor should I have gone out of my way to speak of them. For poor mortals like our present Protestants, I think the fittest and most reverent, as well as the wisest prayer, is that of the Publican in the Gospels: God be merciful to me a Sinner'; for there are very few men now divine enough to hold communion with the Maker, and he is but a rude unmannerly Pharisee who pushes his brother aside, and says: 'I am holier than thou.'

K