V. THE COMPASS OF LIFE. "A conscience void of offense."-ACTS xxiv. 16. UR life on earth has been often compared to a vessel on the ocean. We are afloat on the waves of time, and if we ever reach the port of peace, it will be, as the vessel reaches the harbor, not by drifting, but by steering aright. But the emblem of the vessel is only too weak. We bear with us a treasure richer by far than the holds of famed India fleets or Spanish galleons. A human soul freighted with the hopes-the possibility of immortal blessedness, is such a prize for the great Infernal privateer, as corsair or pirate never seized. Rich in faculties, affections, privileges, opportunities of sublime aim and virtuous effort, capable of doing and enduring and loving till its very presence is a joy and benediction, it would only be degrading it to class it with silver plate or California gold. It is sad enough to look at the skeleton frame of a noble vessel flung crushed upon the rocks, its timbers sinking to decay, the ooze and mud of the sea carpeting deck and state-room-but what is this to the sight of a soul flung wrecked and helpless on the rocks of eternal judgment, going down, amid the requiem of its own moans and anguish, to the deeps of gloom and darkness-the prey of desolation and utter despair? And the dangers that threaten the human soul are paral leled by none which the sailor meets upon the sea. The records of probation would show a percentage of loss such as would force an underwriter to decline all risks of insurance. How few of life's voyagers reach the harbor without loss and in triumph! How many sink outright-how many are left castaways as it were on the desert shore! There must be something terrific in a storm at sea,when the waves come rolling on like watery avalanches, and the oak-ribbed vessel quivers under the shock; when the loud trumpet shout that should convey orders is drowned by the thunder's and the tempest's roar; when the cordage snaps and the masts are swept by the board! There is the great floating coffin that sinks in the trough of the sea as if it were a grave, and just beneath are those fathomless depths so deep that the light goes out as if in caverns, and there is no landmark, no beaten path, no glimmering lighthouse to guide the vessel's course. And yet there is another sea whose face is swept by fiercer tempests, whose deeps are more unfathomable, whose shores are all lined with broken spars, and whose bottom is covered with countless wrecks which no human eye may explore. To many it is one wide waste of waters, a scene of ever tossing agitation, tempestuous with temptation, and its rock-bound shores stern as retribution wait to crush human hopes flung upon their mercy. Who can enter into that inward struggle through which the soul must pass to reach in triumph the peace of God, and see it whelmed beneath the waves, or striking on hidden rocks, or sinking visibly to the awful darkness beneath, and not feel that the perils of our life are not those of a Kane among Polar icebergs, or a Speke among barbarous African tribes, or a Sedgwick and Wadsworth under the battle-field's hail of death, but rather are to be found everywhere, where a human spirit quails before the tempter, or wavers in its allegiance to God? If a painter with the most consummate art should draw you two scenes-one, that of a Columbus returning triumphant from his voyage of discovery, with the riches and treasures of a New World in the hold of his vessel, and the crowded docks alive with men shouting his welcome home-the other, that of some foundering Arctic, going down with its freight of human life amid the rush of waves, the blaze of lightnings and the thunder of the storm, the contrast would but symbolize the different fate of human beings, starting from the same harbor, with equal capabilities, with common hopes, and with the same favoring breeze. One passes away as it were in the triumph of a successful voyage, with words of lofty cheer in his feeblest whispers, while the port of rest greets and cheers his dying eye-the other sinks silent and hopeless beneath the waves and storms of life, leaving no memorial perhaps behind but the bubble of his parting breath. One stands on Pisgah conversing with angels. The feet of the other stumble on the dark mounOne leaves behind him such memories of goodness as make every place of his earthly sojourn fragrant for generations--the other is thought of only as a Pilate, a Gallio, or a Demas. What makes this difference? Why does the world never weary to hear of Mount Vernon, the tomb of Washington? Why does the latest generation keep still wellworn the path by which for centuries the noblest of earth have hasted to lay the freshest flowers on the graves of the martyrs; while of one of the very ablest of England's gifted statesmen (Walpole) the historian has been constrained to say, "No enthusiasm was ever felt for his person; none was ever kindled by his memory. No man ever inquired where his remains are laid, or went to pay an homage of reverence to his tomb." The explanation is not far to seek. In one case duty ruled; in the other only a selfish ambition, so inherently mean, that no poet's strains could ennoble it, and no stars or ribbons blazon over its infamy. I do not wonder, in view of the contrast between the soul walking the earth but treading on it with the high resolve of duty, and the soul mining mole-like among the low elements which are given up to clods and worms, that the poet Wordsworth should apostrophize that by which alone life can be redeemed from contempt: "Stern daughter of the voice of God, O duty, if that name thou love, To check the erring and reprove; Thou who art victory and law Give unto me, made lowly wise, Who would not respond, "Amen ?" Who would not say, let duty be to me "victory and law Whem earthly terrors overawe." Suppose a native of some heathen land should approach the pilot of a vessel in a dark and stormy night, and see him often turning to gaze upon a glass-covered box, within which a long iron needle is poised! He knows not what it is, and he cannot understand this frequent gaze. He inquires, and is told that under all changes, in every sea, and in every latitude, that iron needle will still point unwavering to the pole. When the darkness sets all human calculations at defiance, and the keenest sagacity cannot even guess whitherward the vessel moves, that little piece of senseless metal knows more than pilot, crew, and royal and scientific societies. "How wonderful," perhaps he replies; "but is it absolutely infallible?" Why, no! Another piece of iron laid alongside of it, which the heedless observer might not detect, would turn it out of its course, and make it utterly untrustworthy. It might only mislead. It might just excite confidence only to betray it. And yet we do not throw it away. It is something above and beyond all reason and all calculation. Without it the sailor would be lost in the darkness. The clouds would spread like a pall over his vessel. But with the compass-satisfied that no unwarranted attraction draws it aside-he steers on by night and by day, in storm and sunshine, and feels assured that all is right. Well, conscience is the soul's compass. On our vogage it points steadily to the pole of truth. It is not indeed infallible. It may be drawn aside from its true direc tion. Persecutors have dipped their hands in innocent blood and thought they did God service. Men making gain by mean or mischievous pursuits have warped their conscience round into line with their business. Many a crime, many a strange fanaticism has pleaded conscience Men have engaged in the slave trade and persuaded themselves that they were carrying out the designs of the Almighty. But in every such case the conscience was not void of offence. It was affected by adverse in |