# God Manifest/Part 1/Chapter 2 Section 2

SECTION II.
GOD'S GOODNESS SEEN IN MAN*S GOODNESS.
In the preceding Section, we have treated of the wisdom of God as manifested in His creature, man: we are now to speak of His goodness, as exhibited in the same. In our first Chapter, describing God's works in the material universe, the evidences of His wisdom were exhibited simply as appearing in effects,—in the productions of the Divine skill and power, which fill the natural creation. But in this second Chapter—treating of the spiritual universe, and the mind of man as a part of it—evidences of God's wisdom have been set forth, not so much by the presentation of its effects, as by the exhibition of wisdom itself, appearing in man. Here the thing itself is brought to view,—not indirectly by showing what it does, but rather directly by showing what it is;—by letting us see wisdom and intellectual power itself in active operation, producing effects beautiful and grand, as through a Newton and a Shakspeare. And the reason, it may be remarked, why man, though being hrmself also a work and a creature of the Divine Being, is yet able to give evidence of His wisdom, not merely by its effects, as a flower or a diamond does, but by showing forth wisdom's self, as a living, active power,—is because man was made an image and likeness of God, and therefore, as God is wise. He allows man to appear wise, also. Yet, it has been, all along, our earnest purpose to show, that the wisdom or mental power which is seen in man, is not man's own, but God's in him; for all wisdom, all that acts and produces, is plainly a living power—and life ​belongs to God alone:—man is but a recipient of life, and that from moment to moment. For life is a thing not created, but only communicated; that is, there is no such thing as endowing a created being with life, any more than there is a possibility of endowing the eye with light: the endowment consists simply in giving a constitution or structure capable of receiving life or light respectively. Wisdom is mental light, and the understanding is the mind's eye. Thus have we endeavoured to demonstrate, from the wisdom visible in man, not only that God, who gives man all his wisdom, must be Himself wise, and most wise,—but, still farther, that the wisdom seen in any man and in all men, is not so properly the gift of God, as it is the presence of God, operating in and through man,—thus, in fact, that all wisdmn is God's alone.
We proceed now to our second point, namely, to adduce evidences of the goodness of God, as manifested in His spiritual universe, and particularly in the mind, or rather in the heart and life, of man. And here, it ​may be observed, we shall see man approaching more nearly to the likeness of his Maker, than in the former case. For wisdom is only a secondary attribute of God: love is the primary. He, therefore, who has in his heart, and shows in his life, much of goodness and love towards his fellow-beings, bears a likeness to his Maker in His very essential attribute: while he who exhibits merely wisdom, talent, intellectual power, resembles the Divine only in His secondary character. Thus the latter is, in truth, far inferior to the former,—though the world is apt to rank him as the superior, because intellect, like light, being a shining, glittering thing, more readily attracts the gaze: but in God's sight, who "looks on the heart," not at the head, the man of love is as much more beautiful an object than the mere man of genius, as a summer landscape, decked with fruits and flowers, is more charming than a winter one, glittering with ice and snow.
In looking over the records of humanity, we find fewer instances of men distinguished for the characteristic of goodness, than of those famed for intellect. For this there are several reasons. One is, that goodness is not the showy thing that talent is: intellect, as said before, being mental light, shines and attracts observation at a great distance; while goodness or love, like heat, is not thus visible, but is rather a thing felt, as it quietly but deeply penetrates through a small circle around it. Another reason is, that goodness is not so peculiar a gift as talent is,—few, comparatively, having to fill the high stations, whether in literature or government, in which great intellect is needed: but goodness is placed within the reach of all,—for it is the source and the only true source of happiness, and the ​good Creator desires that all His creatures should be happy, and therefore all may be good if they will (and herein, it may be remarked in passing, lies the true ground of equality amongst men.) High talent, therefore, being a rarer gift, excites more attention, and so causes the names of its possessors to be recorded and sent down to posterity. A third reason for there being fewer instances on record of distinguished goodness, is, alas! that in the history of the world thus far, there seems to have been much more mind than heart, much more intellect than love, much more of knowledge, science, mental power, than of disinterestedness, kindness, and charity. And the reason is plain. Intellect, talent, are gifts forced upon men—their Maker allows them no choice about it—because otherwise the business of the world could not be carried on: but it is not so with goodness,—it is left to every man to be good or not as he will; and too many, alas! have abused this liberty, and chosen the worse and the sadder part. Moreover, it accords with man's own inclination, with his pride and self-love, to have and to cherish intellectual ability, because it brings him distinction. Consequently, the possessors of talent have, in general, been only too willing to cultivate and display it to the utmost: and therefore the world has seen an abundance of it, both in ancient and in modern times. But to be GOOD, does not accord with man's natural inclination—at least in the depraved state in which his nature is, at the presmt day. For to be such, requires self-mortification and self-conquest: and it is much easier to exercise intellectual power in conquering others, than moral in mastering ourselves: Alexander and Cæsar could conquer everything,—except their own spirits.
