There were some indignant whispers of dissent, but none of them were audible enough to attract the attention of the class, and Deacon Bates read the next verse.
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," read Deacon Bates. "Brother Prymm, will you open the discussion of this beatitude?"
"There is none other more precious to the earthly nature," said Mr. Prymm, "and yet the passage proves the comprehensiveness peculiar to inspired words. Sin and perplexity are the lot of all mortals, and they bring trouble with them; but the single sorrow which raises man up to God, and brings God down to man, is mourning. It may be done from sinful causes—upon earth—but whatever the cause, the act itself shows us how near God is to us, and what are his sentiments usward. He knows from the greatness and purity of his own nature how intense this sentiment may be, and his sympathy shows itself so tenderly in no other way as by this promise, that he will come to his children and comfort them when they are in sorrow. What an evidence of the need of a God does this promise afford! Where else can we turn for true comfort when in trouble? Earthly friends lack that knowledge of us from which alone true sympathy can come; the pleasure of the flesh can give us nothing better than temporary forgetfulness; but the divine sympathy is perfect in its knowledge, timely and appropriate in its expression, and incalculable in its force and endurance."
"I am glad to offer my weak testimony in support of the remarks of Brother Prymm," said Builder Stott, who came next in the order of rotation. "I have had my sad experiences in this world,—all of you have had yours, I suppose,—but it seems to me that mine have been peculiar. I've trusted men and been swindled by them. I've been abused for things that I never thought of doing. I've lost dear ones that left places that have never been filled and never can be, and I have found no one whose words could be more than a mockery—one that wasn't intended, of course, but that hurt just as badly as if it had. It has been only when on my knees, or praying silently as I walked the street, that I found a sympathizing friend. There can be no doubt in me about what that passage means—I know all about it by blessed experience."
"So do I," said Mr. Buffle. "I've been what men call fortunate in this world's affairs, but if any one here thinks that money can buy exemption from misery, I want to tell him that he's greatly mistaken. I lost a child two or three years ago—some of you remember her; I'd have changed places with the cheapest workman in my shipyard—yes, the most miserable beggar in the street—if by doing so I could have brought her back again. But money couldn't do it, and, as our friend Stott has just remarked, the best of earthly friends couldn't take the sting away. I can't say that God's comfort came just when I most wanted it, but God is good and wise; he sent it when he thought best, and it was full of blessing when it came. It doesn't heal wounds to be comforted by Heaven—the wounds remain as tender as ever; but the pain and the feeling of hopelessness depart, and a man is made to feel like the wounded soldier, or the wrecked, starved sailor when help comes—he knows he has a friend to lean upon."
Mr. Buffle felt for his handkerchief and applied it to his eyes; an operation which, in spite of his great-heartedness, he seldom had occasion to perform in public: meanwhile Broker Whilcher said:
"I don't agree with every one here, as most of you know; but the beautiful promise which forms the subject of our lesson to-day has been fulfilled to me. I can't explain how, but I profess to be too much of a man to deny what I learn by experience, even when I can't ascertain who my teacher is. My own great ups and downs of life have been principally social, and, as has been remarked by others, they are the hardest of any to bear. And somehow—I wish I could learn how—I have been helped, soothed, sustained, whenever I could abandon myself to the influence of whatever higher power it is that looks to the hearts of men and sees that they are not entirely crushed."
"The older a man grows in years and experience," said Judge Cottaway, without his official cough, "the greater his experience of sorrow. The exercise of wisdom may prevent some troubles that carelessness and ignorance may induce, but even then there is more of misery in life than any human influences can avert. I believe, after much deliberation upon the evidence adduced from the affairs of men, that the Comforter is also the one who afflicts in many cases; but so certain am I of his wisdom and goodness that I would never avert his chastening hand. The cry of Christ in the garden, 'O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt,' should be the sentiment of every one that is in affliction. That more bitter cry that was sounded from the Cross may also be, without sin, re-echoed by the human soul in trouble; but every one learns, by blessed experience, that the soul is never forsaken, and that our sorrows are known to Heaven better than they are to ourselves."
Mr. Jodderel sat next, and Squire Woodhouse whispered to his nearest neighbor: