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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 http://archive.org/details/sermonsbylaterev01buck 
 
SERMONS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 REV. J. S. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 WITH 
 
 A MEMOIR 
 
 OF HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 Ml IN TED BY JOHN ELIOT, NO. 5, COURT STREET* 
 
 1814. 
 
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT : 
 
 District Clerk's Office. 
 
 BE it remembered, that on the fifteenth day of February, A. D. 1814, and in the thirty 
 righth year of the Independence of the United States of America, TVilliarn Wells of the said Dis- 
 trict has deposited in this Office the title of a Book, the Right whereof he claims as Proprietor, in the 
 words following, to wit—" Sermons by the late Rev. J. S. Buckminster. With a memoir of his life 
 and character." 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, intitled, " An Act for the Encourage- 
 ment of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps. Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors 
 of such Copies, during the times therein mentioned ;" and also to an Act intitled," An Act supple- 
 mentary to an Act, intitled, An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of 
 Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies during the times therein men- 
 tioned ; and extending the benefits thereof to the Ar is of Designing, Engraving and Etching Histori- 
 cal, and other Prints." 
 
 WM. S. SHAW, 
 Clerk of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THE collection of this volume of posthumous 
 discourses was undertaken in compliance with the 
 general wishes of those, who had the privilege of 
 hearing the preaching of Mr. Buckminster, and parti- 
 cularly of the society in Brattle Square. About sixty 
 sermons were first selected, from the whole number 
 found among his papers, by two distinguished mem- 
 bers of his parish. From among this number, those, 
 which compose the present volume, were taken and 
 prepared for the press by two of his brethren in the 
 ministry. In performing the difficult and delicate 
 task of revision, every other liberty has been very 
 sparingly used, except that of omitting such pas- 
 sages, as appeared not to have received the usual 
 degree of the author's care and attention. The only 
 general principle of selection, which could be adopt- 
 ed, was, to take those sermons, which, with regard to 
 their literary execution, were found to be in a state 
 most fitted for publication. Many discourses, there- 
 fore, have been necessarily neglected, containing 
 passages not inferiour to the best in the present vol- 
 ume, but which appear not to have been laboured 
 throughout with equal felicity. One or two have 
 
IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 been admitted, where the author, in some of his lead- 
 ing ideas, may seem to have been indebted to other 
 writers. But his thoughts, where these coincidences 
 exist, appear always to have passed through and 
 taken an original colouring from his own mind ; and 
 he has adopted nothing, which he has not embellish- 
 ed and improved. The sermons alluded to are those on 
 faith, which bear some resemblance to the discourses 
 of Cappe on the same subject. Of the sermon on 
 the character of our Saviour, also, the general argu- 
 ment has been often stated by different writers, par- 
 ticularly by Mr. Belsham in his chapter on the in- 
 ternal evidences of Christianity. 
 
 * 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Memoir of Mr. Buckminster, ix 
 
 SERMON L 
 The fitness of the time of the introduction 
 of the gospel ; and the necessity of a mi- 
 raculous interposition to account for its 
 success. 
 
 Gal. iv. 4. But when the fulness of time was come, 
 
 God sent forth his Son. . 1—21 
 
 SERMON II. 
 The argument for Christianity from the 
 
 character of our Saviour. 
 John vii. 46. Never man spake like this man. . 22—41 
 
 SERMON III. 
 The advantages of sickness. 
 Psalm cxix. 71. It is good for me, that I have been 
 
 afflicted ..... 42—61 
 
 SERMON IV. 
 The excuses of the irreligious. 
 Luke xiv. 1 8. And they all with one consent began 
 
 to make excuse. . . . . 62 — 76 
 
 SERMON V. 
 The love of fame. 
 J ohn xii. 43. For they loved the praise of men more 
 
 than the praise of God. . . . 77 — 96 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 The Epistle to Philemon. 
 Epistle to Philemon. • . . • 97 — 114 
 
vi 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 SERMON VII. 
 Frugality. 
 
 John vi. 12. Gather up the fragments that remain, 
 
 that nothing be lost. . . . 115—130 
 
 SERMON Vm. 
 
 The objects of faith. 
 