​But, in spite of all these obstacles, there have existed, (Providence be praised!) in every age of the world, some, who have been eminent for their goodness, purity of character, disinterestedness, devotion,—some, who have attained that higher glory,—some, who have kept before the world a likeness of God in His first and Divinest attribute. First, among these, there looms up throngh the mists of antiquity that noble spirit, who has already been adduced as an instance of wisdom, and is now again to be brought as an example of goodness—Socrates. Equally beautiful the life, as the death, of that high-souled Grecian. "At the age of thirty years"—says one of his biographers—he took the resolution to devote himself entirely to the pursuit of Divine and human knowledge, and, as he attained it, to communicate it to others. He believed himself an ambassador of God to the citizens of Athens. Hence he was occupied from the dawn of day, in seeking persons whom he might instruct in all that is important to mankind in general, and also in what befitted the particular circumstances and characters of those with whom he conversed. He went to the public assemblies and the most crowded streets; or entered the workshops of mechanics and artizans, and conversed with them on religious duties, on their social and political relations, on all points relating to morals, and even on agriculture, war, and the arts. He strove to remove prevailing prejudices and errors, and to substitute right principles; to awaken the better genius in the minds of his hearers; to encourage and console them; in a word to enlighten and improve men, and make them really happy. His habitual serenity and cheerfulness was the effect, in great part, of self-discipline. He treated his body as a ​servant, and innured it to every privation, so that moderation became to him an easy virtue, and he retained in old age his youthful vigor, physical and mental. He not only instructed his fellow-citizens in their duties, but also set before them a perfect example. He was a zealous worshiper of the Supreme Being; and, from his care not to offend his weaker brethren, observed with punctilious exactness all the religious uses which antiquity and custom had consecrated.
"As a citizen, he discharged with exemplary faithfulness all his public duties. Three times he served in the army of his country; the first time, when he was thirty-nine years of age, at the seige of Potidæa. Here, he excelled his fellow-soldiers in the patience with which he endured the hardships of a winter campaign, distingnished himself by his valor, saved the life of his friend Alcibiades, and resigned to that youth the prize of honour which had been awarded to his own bravery. In civil life his conduct was equally admirable, displaying as much moral courage as he had before shown physical. When president of the Council of Five Hundred, he saved by his inflexible firmness the lives of ten brave officers, for whose death the multitude clamored because after a battle they had omitted, in consequence of a storm, the customary duty of burying the slain. To that popular violence, however, which he so nobly withstood in defence of others, he himself at length fell a victim. In a time of public excitement and general disorder, and at the instigation of a few base individuals, Socrates was brought before the popular tribunal, and, on the charge of introducing the worship of new gods, with other frivolous accusations, was condemned to death. Mildly, ​but firmly, he defended himself against the groundless charges of his accusers; but when the sentence was pronounced, his equanimity did not forsake him, but he rather exerted himself to console his afflicted friends. These formed a project for his escape, and sent Crito, one of their number, an old and tried friend of Socrates, to inform him of it, and to strive to induce him to comply with their wishes. Early in the morning of the last day but one, Crito came. The good man was still asleep. Crito sat down soflly by his bed, and waited till he awoke. He then informed him of the unanimous request of his friends, urging every motive which the peculiar circumstances of Socrates suggested, especially the care of his family, to persuade him, if possible, to save his life. Socrates permitted his friend to finish, and thanked him for this proof of his affection, but declared that flight was wholly irreconcilable with his principles. Plato's dialogue, recording this conversation, inspires the most profound