peep at the Hudson river some bright morning, you wil see, ploughing grandly along towards the great metropolis, a magnificent steamer, the silver wave peeling off from her cutwater, and a million jewels sparkling in her wake, passing all inferior barks in sublime indiffer. ence, and sending yacht and skiff dancing from her heel. Right behind her, you shall see a smaller steamer, the central motive power of a plateau of barges, loaded to their edges with the produce of thousands of well tilled acres. She has fastened herself to these barges by lines invisible to you. They may be homely things, but they contain the food of the nation. Her own speed may be retarded by this association, but the work she does for commerce is ten fold greater than that accomplished by the grand craft that shuns abrasion as misfortune, and seeks to secure nothing but individual dignity and fast time. It is through social contact and absolute social value alone that you can accomplish any great social good. It is through the invisible lines which you are able to attach to the minds with which you are brought into association alone that you can tow society, with its deeply freighted interests, to the great haven of your hope.

The revenge which society takes upon the man who isolates himself, is as terrible as it is inevitable. The pride which sits alone, and will do nothing for society

because society disgusts it, or because its possessor does `not at once have accorded to him his position, will have the privilege of sitting alone in its sublime disgust till it drops into the grave. The world sweeps by the isolated man, carelessly, remorsely, contemptuously. He has no hold upon society, because he is not a part of it. The boat that refuses to pause in its passage, and throw a line to smaller craft, will bring no tow into port. So let me tell you, that if you have an honorable desire in your heart for influence, you must be a thoroughly You cannot move men until you are one

social man. of them.

They will not follow you until they have heard your voice, shaken your hand, and fully learned your principles and your sympathies. It makes no difference how much you know, or how much you are capable of doing. You may pile accomplishment upon acquisition mountain high; but if you fail to be a social man, demonstrating to society that your lot is with the rest, a little child with a song in its mouth, and a kiss for all, and a pair of innocent hands to lay upon the knees, shall lead more nearts and change the direction of more lives than you.

LETTER VIII.

THE REASONABLENESS AND DESIRABLENESS OF RELIGION

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!

Hath he not always treasures, always friends,

The great good man? Three treasures, love and light,

And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night—
Himself, his maker, and the angel death?

COLERIDGE.

YOUNG

men, I hate cant, and I do not know exactly how to say what I wish to say in this letter; but I desire to talk to you rationally upon the subject of religion. Now don't stop reading at the mention of this word, but read this letter through. The fact is, it is the most important letter I have undertaken to write to you. I know you, I think, very thoroughly. Life looks so good to you, and you are anticipating so much

from it, that religion comes to you, and comes over you, like a shadow. You associate it with long faces, and prayer meetings, and psalm-singing, and dull sermons, and grave reproofs and stupidity. Your companions are gay, and so are you. Perhaps you make a jest of reli gion; but deep down in your heart of hearts you know that you are not treating religion fairly. You know perfectly well that there is something in it for you, and that you must have it. You know that the hour wil! come when you will specially need it. But you wish to put it off, and "enjoy life" first. This results very much from the kind of preaching you have always listened to. You have been taught that human life is a humbug, that these things which so greatly delight you are vain and sinful, that your great business in this world is to be saved, and that you are only to be saved by learning to despise things that you love, and to love things which you despise. You feel that this is unnatural and irrational. I think it is, myself. Now let me

talk to you.

Go with me, if you please, to the next station-house, and look off upon that line of railroad. It is as straight as an arrow. Out run the iron lines, glittering in the sun,-out, as far as we can see, until, converging almost to a single thread, they pierce the sky. What were those rails laid in that way for? It is a road, is it?

Try your cart or your coach there. The axletrees aro too narrow, and you go bumping along upon the sleepers. Try a wheelbarrow. You cannot keep it on the rail. But that road was made for something. Now go with me to the locomotive shop. What is this? We are told it is a locomotive. What is a locomotive? Why, it is a carriage moved by steam. But it is very heavy. The wheels would sink into a common road to the axle. That locomotive can never run on a common road, and the man is a fool who built it. Strange that men wil waste time and money in that way! But stop a moment. Why wouldn't those wheels just fit those rails? We measure them, and then we go to the track and measure its gauge. That solves the difficulty. Those rails were intended for the locomotive, and the locomotive for the rails. They are good for nothing apart. The locomotive is not even safe anywhere else. If it should get off, after it is once on, it would run into rocks and stumps, and bury itself in sands or swamps beyond recovery.

Young man, you are a locomotive. You are a thing that goes by a power planted inside of you. You are made to go. In fact, considered as a machine, you are very far superior to a locomotive. The maker of the locomotive is man; your maker is man's maker. You are as different from a horse, or an ox, or a camel, as a