For that the furnace of adversity,
    Melts to its proper good each seeming ill. 
    Again, I noticed how the artist chose
    Not clear good glass, whether of plate or crown,
    But common-looking stuff, bubbled and flawed,
    As if selected for its blemishes
    Rather than for transparent purity. 
    ‘Why not choose better glass to paint upon?’
    To this he answered, ’Wouldn’t do at all. 
    My faces mustn’t look lifeless and dull,
    But, as instinct with motion, light and life,
    Not in enamelled uniformity: 
    The sunshine cannot sparkle where all’s smooth;
    I choose the most imperfect panes to make
    A perfect, vigorous picture.’—­Then I learnt
    How wonderfully Providence is pleased
    To cause all evil things to help the good;
    Nay, deeper, to ordain that good itself
    Can scarcely be discerned without the harm
    Of some companion-ill; even as gold
    Is useless unalloyed; and Very Light
    Unshadowed kills, as unapproachable;
    And absolute unmitigated good
    Alone is Godhead.  Every creature here
    (In this our human trial-world at least)
    Is full of faults and spots and blemishes,
    If only to set off his better self,
    His talents, graces, excellent good gifts,
    Burnt in the fire to brighter excellence
    And fused harmonious into perfect man.”

I have often thought that our Great Teacher’s parables were true pictures of things around Him; He painted from living models, “impulsively and on occasion.”  The prodigal son, the unjust judge, the rich fool, the camel unladen to pass the narrow tunnel of the needle’s eye, the lost sheep, the found piece of money and the like,—­all were real incidents made use of by His wisdom, who spake as never man spake, and did all things well.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

PERSONATION.

It has several times happened to me, as doubtless to others of my brethren, to find that I have been personated, certainly to my considerable discredit.  Take these instances.  When at Brighton, a fellow had the effrontery to collect money in my name, and I suppose he somewhat resembled me, as I heard more than once that I had been seen here and there, where I undoubtedly was not, and proved an alibi.  At Bignor, where I went to see some Roman pavements on the property of a Sussex yeoman of my name (very possibly a German cousin) the owner received me with more than suspicion when I said who I was,—­because “the true Martin Tupper had been his guest for a week, and brought him a book he had written,” and one of mine then was lying on the table!  But I soon made it clear that he had been deceived, and that the real Simon Pure was now before him.  Divers other cases might be mentioned; however, perhaps the most curious is this, and I extract the whole statement from one of my scrap-books now before me.  It is headed “An anecdote to account for certain slanders,” the date being August 1865:—­