transparent fluid membrane through which the living form
is seen, and not, as in most men, an indurated heterogeneous
fabric of many dates and of no settled character, in which
the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlargement, and
the man of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday.
And such should be the outward biography of man in time, a
putting off of dead circumstances day by day, as he renews
his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed estate,
resting, not advancing, resisting, not cooperating with the
divine expansion, this growth comes by shocks.

We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels
go. We do not see that they only go out that archangels
may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe
in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and
omnipresence. We do not believe there is any force in
to-day to rival or recreate that beautiful yesterday. We
linger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had bread
and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can
feed, cover, and nerve us again. We cannot again find aught
so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and weep in vain.
The voice of the Almighty saith, 'Up and onward for evermore!'
We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the
new; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, like those
monsters who look backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent
to the understanding also, after long intervals of time.
A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of
wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid