Imatges de pàgina
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partook thereof his eyes were opened, and he knew good from evil; for a still small voice within him. spoke it loudly to his ear, that he had broken faith with God. Adam when first created, with his living soul and perfect body, was as unconscious as the pure and simple child of the existence of either good or evil. A life of virtuous guileless innocency was his first estate, with the unerring wisdom of his heavenly parent to guide him. Following that implicitly, he might have enjoyed an endless life of terrestrial bliss, the "halcyon days of youth" forever. But in an evil hour he cast away the polar star of Almighty wisdom, and in its place set up his own dim, imperfect judgment, by which to steer his course in life. He thus arrogated to himself the knowledge of good and evil, and arrayed himself in opposition to his Maker. For such insolence and presumption he is cast down from his first high position, thrown upon his own self chosen powers, and taught to feel and know, that every thought and word and deed of shortened life, will at its end be subjected to Heaven's unerring scrutiny. Refusing to take it for his guide, he is compelled to accept it, as the measure of all his self-sufficient works. Was he worthy of an endless life, so to sin, rebel and everlastingly defy his Maker? To unceasingly affront and provoke him with his nauseating and self important pretensions? No: probation was the wiser and better state for fallen man, to enable him to see the error of his choice, and again regain the happy state he lost. Thus in the title page of human life is found revealed the later teachings of the Gospel.

Next, the inquiry follows, why were the periods of

antediluvian life and puberty so much greater than they are in the present day? Why are we cut down to our short three score and ten? It is not often that man can presume to seek the reason why his Maker does this and that; and he is always too proud to discern the how of His ways and doings. Yet this may not be one of the hidden or forbidden mysteries, and an attempt to answer it can only prove instructive.

Man, truly, is a spirit, dwelling in a tenement of clay, the body being but a tent or tabernacle in which he resides during his sojourn on earth. That spirit feels and says it can live as long as the aged Methuselah, yea, throughout eternity; and yet it can but see that the tent cloth, which it has woven for itself out of the earthy matter around it, is subject to decay. When it looks back upon the phases and changes through which it has passed in life, and observes the many various forms it has assumed in different periods of its progress, and the extreme dissimilarity between its succeeding ages, it, notwithstanding, is still convinced that the body only has changed, and that he himself is the identical being that once enjoyed his mother's nursing care and father's chastisingh and. The degeneracy, then, is not in the being, but in the tent cloth that covers it. The centrifugal force, the spirit, is as strong as in the olden time, to fly its orbit and soar away, and not more so; but the centripetal, the earthly portion, is too enfeebled to bind it down to earth longer than for our diminished span of life.

However we may speculate, yet it is certain that the elements composing the bodies of the oldest

times were pure, vigorous, strong, and fresh from nature's laboratory. Ours are derived from a soil that was once the ocean's bed. Here on this earth's surface, over these mountains, hills, plains and valleys, for centuries sported the finny tribes. The bodies that we wear now, are but the long-worn, cast off debris of defunct organizations; worn and re-worn, first in one form, then in another. At once a whale, then a minnow, perhaps again a mollusk, a madrepore or reptile. Thus ever in use and ever changing, they have become degenerate and imperfect, and like scrap metal oft remelted, unfit for lasting service. The manufacturer gathers cast off rags and worn out cloths, and tears them into shreds and tatters. These he cards anew; he dyes, he spins and weaves them and makes an article that looks like genuine cloth, but it is not, it is only shoddy. So, too, with our tentcloths; they to the eye at first look well, but they cannot last, for they are only shoddy—shoddy.

"It is not growing like a tree

"In bulk, doth make man better be,

"Or standing long an oak three hundred year
"To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sear;

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"It was the plant and flower of light!
"In small proportions we just beauties see;
"And in short measures, life may perfect be."

BEN. JONSON.

CHAPTER VII.

CIVILIZATION, ARTS AND SCIENCES.

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand.

UPON this diversified earth there are but few regions, and they at greatly distant points, that afford even a dim and indistinct prospect of the many preeminent advantages enjoyed by the sons of Adamland. Yet these few have not failed to elicit the attention of philosophic minds. Peru, Mexico and Egypt, all rainless countries, have furnished instances of civilization so ancient, that their origins are traced back to, and actually lost in, the misty cloud of obscurity that ever overhangs the dawn of history. The philosopher thence concludes, that man, when surrounded by such advantages of soil and climate, is necessarily and irresistibly urged from low and grovelling barbarism to the higher and polished state of civil life. In this he errs; for although it is true, that such conditions, as aids, are eminently conducive to civilization, they cannot be accepted as its origin. Did the rainless swamp or jungle of Egypt first entice the sons of Ham, and then subdue and polish their savage natures, or did the hidden treasures of the happy valley first attract their sagacious eyes, and invite its reclamation? Did the requisite irrigation of the thirsty soil unfold to the barbaric eye the science of geometry, or did his previous

knowledge of art and science direct him in his selection? Would our explorer of antiquity but view the sacred page, simply as a history as faithful and reliable as that of Pliny or Tacitus, Manethe or Berosus, he would find beyond the flood, another rainless country, worthy of his consideration. From it he would learn that the thread that leads him to the pre-historic times of Egypt or Babylon is not there ended in misty gloom, but through it is continued back to Babel, and thence again, beyond the flood, its extended length continues to the very dawn of human life.

Egypt, it would seem, is left to us as a miniature sample, a pocket specimen of the antediluvian world, and presents valuable suggestions as to the happy condition of its great original. True it is, the copy with its imperfections, its annual floods, mechanical irrigation and partial dews, is not as perfect as its type; yet it affords an idea, as to what a rainless world might really be. "The economical year," says Malte Brun, "presents a perpetual circle of labors and enjoyments." In January, lupins, the dolichos, and cummins are sown in Upper Egypt, while the wheat shoots into ear; and in Lower Egypt, the beans and flax are in flower, the vine, the apricot and the palm tree are pruned. Towards the end of the month, the orange, the citron and pomegranate trees begin to be covered with blossoms. Sugar cane, senna leaves, and various kinds of pulse and trefoil, are cut down. In February, all the fields are verdant; the sowing of rice begins; the first barley crop is harvested; cabbages, cucumbers and melons ripen. The month of March

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