 Hebrews xi. 1. Now faith is the substance of things 
 
 hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. . 131 — 143 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 The reasonableness of faith. 
 Same text. ..... 144 — 155 
 
 SERMON X. 
 The importance of faith. 
 Same text. ..... 156 — 165 
 
 SERMON XI. 
 
 The history and character of Paul ; and the 
 causes of obscurity in his writings. 
 
 2 Peter iii. 15, 16. Even as our beloved brother 
 Paul, also, according to the wisdom given unto him, 
 hath written unto you, as also in all his epistles, 
 speaking in them of these things, in which are some 
 things hard to be understood, which they that are 
 unlearned and unstable wrest, as they do also the 
 other scriptures, unto their own destruction. . 166 — 189 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 Habit. 
 
 Jeremiah xiii. 23. Can the Ethiopian change his 
 skin, or the leopard his spots ? Then may ye also 
 do good, that are accustomed to do evil. . 1 90 — 209 
 
 SERMON Xm. 
 Confession of Christ. 
 Matthew x. 32. Whosoever shall confess me before 
 men, him will I also confess before my father, which 
 is in heaven. ..... 210 — 224 
 
 SERMON XIV. 
 Obstacles to the efficacy of preaching. 
 Luke viii. 18, Take heed how ye hear, . , 225 — 240 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 vii 
 
 Page. 
 
 SERMON XV. 
 The Introduction of the affections into re- 
 ligion. 
 
 Philippians i. 9. And this I pray, that your love may 
 
 abound yet more and more. . . . 241 — 262 
 
 SERMON XVI. 
 
 Self-government. 
 Proverbs xxv. 28. He that hath no rule over his owa 
 spirit is like a city, that is broken down, and without 
 walls 263—280 
 
 SERMON XVII. 
 Self-knowledge. 
 1 Corinthians xi. 31. If we would judge ourselves, 
 
 we should not be judged. . . • 281 — 292 
 
 SERMON XVn^ 
 
 Salvation by grace. 
 Ephesians ii. 5. By grace ye are saved. . 293 — 311 
 
 SERMON XIX. 
 
 The Pharisee and the Publican. 
 
 Luke xviii. 10. Two men went up into the temple to 
 
 pray; the one a Pharisee, and the other a Publican. 312 — 324 
 
 SERMON XX. 
 The character of Peter. 
 Matthew xxvi. 35. Peter said unto him, though I 
 should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee. Luke 
 xxii. 61, 62. And the Lord turned, and looked up- 
 on Peter. And Peter remembered the word of the 
 Lord, how he had said unto him, Before the cock 
 crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And Peter went 
 out, and wept bitterly. . . . 325 — 34S 
 
 SERMON XXI. 
 The religious education of children. 
 Ephesians vi. 4. Fathers, provoke not your children 
 to wrath ; but bring them up in the nurture and ad- 
 monition of the Lord. . . . 349 — 365 
 
viii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 SERMON XXn. 
 
 The circumstances, in the situation of our 
 country, favourable to moral and reli- 
 gious eminence. 
 
 Deuteronomy xxxiii. 29. Happy art thou, O Israel, 
 
 who is like unto thee ? 366 — 382 
 
 (Preached on occasion of the State Thanksgiving, Nor. 1807.) 
 
 SERMON XXin. 
 
 The influence of the gospel on the charac- 
 ter and condition of the female sex. 
 
 Philtppians iv. 3. I entreat thee, — help those women, 
 which laboured with me in the gospel, — whose names 
 are in the book of life. . . . 383 — 41© 
 
 (Preached before the Boston Female Asylum, Sept. 1810.) 
 
 SERMON XXIV. 
 The connexion and mutual influence of 
 knowledge, piety, and charity. 
 
 2 Peter i. 5 — -7. Add to your faith, virtue ; and to 
 virtue, knowledge ; and to knowledge, temperance ; 
 and to temperance, patience ; and to patience, god- 
 liness ; and to godliness, brotherly kindness ; and to 
 brotherly kindness, charity. . . . 411—430 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF THE LIFE AND CHARACTER OF THE 
 
 REV. JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTEK. 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 THE sermons, which compose the following vol- 
 ume, are selected from a number of discourses written 
 without any expectation of publication in the regular 
 course of the official duties of the author. The objec- 
 tions to offering to the world writings left under such 
 circumstances are obvious, and certainly not inconside- 
 rable. The disadvantages of all posthumous works, 
 which have not received the author's last corrections, 
 are exceedingly great ; but especially of those of a 
 pulpit orator. A very different degree of attention 
 will usually be given by every writer to compositions 
 intended only for the ear of a miscellaneous audience, 
 and those, which are to meet the eye of a cool and, per- 
 haps, fastidious reader. It must, also, often be incident 
 to one, who is tasked to be ready to speak at a given 
 hour, that amidst the glow and hurry of composition, 
 sentiments will be struck out, which are not sufficient- 
 ly weighed, or not carefully limited, or not perfectly 
 consistent with each other, or which, perhaps, are un- 
 consciously supplied to him by memory, instead of in- 
 vention. It is obvious, too, that many great improve- 
 
Xii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 ments, and a certain finish and perfection will be sug- 
 gested by a last revision, which the author himself — 
 while his discernment is quickened by the anticipation 
 of the publick tribunal, before which he is about to 
 stand — alone can give. These, and other similar con- 
 siderations, seem to establish the propriety of a general 
 rule, which shall forbid the publication of posthumous 
 writings, except where the author has directed it, or, 
 at least, appears to have, in some degree, prepared 
 for it. 
 
 Powerful, however, as these considerations un- 
 doubtedly are, they have yielded, in the present case, 
 to a conviction of the very extraordinary merit of these 
 discourses. The mind of Mr. Buckminster was so 
 singularly and habitually accurate, that, though these 
 sermons have a claim to all the indulgence, which is 
 due to posthumous writings, there are few, which 
 have so little need of it. It seemed, therefore, to 
 his friends, that it would be unjust to him, to his coun- 
 try, which is interested in his fame, and even not con- 
 sistent with what we may believe to be the purposes 
 of Providence, in committing to him such powers for 
 the support of religion and virtue, that all their benefi- 
 cial effects should be confined to the small circle of his 
 immediate hearers. It surely would not be right, that 
 a mind so richly and splendidly endowed should be 
 suffered to pass away, after shedding a momentary 
 warmth and lustre around it, without leaving any per- 
 manent proof of its salutary and benignant influence, 
 

 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XlU 
 
 Of the propriety of this decision the publick have, 
 in this volume, the means of judging. — As it was be- 
 lieved, that few will read these sermons without a de- 
 sire of knowing something more of the author, the of- 
 fice of giving some particulars of his life and charac 
 ter has been committed to one of his friends, who may 
 advance that claim to the confidence of his readers, 
 which is given by an unreserved and affectionate in- 
 tercourse with Mr. Buckminster of many years. 
 
 Joseph Stevens Buckminster was born May &6, 1784, 
 at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. His ancestors, both by 
 his fathers and mother's side, for several generations, 
 were clergymen. His paternal grandfather was the 
 author of several tracts of some celebrity in their day, 
 in defence of a mitigated form of Calvinism. Dr. Ste- 
 vens of Kittery, his maternal grandfather, is yet re- 
 membered, as a very learned, judicious and pious di- 
 vine ; in short — to use the language of the very high 
 authority* from whom I received this account — " he 
 was a man, of whom one may say every thing, that is 
 good." His father, the late Dr. Buckminster, was for 
 a long time a minister of Portsmouth, and was esteemed 
 one of the most eminent clergymen of that state. His 
 mother, I find, all accounts unite in representing, as a 
 woman of a very elegant and cultivated mind ; and 
 though she died, while her son was yet in early 
 youth, it was not till she had made many of those im- 
 pressions on his mind and heart, which most deeply 
 and permanently affect the character. 
 
 * The late Chief Justice Parsons. 
 
Xiv MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 j > . .• 
 
 Mr. Buckminster was a striking example of the ear- 
 ly development of talents. There is some diversity 
 in this respect in the accounts, which are given as of 
 eminent persons. As far, however, as the intellectual 
 differences of men arise from differences in their original 
 constitution, from greater sensibility, greater capacity 
 of exertion, or superiour susceptibility of external im- 
 pressions, these differences, we should think, would be 
 more or less clearly displayed in every stage of the 
 mind's progress. When, therefore, nothing remarkable 
 is remembered of the youth of a man of genius, the 
 cause may probably be traced, either to a want of at- 
 tention, or a want of philosophical discrimination in 
 the observers. The instances of the early display of * 
 the powers of Mr. Buckminster were very extraordi- 
 nary. There was no period, after his earliest infancy, 
 when he did not impress on all who saw him, stran- 
 gers, as well as friends, a conviction of the certainty of 
 his future eminence. It seemed as if the early opening 
 of a mind so fruitful and so fair was intended to pre- 
 pare, and in some degree to compensate us for its sud- 
 den and premature loss. An account of some of the 
 peculiarities of his youth will be found in the following 
 extract of a letter. It was given me, I presume, with 
 the expectation, that the facts it contains would be inter- 
 woven with my own narration ; but, as it must evident - 
 ly be injured by any alteration, I shall venture to give 
 it in the form, in which it was received. 
 
 " From the birth of my brother, our parents intended 
 him for the ministry, and took the greatest delight in 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XV 
 
 cultivating; a mind, whose early promise gave them rea- 
 son to hope, he was to he a blessing to the world. I do not 
 know how soon he was able to read ; but at four years 
 old he began to study the Latin grammar, and had so 
 great a desire to learn the Greek also, that my father, to 
 please him, taught him to read a chapter in the Greek 
 Testament by pronouncing to him the words. As ear- 
 ly as this he discovered that love for books and ardent 
 thirst for knowledge, wiiich he possessed through life. 
 He was seldom willing, while a child, to leave his 
 books for any amusement, and my father Avas so much 
 afraid, that close application would injure his health, 
 that he used to reward him for playing with boys of 
 his own age, and would often go with him to persuade 
 him, by example, to take part in their sports. I have 
 no recollection, that, when we were children, he ever 
 did any thing that was wrong. He had always the 
 same open, candid disposition, that marked his man- 
 hood \ nor can I recollect any time, when I did not 
 feel the same confidence, that whatever he did was 
 right ; the same affection and respect, which made the 
 last years, I spent with him, so happy. From the time 
 he was five, till he was seven years old, it was his 
 practice, to call the domesticks together on Sabbath 
 morning, and read to them one of my father's manu- 
 script sermons, repeat the Lord's prayer, and sing a 
 hymn 5 and he performed the service with such solem- 
 nity, that he was always heard with attention. I 
 have heard my dear father say, he never knew him tell 
 an untruth, or prevaricate in the least. Indeed, there 
 
 \ 
 
XVi MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 was always something about him, which gained the 
 love of all, w ho knew him ; and never any thing, 
 which made them fear, their expectations of his future 
 excellence would be disappointed." 
 
 " We lost our excellent mother, when he was six 
 years old. But he had received an impression of her 
 character, which time could not efface ; and I believe 
 through life he was anxious to be, in every respect, 
 what he knew she would have wished him to be. Af- 
 ter he went to Exeter, he passed but little time at 
 home. The year before he entered college, his eyes 
 were so weak, that my father thought it necessary to 
 take his books from him. It was a deprivation he 
 could not bear to submit to ; and he found means to se- 
 crete some old folios in the garret, which he would 
 spend some time each day in reading. This is the 
 only act of disobedience, of which I ever knew him 
 guilty. I perfectly remember the great delight, he 
 used to take in listening to the conversation of men of 
 literature and science, and in works of taste and im- 
 agination. But the progress of his mind, and the de- 
 velopment of his powers, I was too young to ob- 
 serve or take an interest in. — Should this letter con- 
 tain any such information, as you wish, I shall not re- 
 gret the painful exertion, it has cost me to write it." 
 
 At the age of twelve, he was ready for college, but, 
 fearing his extreme youth, his father detained him for 
 some time at Exeter — where he had received his pre- 
 paratory education under the care of Dr. Benjamin 
 Abbot — and he was entered, as a student at Cambridge; 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XVII 
 
 in 1797? nearly a year in advance. It may seem strange 
 to those, who take their ideas of an university from the 
 establishments of England and Germany, that one so 
 young should be fully prepared for admission into the 
 oldest of our seminaries, where the preliminary knowl- 
 edge demanded is greater, than at any other in our 
 country. But it is the genius of all our institutions — 
 arising, perhaps, in a great degree, from the thinness of 
 our population, which creates a premature demand for 
 every species of talents — to bring forward our young 
 men very early into life ; and, though such proficiency, 
 as we find in Mr. Buckminster is, no doubt, rare, it is 
 no uncommon thing to find them closing their profes- 
 sional studies at an age, when Europeans are just en- 
 tering their universities. This fact opens a field for 
 many interesting speculations on the state and pros- 
 pects of society, as well as of letters, among us ; and 
 will, perhaps, hereafter be found to furnish a solution 
 of some of the peculiarities of that national char- 
 acter, which — if our political institutions should pos- 
 sess any permanency — will, we may suppose, be ere 
 long completely formed and developed. 
 
 On the entrance of Mr. Buckminster at college, the 
 same decided designation for peculiar excellence, 
 which had so strongly impressed those, who knew 
 him in his early youth, was at once seen and acknowl- 
 edged. His career at this institution was equally 
 honourable to his moral principles and to his mental 
 powers. Amidst the temptations inseparable from the 
 place, he gave an example of the possible connexion 
 
XViii MEMOIR OF MR. ftUCKMINSTER. 
 
 of the most splendid genius with the most regular and 
 persevering industry, of a generous independence of 
 character Avith a perfect respect for the governours 
 and the laws of college, and of a keen relish for in- 
 nocent enjoyment with a fixed dread of every ap- 
 pearance of vice. It may be worth while to record, 
 that he never incurred any college censure, and was 
 not even fined, till the last term of his senior year, and 
 then only for some trifling negligence. It may be 
 said of him, as has been remarked of a kindred ge- 
 nius, that " he did not need the smart of guilt to make 
 him virtuous, nor the regret of folly to make him 
 wise."* 
 
 In the summer of 1800 he received the honours of 
 the university. There are many, who recollect the 
 oration, which he then delivered on " the literary 
 characters of different nations," and the impression 
 produced by the sight of his small and youthful fig- 
 ure, contrasted with the maturity and extent of his 
 knowledge, the correctness, as well as brilliancy of 
 his imagination, and the propriety and grace of his 
 elocution. 
 
 To the study of theology he was inclined from 
 the period, when he received his earliest religious 
 impressions ; and he devoted himself to it for more 
 than four years after leaving college. His time 
 was spent, partly in the family of his relative, Theo- 
 dore Lyman, Esq. at Waltham and Boston, and 
 partly at Exeter, as an assistant in the academy. 
 
 * President Kirkland's Life of Mr. Ames. 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XIX 
 
 The portion of this time, which was given to the in- 
 struction of youth, he always remembered with plea- 
 sure, as leading him to a review of his early classical 
 studies, and giving him that accuracy in elementary 
 principles, in which our preparatory schools have 
 been, heretofore, chiefly deficient. 
 The number of works in theology, metaphysieks, 
 morals and general literature, which he read during 
 the period, of which we speak, would appear scarce- 
 ly credible to one, who did not know the rapidity, 
 with which he looked through a book, and the al- 
 most intuitive sagacity, with which he seized and 
 retained all that was valuable in its contents. That 
 what he read was thoroughly digested, was apparent 
 from the accuracy — so often observed and admired 
 by his friends — with which he would discriminate 
 the peculiar merits of different writers. 1 find, from 
 some fragments of a journal of his studies, that, 
 where he thought a book of particular importance, 
 he was accustomed to make a copious analysis of its 
 contents. It was, also, his habit to make references, 
 at the end of a volume, to the pages, where any inter- 
 esting passages were found. Particulars like these 
 are, it is true, unimportant in themselves ; but they 
 may, perhaps, gratify, in some degree, that natural 
 and not useless curiosity, which we feel with regard 
 to all the circumstances of a distinguished man's 
 preparation for his future eminence. 
 
 The process of study and of thought, through 
 which he passed in forming his theological opinions, 
 
XX MEMOIR OF MR. BUCK MINSTER. 
 
 cannot be too much praised. It is strange, that a 
 principle so natural, and so constantly observed in 
 all other sciences — that of beginning with what is 
 simple and clear, and gradually proceeding to what 
 is doubtful and dark — should have been so often re- 
 versed in the study of theology. It was not, how- 
 ever, overlooked by Mr. Buckminster. He avoided, 
 as much as possible, all discussion of the controvert- 
 ed doctrines of systematick divinity, till he had given 
 himself a thorough initiation in the evidences of re- 
 ligion, natural and revealed, — examined the nature 
 and degree of the inspiration of the sacred writings, 
 in order to determine what laws of interpretation are 
 to be applied to them, — taken a general survey of 
 the questions connected with the criticism of the 
 Bible, — and sanctified all his investigations by the 
 habitual study of the spirit and maxims of practical 
 religion. Having by these inquiries, together with 
 an accurate knowledge of the original languages, 
 prepared himself for the interpretation of the more 
 difficult and obscure parts of the scriptures, he com- 
 menced the study of them with the aid derived from 
 a comparison of the opinions of the best commenta- 
 tors of different sects. The writers on dogmatick 
 theology he now permitted himself to consult ; and 
 he has often told me, with what eager curiosity, and 
 f yen trembling interest, he read Taylor and Edwards 
 am original sin, and pushed his researches into those 
 Jjigh speculations, where so much caution is neces- 
 sary to prevent the mind from becoming enslaved 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXi 
 
 to a system, and shut forever against the light of 
 truth. 
 
 Having, in this manner, gone over an uncommonly 
 wide and extensive field of preparatory studies, in 
 October, 1804, he yielded to a request to preach to 
 the society in Brattle Street, Boston. I cannot at- 
 tempt to describe the delight and wonder, with which 
 his first sermons were listened to by all classes of 
 hearers. The most refined and the least cultivated 
 equally hung upon his lips. The attention of the 
 thoughtless was fixed. The gaiety of youth was 
 composed to seriousness. The mature, the aged, the 
 most vigorous and enlarged minds were at once 
 charmed, instructed and improved. After preaching 
 for a few weeks, he received an invitation to become 
 the minister of this society, and was ordained Janu- 
 ary 30, 1805. The fatigue and agitation of spirits, 
 w r hich he experienced on this occasion, produced a 
 severe fit of illness, which interrupted his labours 
 till the following March, when he recommenced them 
 with the sermon on the advantages of sickness, which 
 makes part of the present collection. 
 
 The situation, in which he was now placed, intro- 
 duced him to many new and most important duties. 
 The task of a christian teacher can never be a light 
 one to any conscientious man. There are, however, 
 circumstances, in some respects, peculiar to the situ- 
 ation of a clergyman in Boston, which — while they 
 are a source of constant interest and delight to him 
 — serve to make his duties uncommonly great. It is 
 
 t 
 
XXii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 the general habit of the place for the individuals of 
 «ach society to make their minister a part almost of 
 their families, a sharer of their joys and sorrows, 
 one who has always access to them, and is always 
 welcomed with distinguished confidence and affec- 
 tion. There are many obvious advantages arising 
 from this unreserved intimacy. Religion is more 
 easily made to mingle, as it ought, with the common 
 business and pleasures of life, when the idea of its 
 ministers is not associated merely with images of 
 awe and terrour, of gloom and death. Both admoni- 
 tion and consolation come home to the heart with re- 
 doubled effect, when they are heard from the lips of 
 one, who is not only respected from the sanctity of 
 his office, but who is personally beloved as a friend. 
 This intimate connexion with his people — although, 
 to a man of any sensibility, a source of some of the 
 most exquisite gratifications of the human heart — 
 makes a great addition to his toils. It makes a deep 
 inroad on the time, he would give to study ; and al- 
 most compels him to redeem it from the hours, which 
 ought to be given to exercise or repose. By the va- 
 riety and painful interests, also, of the scenes and 
 occupations, to which it calls him, the mind is often 
 agitated and worn down ; while the reflection, which 
 it is impossible always to exclude, of the insufficient 
 ability, with which his duties are performed, and the 
 inadequate returns, he can make for the friendship 
 and confidence, he receives, must often come over 
 and oppress his spirits. 
 