admiration of Socrates, who adhered to his lofty principles with such unshaken firmness, on the brink of the grave, and who, notwithstanding the injustice of his condemnation, could not be persuaded to violate his duties as a citizen. At length the fatal day dawned, on which he was to drink the poison. His family and friends assembled early, to spend the last hours with him. He talked with them concerning his poem, concerning suicide, and lastly concerning the immortality of the soul. He spent the greater part of the day in these elevated meditations. He spoke with such animation of the hopes inspired by his faith, that his friends already looked upon him as a glorified spirit. The approach of twilight at length admonished him that the appointed hour had arrived. He asked ​for the cup; and when he took it in his hand, his friends were so overcome with grief, that they burst into tears and loud lamentations. Socrates alone was calm. He then drank the hemlock slowly, and strove to console his friends, as he walked up and down the apartment. When it became difficult to walk, he lay down upon the couch, and presently, covering himself with a cloak, expired."
Contemplate this picture! how sublime! how beautiful! a life of disinterested doing good, and devotion to the improvement and welfare of his fellow-men; of faithfulness and uprightness in all the relations of life, and exactness in the performance of all duties public and private; still more, the high and religious motives and firm faith in a Power above, by which his whole conduct was actuated; and lastly, his readiness to die rather than abandon his principles: all these things, combined, present a picture of lofty virtue such as the world has rarely seen. Here, then, is an instance of goodness, as existing in a human mind. Consider in what it consists: observe that it is a compound of high principles and disinterested affections; or, what is the same, it is a spirit of unselfishness and love for others and for truth and right, based on a dear understanding of the moral relations of things, and on a belief in a Supreme Governor of the world, to whom man is responsible for all he does, and on whom he is dependent for all he possesses.
And whence, now, did this noble Greek derive the goodness he exhibited? Whence came that power of self-control, which enabled him to master his appetites and passions, (which, as he himself declared, were ​naturally strong,) and to make his body, what it was intended to be, a servant to the spirit? Was it the effect solely of seeing the inscription on the oracle at Delphi—Γνωθι, σεαυτον, "Know thyself?" how many thousands had looked upon those same words without being so impressed! Whence came that spirit of disinterestedness, which could inspire him with the wish to go about doing good to others, and to make that the great purpose of his life, forgetful of himself? Whence the noble firmness that he showed, in standing up strongly and calmly for the right, against the clamours of an excited multitude? Whence that beautiful and lofty elevation above all natural fears, which enabled him to feel and to say, "Let my body perish, but I cannot sacrifice my principles?" Whence all these excellences? whence, in a word, was derived that goodness which we so much admire? This question Socrates himself could and did answer. He knew and acknowledged the Source of it all—that Supreme Being, that God, whose ambassador he believed himself to be. He it was, who inspired Socrates with those high thoughts and feelings; and enabled him first to master his own lower nature, and then incited him to go forth and assist others to master theirs. He it was, who gave him bravery in the midst of battle, and after it the noble disinterestedness to desire the prize of bravery to be given to another. That God it was, who gave Socrates his strength of heart, and firmness of look and tongue, to withstand the violence of wrong; and who, at last, in the hour of extremity, upheld his soul above the reach of bodily pains, and then, gently separating it from the mortal frame, drew it to Himself, to live in his ​presence for ever. Socrates the good man, was now Socrates the beatified spirit: he had passed from Athens to the heavens.
Here, then, we behold an instance of human goodness, which, in a manner, represents to us the Divine Goodness; for all the excellences shewn by the former, are possessed by the latter, and infinitely more; all that is in the stream, is in the Fountain, and exhaustlessness besides.
Let us now descend to a later age. We shall find, in modern times, one, who for the virtues of disinterestedness and devotion to the good of mankind, as well as for the spirit of true humility and dependence on his God, is not unworthy of being placed by the side of the noble individual just described. We refer to John Howard, the philanthropist. Here we shall find another striking instance of goodness in a human being, which while it is a new assurance that such a quality exists, is also another proof of the character of Him from whom it was derived. We shall find here another true man, an image and likeness of his Maker; another type, exemplifying the nature of the great Prototype. In tracing the course of Howard, too, we may observe in a striking manner the hand of a Providence leading him on, preparing him for his work, and guiding him through it. And this fact will teach us one great truth, namely, that John Howard was not the first to feel for the poor prisoner, languishing in his dungeon: there had been an Eye long looking down—observing through the dark nights the sighing captive in his cell, watching him in every "turn on his straw," and noting every new "notch made upon the stick," as another sad day ​was ended. From heaven, "His dwelling-place," the God of goodness had seen all this, and had felt for and sympathized with the sufferer, and in His Divine wisdom was preparing the means of relief, to be carried into operation at the first possible moment. He was preparing, too, a human instrument to do the work: that instrument was John Howard.
Observe the first striking step in this preparation, namely, the circumstance of Howard's being himself made a prisoner and cast into a dungeon. Being taken by a French privateer, while on a voyage to Lisbon, he was carried to Brest and with his companions lodged in the filthy dungeon of an old castle, with nothing but a little straw to keep them from the damp floor. After being kept forty hours without food, a piece of mutton was at length thrown into them, but without a knife or any means of dividing it but their teeth. In this wretched situation they were kept nearly a week, when Howard was removed to a better prison, and afterwards let out on his parole, and at length permitted to go to England, to negotiate his release by effecting an exchange. This he at last accomplished, when he immediately employed himself with earnestness and success in effecting the release of his fellow-prisoners. This taste of the sorrows of captivity,—which Howard, in the orderings of a Providence seemingly severe, but in its purposes truly merciful, was permitted to experience,—made an impression on his mind and feelings, which was the basis of that tender commiseration which he afterwards showed for the prisoner; it was the recollection of that painful experience, doubtless, which incited him to all his great efforts in after years for the relief of that ​class of sufferers. Thus does Divine Providence render the temporary distress of one individual, a means of relief to thousands.
It was not this event, however, which was the direct inducement to him to enter upon his remarkable career of benevolence. It was not till many years after this, that that course was begun; nor but for another circumstance, plainly providential, would it in all probability ever have been undertaken at all. He quietly resided for many years on his estate at Cardington, exercising his benevolent disposition in doing good to the poor of the neighborhood, till losing by death the affectionate partner of his heart and sharer in his good deeds, he went abroad for relief in his affliction. Returning again to England, he retired once more to his estate at Cardington, where he continued to reside, till, in the year 1773, at the age of forty-six, he was appointed to the office of High Sheriff of the County of Bedford. It was in the performance of the duties of this office, that his attention first became drawn to the state of prisons and the condition of prisoners. His own account of the circumstances which led to the commencement of his noble career of beneficence, is thus given, in the preface to his work on the State of Prisons: "The distress of prisoners," he says, "came more immediately under my notice, when I was sheriff of the county of Bedford; and the circumstance which excited me to activity on their behalf, was seeing some, who, by the verdict of juries, were declared not guilty, and some on whom the grand jury did not find such an appearance of guilt as subjected them to trial, and some whose prosecutors did not appear against them (all of whom ought instantly to have been discharged), dragged ​back to gaol where they had been confined for months, and locked up again till they should pay various fees to the goaler, clerk of assize, and others. In order to redress this hardship, I applied to the justices of the county for a salary to the gaoler instead of his fees. They were properly affected with the grievance, and willing to grant the relief desired, but they wanted a precedent for charging the county with the expense. I therefore rode into several neighbouring counties in search of a precedent; but I soon learned that the same injustice was practised in them; and looking into the prisons, I beheld scenes of calamity, which I grew daily more and more anxious to alleviate."
We thus perceive that it was from no Quixotic conceit of setting out to redress public disorders, (as has sometimes been unjustly charged upon Howard,) nor was it from any false sympathy with the criminal, that he was led into the remarkable course of benevolent action to which he devoted the remainder of his life; but it was from a simple sense of justice to the oppressed, and in the regular performance of duties into which he was brought by the hand of Providence. And thus has it been with every truly great and good man, whose life and deeds have benefited and adorned the world. Study carefully their biographies, and it will be found that it was seldom from any purpose or planning of their own, but involuntarily and by the leadings of Providence, which they followed step by step, that they were brought into striking situations, or led into peculiar courses of action, in which their hidden virtues and talents were called forth, and by their brilliance and excellence drew the attention and won the admiration of mankind. From which fact, ​furthermore, we may learn the important lesson, that the truest way to do good to the world, is simply to go on in the steady and faithful performance of duty, doing that which is set before us with all our might and with pure motives, cultivating at the same time our mental powers, cherishing all good and noble affections, and,—what is hardest yet most effective of all,—resisting in ourselves disorderly inclinations and bad passions. So doing, we shall be daily fitting ourselves for higher and wider spheres of action; and as we become fitted for them, we shall infallibly be brought into them, under the guidance of an all-watchful Providence, whose end is to bring every man into the highest possible sphere of use which he is capable of filing. Whereas, he, who, forsaking his proper duties, sets about reforming the world in his own strength and according to his own notions of fitness, will presently be seen displaying more zeal than discretion, and will soon find that he is leading both himself and others into unforeseen difficulties,—and in the end, perhaps, will discover that he has increased the very evil which he sought to remedy. So it is ever, when a man (however good his motives) undertakes busily to lead himself and others, instead of quietly following the leadings of Divine Providence.
Howard, being brought, in the manner we have mentioned, to a knowledge of this new form of human suffering, found his feelings and sympathies strongly interested, and he determined to use his utmost efforts for the removal of the evil. He took the resolution to visit all the prisons in the kingdom, ascertain by inspection their actual condition, and the state and circumstances of the unhappy beings immured within them, and then, ​by a fiill report, to make the facts known to the nation at large, and to those who had the power to apply the remedies. Laboriously, patiently, and not without the exercise of much tact and prudence, did he accomplish this task of inspection. Devoting himself then to the labour of preparing a full report of what he had seen and heard, in his sublime but painful tour of visitation, he published it at length in the form of a large quarto volume. The subject being thus brought to the attention not only of the public but of Parliament, excited general interest and sympathy, and the author received the public thanks of the legislative body, and, what was of much more value to him, the assurance that the evil would be at once looked to, and the means of removing it speedily undertaken. His mind being now deeply interested in the whole subject, he determined to extend his inspection to other countries, discover if possible the condition of prisons abroad, learn what excellences, if any, could be copied from them, and what defects were to be remedied in them; and thus ascertaining with exactness the condition of this class of the distressed, whether suffering from the effects of their own crimes, or from injustice or oppression, do what might be done to improve or to relieve those, who, by all else save God and angels, seemed to be forsaken and despised.
Thus, truly, was this good man a follower of his Divine Master, in going forth to "bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that were bound." But not only was he a follower, but a servant and instrument, of that Good Master,—and this is the point which we wish to keep more particularly before the ​view. As before remarked, it was the Lord above, the Creator and Father of all, who first saw and first felt for the sufferings of the prisoner; and it was He who raised up this man as an instrument for their relief. Who else gave Howard those feelings of benevolence, which enabled him to have interest and sympathy, when cases of distress came under his view, while so many before had looked upon them with indifference? Whence, but from the Source of all goodness, was that tenderness in Howard's heart derived? He himself humbly acknowledged the Source whence it came. He claimed no merit for his good deeds, for he felt and knew that the merit was all Another's. His motto was, "My hope is in Christ." He perceived and heartily confessed, that every feeling of kindness, consideration, and sympathy for his distressed fellowman, which burned within his bosom, was a direct gift from above, was communicated to him from the One Fountain of goodness, his Lord and Saviour. It was this belief and perception, which produced in Howard that true humility which distinguished him as strikingly as did his benevolence; that humility, which made him shrink with abhorrence from the idea of a monument being erected in his honor,—a project which had been set on foot by his friends and admirers, and which, but for his earnest and repeated protestations, would have been carried into execution. And the same consciousness that of himself he was nothing, and that any benevolence or beneficence which he might have manifested in his life, was not in the least degree self-derived, but was all from above, and thus truly was not his own, but God's,—showed itself in his language and behaviour to the last. When about to die, from the effects of a ​contagious disease which he had taken while engaged in his course of benevolence, far from his home and country, on the shores of the Black Sea,—he said to Admiral Priestman, who visited him, and who endeavoured to turn his mind from the prospect of death,—"Priestman, you style this a dull conversation, and endeavour to divert my mind from dwelling upon death: but I entertain very different sentiments. Death has no terrors for me: it is an event I always look to with cheerfulness, if not with pleasure; and, be assured, the subject is more grateful to me than any other." He then spoke of his funeral, and of the place where he wished to be interred. "There is a spot," said he, "near the village of Dauphigny; this would suit me nicely; you know it well, for I have often said that I should like to be buried there. And let me beg of you, as you value your old friend, not to suffer any pomp to be used at my funeral, nor any monument nor monumental inscription whatever to mark where I am laid; but lay me quietly in the earth, place a sundial over my grave, and let me be forgotten."
He could not be forgotten. Could the freed captive forget him who had loosed his chains? Could the sighing prisoner forget one who had come to soothe his sorrows, when all else had forsaken him,—one, who had remembered him, when all others had forgotten? Could any good men forget the man who had set to the world one of the noblest examples of heavenly disinterestedness and Christian benevolence that the history of humanity can show? No! Howard could not be forgotten, nor will be, while goodness has a friend on earth, nor while there are angels in heaven:—there, we trust, he has long been, receiving ​his blessed reward. But though the wish, expressed in the dying words of Howard, cannot be granted, yet the feeling from which that wish proceeded, is in the highest degree to be admired and revered. It was founded equally in truth and in goodness. It showed that he had a just appreciation of man's entire dependence on his God; and, what is far more,—it showed that that truth had passed from his head into his heart, and there had produced its correspondent feeling. It showed that Howard, by inward experience and perception, as well as from the light of revealed truth, had attained the full acknowledgment and consciousness that God is all in all, and man, of himself, nothing; that all man's goodness is but God's goodness in him; that all man's good deeds are but the Lord's good deeds, done through man as a humble instrument. Howard knew and felt, that the benevolent feeling which had warmed his heart, as he entered the prison-doors and descended into the dark dungeon, was the immediate gift, nay, was the very presence of Him who is Benevolence and Love itself;—a presence which had power to cheer the cold and lighten the gloom even of that sad place. He knew that that compassionate feeling was excited within him, or, to speak correctly, was communicated to him, by that Divine Saviour, whose whole life on earth was that of "going about doing good;" and who from His place in heaven still looked down, yearning with the burning tenderness of Divine love to bless all His creatures to the utmost, to relieve all that were afflicted and distressed, to "comfort all that mourn;" and who had merely raised him up and sent him forth as an instrument to accomplish His own merciful purposes. ​Knowing and feeling all this, Howard wished all the glory to be given to Him to whom it was due,—none reserved for himself: "let me" he said, "be forgotten." And thus is it ever: the highest are the humblest. The man, who on earth rises most nearly to the heavenly state, and is most closely conjoined in spirit with his God, feels himself as nothing in the Divine Presence, as lost in the Divine Glory:—just as the 'Star of the morning,' which from its nearness to the sun flames brightest of them all, yet oftenest is lost within his blaze.
And now might we turn to other instances of human goodness, and call them up as witnesses to the Divine goodness. We might adduce the devoted Oberlin, the good pastor of the Ban de la Roche, who, for fifty years, gave himself, with all the ardor and energy of an apostle, to the work of civilizing, instructing, and elevating the rude inhabitants of a secluded and mountainous district of France: and who, by united precept and example, so completely succeeded, as to convert a wild and semi-barbarous population into an orderly, industrious, Christian people, filled with love to God and to their neighbour. Truly, in humble imitation of his Divine Master, was he a "good shepherd," sent to seek the "lost sheep among the mountains;" and he found them, and brought them into the "green pastures," and into the heavenly fold. Again, we might adduce the heavenly-minded Fenelon, who, a Catholic and an archbishop, was yet one of the humblest and purest of men: for to no religion, and to no rank or country, is goodness confined: it is to be found wherever men open their hearts to the Divine influence. Fenelon seems in some respects to approach more nearly to ​what we may conceive of the angelic character, than any perhaps whom biography describes. His spirit of utter self-sacrifice, of entire submission to the will of his Heavenly Father, of perfect trust in His Divine care and Paternal providence and love,—an almost angelic superiority to all earthly wishes, and complete consecration of himself to his God, joined at the same time with a course of active duty and love to his fellow-men,—these traits of character, as exhibited throughout his admirable writings and in his whole life and conduct, place him among the most elevated spirits that have adorned and blessed humanity and the world.
These two high-souled men, France claims for her own, as England claims Howard. America, too, has one, who in his own line and kind of goodness, stands perhaps first and highest,—the patriot Washington. Noble and disinterested, faithful and true, was that great man,—an example to the world; one, who by his lofty virtue, as well as by the native dignity and firmness oi his character, excited the awe, mingled with admiration, of all who approached him. Whence came that lofty virtue and disinterested patriotism, and whence, too, the wisdom and power, by which it accomplished its high ends? Look into Washington's private history, and we discern the secret. Behold him, in the darkest hour of his country's struggle, and when fear and distress filled every heart,—behold him, near the winter camp where the snow was marked by the bleeding feet of his poor soldiers,—kneeling, in a retired spot, beneath a tree, and offering up a fervent prayer to God above, for his country's deliverance. In this act of devotion he was overheard by a passer-by: and the listener, struck and awed by what he had ​witnessed,—though before opposed to the cause, at once changed his course, affirming his belief that that cause must be a good one, and in the end a successful one, the leader in which thus looked to and depended on God for guidance and assistance. Here, then, was the secret source of Washington's patriotism, and influence over men's minds, and final triumph over difficulties so great as to have overwhelmed with despair any man who trusted only in himself—any but a man of religious principle, and of courage sustained from above. His was a character, which has, alas! been most rare in the history of the world,—that of a Christian hero and statesman.
To multiply examples further were needless: as a sufficient number have already been adduced, io effect the purpose we had in view, which was, in the first place, to prove, from facts universally known and acknowledged, the existence of disinterested goodness, as exhibited in man; and then, to show, from the conduct and acknowledgment of those good men themselves, that their goodness was not their own, but was derived from a Power above themselves—from God. Thus we have sought to make it plain, not only that God is good, but that He alone is good; and that all man's goodness is but God's love in him, as all man's wisdom is but God's light in him.
* ↑ We would here guard most expressly against the possibility of the above remarks being taken in any pantheistic sense,—and against any such conclusion being drawn, as that, because the wisdom seen in man is not properly his, but God's in him, therefore man's mind is Divine, or that man is God. Such a doctrine is as abhorrent to all sound philosophy, as to the teachings of Divine Revelation. It might as justly be argued, that because the light reflected from the earth is not the earth's light, but is caused by the presence of the sun, therefore the earth is the sun. Precisely the opposite conclusion is the true one, viz., that as the earth, having no light or heat of its own, is itself not in the least a sun,—so man, having no wisdom of his own, is not in the least degree God or Divine: and as the earth is perpetually dependent on the influence of the sun, so man is perpetually dependent on the bounty of God.
* ↑ "There is none good but ONE, that is, God."—Matt. xix. 17.