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Sunday Evening Lectures.

From the "Castlemaine Representative" of the 14th September.

[XXXI].

The following lecture was delivered in the Mechanics' Institute on Sunday evening last, by G. C. Leech, Esq. Reported by Mr E. C. Martin.

One day towards the close of the last century, a man, a solitary man on horseback, was riding along a path which led through the primeval wilderness of Canada. He wore the uniform of a private soldier of England, and such he was. He was the bearer of despatches which it was of importance should arrive safely at their destination, but, failing this, it was of still more importance they should not fall into the hands of the enemy. As he rode along, some shots from an ambush struck him from his horse, and he was a captive in the hands of his foes, but no enemy's eye ever read the despatches of which he was the bearer, for the down-stricken soldier thrust the papers into his wounds, and they were not found by the searchers. He died in agony, concealing his appalling suffering; and the English commander, in writing home his narrative of the incident, used words somewhat after this tenor: "When Marcus Curtius leaped his steed into the yawning gulf in the Roman Forum he was surrounded by an applauding and admiring multitude, but this poor private soldier did this act not in the presence of an admiring crowd, nor with any hope of after glory or reward, but only animated by the heroic sense of doing his duty!" What is the meaning of this heroism of life? Whence came it, and what are its uses? I take it as that God-given quality in humanity which lifts man above—lifts him immeasurably above the lower creatures. It is that high sense that teaches man that he is not sent into this world merely to live at selfish ease; that he is not sent here to gratify his sensual appetites; that he is not merely to make himself secure from pain and peril; that he is not to study how best he can pass with ease and pleasure through this scene of earthly probation, but that there is something higher, nobler, and grander than personal safety—than personal gratification—that there is something higher than that which is even more tempting than physical rest—mental ease. It teaches him that he owes a duty to his fellow-man, to his country, and his God. It was the consciousness of this sublime principle that made the old Greek poet draw such a grand picture of Agamemnon. When woes and perils came thick and fast upon him, he felt and endured the present bitter suffering undismayed. He gazed upon the lightnings of heaven with a smile, and when the thunderbolts fell he looked on with unblanched cheek, but when the woes came upon his country the great king wept. In all nations, particularly in the instances brought specially under our knowledge through near association, by history and religious record, we find the same sublime traces of this heroism of life. Judaism, Paganism, and Christianity have produced manifold sublime instances. You remember the memorable example of that king whom, to use his own words, God' had taken from being a shepherd to be a great king in Israel. The hosts of the Philistines were ranged in grim and serried array, and on the other side were the dismayed and demoralised ranks of Judah. Thrice upon a battle-day a gigantic warrior came forth, challenging to mortal combat any son of Israel who would confront him. In days of modern warfare, the quick, sharp shot of a rifle would have brought the vaunt of such a champion to a sudden termination. Bat in olden warfare, when chief and common soldier fought side by side, and won the day more by force of arm than by strategy and invention, it was not so. Then the forward step, the unbending front, and the defiant challenge of some grim and doughty warrior was not unlikely to cause dismay throughout a whole army. Amongst all the hosts of Judah not one man could find it in his heart to step forth from the serried ranks to meet the giant in single combat. Rut into the disordered camp came a ruddy-faced boy, who heard with mingled shame and anger the unaccepted challenge of the Philistine, and strong in a confidence and faith that grew out of a brave defence of the flock entrusted to his charge, he went forth to meet the Philistine The stripling youth, armed with five stones from the brook, one of which smote the giant on the temple, laid his great adversary senseless upon the earth, where he became a prey to his own broadsword. This was an act. of heroism doubly ennobling, doubly en-during, not only because it gave faith, confidence, and victory to his own ranks, but in after time and in every age this grand and sublime old story has taught men in their distresses and nations in their dire extremities, when struggling against superior force, that not always is the race to the swift nor the battle to the strong. It is this heroism which makes men in the past, though dead, yet speak. You all know the grand old Roman story of the captive leader of republican Rome, who, when in the hands of the Carthaginians, was sent with an embassy to sue for peace. His foes drew from him his word of honour—and those old Pagans could keep their word, too,—they drew from him his plighted word and troth that should the embassy prove unsuccessful in its mission, he would return with the ambassadors to Carthage. It was a base bribe that he should speak strongly in favour of peace, and second the efforts of the embassy. There came a great day in the Roman Forum when the embassy was to have audience of page break the Senators and people. In plausible words the ambassadors narrated how well the Carthaginians were armed; what a vast array of veterans they could muster; how well supplied were their arsenals, and how numerous were their galleys; it was not from their needs, but from their desire to be at peace and amity with Rome, that they sought for peace. And when the ambassadors had made an end of speaking, up rose old captive Regulus. Then he told his fellow countrymen that Carthage was exhausted, that her arsenals were empty, that her ranks were broken, and her galleys few and rotten. Strike, said he, one swift strong blow, and you have for ever your enemy at your feet. The answer to the embassy was that Carthage must be destroyed. Then Regulus took leave of his heart-broken wife and children, though the Romans forbade his going. Look, said they, at the exasperated faces of these men who accompanied you; if you go back, you go back not only to death, but to torture. Then his wife prayed earnest prayers of entreaty that he would stay, and his children in tears clung about him. Next the Romans drew about him with their spears and said he should not go, but Regulus said he would rather fall upon his own sword than break his plighted truth. So Regulus returned with the ambassadors to Carthage, and as his countrymen feared, not only to death, but to a death of hideous and protracted torture. Rut Carthage perished and he fulfilled his purpose. Verily, there is something great in the heroism of life. We need not search British history for examples, for her pages teem with them. Ours is one of the grandest and highest races, not excepting the sublime old Roman and Greek. Has not every page of British history a proof that her sons believe in and have lived up to the belief, and in accord with the heroism of life? Not merely the heroism that will die willingly and bravely on the battle-field—that is a heroism of a meaner kind, though noble enough and admirable in itself. I do not mean to disparage the courage of the soldiery of France, England, Prussia, or any other country. I would by no means disparage the courage of men who confront the serried ranks, and who advance unflinchingly in the face of the belching cannon, the courage of men who doggedly and calmly step in to fill a gap in a rank that has been made over and over again by the enemy's fire. But there is a heroism a thousand times higher than this. Cowards to physical pain are the exception, The very meanest criminal dies with courage. I have seen a score or more of men in my time die on the scaffold, and one only died the death of a craven, and that man had murdered a woman. There are men who die in battle who are sustained by the heat and excitement of the moment, by the presence of their fellows, and by the rallying words of men who have made it a profession of life, and who know best how to sustain and encourage the sinking spirits of their men. But far higher is the courage and heroism of the men who have won a country's freedom not on the battlefield but in the dungeon cell. The men who in dire and troubled time, from riches, honour, and all things that are attractive, have gone to prison and execution in a good cause. Men who could have had wealth and a high station by a sacrifice of their principles, but who have chosen the dungeon, the rack, and the scaffold. These are the men with a courage truer and nobler than the soldier on the battlefield. They have truly exemplified the heroism of life. They are the men who die for their country, who die for their principles, and their religion. It is the universal and inherent instinct in man after the spiritual which has developed heroism more than anything else, more than country, more than science, more than aught else that man has died for, and this, irrespective of the fashion or manner of belief. I think amongst all the arguments in favour of Christianity, there is not one so weak or so silly as that, which divines are so fond of introducing, and which we have had here in controversy of late. They say with pride, reasonable and just pride, that thousands of Christians have died for their faith, but they say it as if there never was another form of belief for which men had died. Why there never yet rose on earth a faith that has survived a quarter of a century that has not produced its martyrs. Even Mormonism—and perhaps that of all the forms which human faiths have assumed of late years is the lowest—has produced its martyrs. Christians have died heroically, and so have men in every age, in every country, and for every form of belief, who have been called upon to suffer death and torture for their faith. We have often seen pictures of Christian martyrs. All honour to them—not one scintilla of glory would I take away from the halo that surrounds the crown of the true Christian martyr. I can quite sympathise with the spirit of Keble in the opening words of the glorious hymn which runs thus:—

As rays around the source of light,
Stream upwards ere he glow in sight!
And watching by his future flight,
Set the clear Heavens on fire.

So on the King of Martyrs wait
Three chosen bands in royal state;
And all earth owns of good and great,
Are gathered in that choir.

One hurries on and welcomes death!
One calmly yields his willing breath!
Not slow or hurrying but in faith,
Content to die or live.

While some, the darlings of their lord,
Play smiling with the flame and sword,
And ere they speak, to his sure word
Unconscious witness give.

All honour to the true martyrs—not the men, the impracticable and foolish men, who thought it necessary as a part of their faith to enter and insult the houses of worship where they lived, or who would insist on receiving death at the hands of those who page break dissented from them and were more powerful. For such pseudo-martyrs I have no sympathy. To others all honour I am willing to render, but not to Christians alone. Judaism has had her sublime martyrs. When Antiochus Epiphanes ruled in Jerusalem and shocked the pious Hebrews by sprinkling with swine's blood the holy of the holies, he commanded Eleazar, the high-priest, to offer up a swine sacrifice upon the altar of the Temple. But he refused to the death, though each moment the alternative of continued torture or escape was offered to him. And one Hebrew matron saw her seven sons slain before her eyes, and then yielded herself up for execution rather than utter one word derogatory to Israel or to Israel's God. Martyrdom for faith is neither confined to Christianity nor Judaism. In the ancient realm of China it is calculated that over a million of souls died for a form of faith there existing when an edict was made for its desecration. Chinese, like all Asiatics, have a curious fashion of making men die hard. Cruel and frightful are their inventions to make men die in protracted and acute agony, but their fatalism is equal to arm them against it. Brahminism has had its martyrs, and Buddhism too. In 1852 there grew up in Persia a faith called Babism. If we may catch the dying words of its martyrs it was simple and harmless enough. They cried "we came from God, and to God we will return." Men were cruelly tortured, women were hideously, awfully, painfully, put to death, and little children were heartlessly butchered. The spectator who narrated the atrocities, a Frenchman, saw men, women, and children with brands thrust in the gaping wounds in their bodies as they went to death, patiently enduring the torture and heroically meeting their doom, only crying "from God we came, and to God will we return." The founder of the faith hung crucified from the walls of Tabreez. The man who had been hanging along with him said before dying—they were his last words—"Master, are you satisfied with me?" Oh heroism of life! When Christianity became divided so that the followers of Jesus had the full opportunity of tormenting each other, in defiance of the principles enunciated by Jesus, there were martyrs on both sides. In the days of bloody Mary, many Protestant weavers, tailors, and shoemakers, went bravely and nobly to their death. In later days Catholicism had her martyrs. When the headless body of a Roman Catholic priest was handed to his friends they saw that all the nails had been drawn from his hands and feet by the torture, but without affecting his faith. Heard you ever of Joan Boacher. In the days of Protestant Edward she denied the miraculous conception, and Bishop Ridley was sent to convert her. She had been servant to a lady who had been executed for denying the real presence—that is, denying that what the baker had made was God Almighty. When the Bishop addressed her she replied thus: My mistress denied the actual presence in the consecrated wafer, and you were sent to convert her. She died for her belief, and since her death you have changed your opinion on that point. Now you come to me demanding that I shall believe that which is against my reason and conscience. My mistress was burnt to death for a morsel of bread, and I shall be burnt for a morsel of flesh. Perhaps the time will come when you will change your opinion again. She did die, and died more bravely than Archbishop Cranmer, who recanted his profession of faith, and when he found his persecutors had resolved to execute him, whether or no, recanted his recantation. There is a splendid monument to his memory, but they have forgotten poor Unitarian Joan Boacher. But she will be remembered in the pages loved by those who honour the heroism of life. Not only have country and religion had their martyrs, but so also has science. There have been men who have given up ease and honour, and life itself—in so far that their mental exertions and bodily fatigue have brought them to a premature grave—for science. What should we be but for them? It was this spirit that made Vasco de Gama round the Cape of Good Hope, and add new and momentous truths to earth's science of geography. It was the indomitable spirit of perseverance and inquiry that made Flavio Gioja pursue his experiments, till he discovered what had been long before found out by the Chinese, the secret of the mariner's compass. Let us draw a picture of another and grander discoverer still. Seated in his study in an old secluded town of Spain was a man pondering, thinking, and revolving in his mind a mighty problem. But the learned of the day laughed to scorn the proposition he propounded. This man had thought out and determined in his own mind as an absolute truth what to the world at that time was a Utopian idea. It is all very well for us now to view it complacently, and without wonder; it is all simple enough now to us after the fact. But then it was a daring idea to propound that the mariner sailing westward from the coasts of Europe would at length reach a mighty continent on the opposite side of the globe. It was a bold thing to tell men in that day that all beyond was not a waste of waters. What a wondrous thought to men who believed this earth of ours was a flat plain, bounded by a circular impregnable wall. Bur, in spite of all the world, Christopher Columbus thought out his plan. He is a man of undaunted courage who will think and set up his opinion in opposition to a present unbelieving world and all preconceived notions, and doubly brave when he will persist un-flinchingly amidst buffets, scoffs, and scorns of all around him. He sought the aid of about every potentate in Europe to demonstrate his problem, but he was rejected, delayed, and put off. At last westward sailed a little fleet from the port of Lisbon. The three ships went onward and on word, stillon- page break ward across the awful waste of water, and soon there was not one man besides Columbus himself who believed in the theory. And at last in each ship arose murmuring, only stayed a little now and then by their attention being directed to a little floating seaweed, telling silently, yet surely, of some land beyond. Then there were occasionally pieces of charred timber, showing as surely as anything could be shown by indirect proof that there were some beings beyond the horizon, who had at least mastered the art of making a fire. But still was seen nought but one wide waste of waters seemingly interminable. The words of mutiny rose high and at last the heart of the great chief himself appeared to be sinking. He only allayed the fears and quelled the mutiny by promising that if they would but spend one more night in pursuing their onward course, if there was no land in sight in the morning he would return. But before the morrow's sun had filled with light the eastern horizon, the man on the look-out raised a cry of land, and the western world was discovered! Surely there is something in the heroism of life? How long but for Columbus should we have had to wait for the discovery of the new world? One more martyr to science and we have done. Galileo, after much grave meditation, came to the conclusion that the Ptolemaic system of astronomy was at fault; that this world of ours was but a tiny unit in space, and that for the centre of our system we must look to the sun. The sun stands still, he propounded, and the earth revolves on its axis and round the sun in a given orbit. We live upon no earth standing still, and resting upon some vast fabric, but on a little globe which is but a tiny unit in infinite space. And for this discovery the Church of Rome put Galileo in the Inquisition, and made him upon his bended knees utter the lie that it was not so; that it was absurd and unreliable, and contrary to revelation, and, therefore, heretical and damnable, He uttered the recantation forced upon him, but as he rose from his knees he muttered, "but nevertheless it moves." Campanella died a violent death at the hands of Christendom, and as he was dying a priest pressed the crucifix to his lips, and the philosopher spat on it. Seven times was that man put to the torture for propounding that the number of worlds was infinite. What do these lessons teach us? That there is something within us that shall live beyond the grave in everlasting glory. It is the high souled power within that has made men die for their faith, their country, and science. It teaches us that we have not come into the world for our own selfish ease, merely to gather gold and silver, houses and lands, for luxury and earthly honour. It teaches us that although life is sweet to all men there is something more precious than life, if life is only to be kept in dishonour, and by the ignoble surrender of truth. Therefore I say to myself and each one of you,—Hold fast that faith which thou hast, though friends near and dear—nay, your very households—may forsake you. Hold fast the truth. Don't surrender any of that which has come home to your conscience as truth, irrespective of that which is controversial. Let me, speaking as one of yourselves, recommend you to keep and cultivate this spirit of self-sacrifice. If there are any here who have too great thought of the cares of hearth and home, cares which are commendable in reason, let me advise you rot to think overmuch on the affairs of this life but look carefully beyond it. If there are any here who think life is but an arena wherein they can administer to their loose selfish passions, I would beg of them to consider they are wasting this life, and though we believe ultimately that all God's creatures will be holy and happy, yet so long as they in any way retard their own spiritual progress—so long will they retard God's primeval purpose towards them. Jesus said whosoever shall save his life shall lose it, and whosoever will lose it for my sake shall save it. That is, he saves it by lessoning the length of his probationary state and loses it in the sense of lengthening it. Life is no voluptuous dream. Live as though working out your own after glory, and above all listen not to the promptings of your lower nature.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our distant end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living present?
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother.
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing.
Learn to Labour and to wait.