 i 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXUl 
 
 The effect of these labours on the delicate frame 
 of Mr. Buckminster could not fail to be soon visible. 
 A disorder, which had made its appearance some 
 years before, was sensibly increased during the year 
 1805. It was one of the most tremendous maladies, 
 which God permits to afflict the human frame ; and to 
 which it has often been found, that minds of the 
 most exquisite structure are peculiarly exposed. The 
 manner, in which this visitation was endured by Mr. 
 Buckminster, I can never think of, but with increas- 
 ing admiration of the fortitude, and reverence of the 
 piety, which sustained him. Those — who saw his 
 habitual gaiety of disposition, and observed the live- 
 ly interest, which he took in his friends, and all the 
 usual occupations of life, and especially, who wit- 
 nessed all his cheerfulness and activity, returning al- 
 most immediately after the severest of these attacks — 
 were disposed to think, that he could not be sensible 
 of the terrifiek nature of his disorder, or ever look 
 forward with any distinct anticipation to its threaten- 
 ed consequences. It was seldom, that even his nearest 
 friends heard from him any allusion to his calamity : 
 and, perhaps, there was only one of them, to whom all 
 the thoughts of his soul, on this subject, were confid* 
 ed. How little they knew of him, who imagined, he 
 was insensible to any of its appalling consequences, 
 will appear by the following extraet from his private 
 journal, which I can scarcely transcribe without 
 tears. 
 
XXiv MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 October 31, 1805. " Another fit of epilepsy. I 
 pray God, that I may be prepared, not so much for 
 death, as for the loss of health, and, perhaps, of men- 
 tal faculties. The repetition* of these fits must, at 
 length, reduce me to idiocy. Can I resign myself 
 to the loss of memory, and of that knowledge, I may 
 have vainly prided myself upon ? O God ! enable 
 me to bear this thought, and make it familiar to my 
 mind, that by thy grace I may be willing to endure 
 life, as long as Thou pleasest to lengthen it. It is 
 not enough to be willing to leave the world, when 
 God pleases ; we should be willing, even to live use- 
 less in it, if He, in his holy providence, should send 
 such a calamity upon us. I think, I perceive my 
 memory fails me. O God, save me from that hour !" 
 
 It is proper to remark, that this suspicion of the 
 failure of his memory was, I believe, wholly with- 
 out foundation. His fears for the safety of a faculty — 
 which, in him, was always so eminently perfect, that 
 his friends scarcely ever thought of appealing from 
 it on any question of fact — were awakened, probably, 
 by that loss of facility of retention, which every phi- 
 losophick mind trained to the habit of classifying 
 its ideas is accustomed to experience with regard to 
 those insulated facts, which cannot be easily connect- 
 ed with its general knowledge. 
 
 In the spring of 1806, the increase of his disorder 
 induced him to think of a voyage to Europe. His 
 society, with a generous preference of his advantage 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXV 
 
 to their own convenience and pleasure, readily con- 
 sented to his departure; and he sailed for Liverpool 
 early in May. He was received in London at the 
 house of his relative and countryman, Samuel Wil- 
 liams, Esq. who, with his brother, an early friend 
 of Mr. Buckminster, made his residence delightful 
 by every possible attention. In August — having 
 been joined by a friend from Boston, whose office it 
 is to collect this imperfect memorial of his worth — 
 he embarked for the Continent, and landed at Har- 
 lingen, on the Zuyder Zee. He passed rapidly 
 through the chief cities of Holland, ascended the 
 Rhine, and, partly on foot, made the tour of Swit- 
 zerland. At Geneva he wrote, in a letter to a friend, 
 a description of the fall of the mountain of Ross- 
 berg, or Ruff berg, which is, perhaps, one of the most 
 beautiful and interesting of the minor productions of 
 his pen. I subjoin it in a note, as a proof of how he 
 could feel, and how he could describe.* From Swit- 
 zerland he directed his course to Paris, where his stay, 
 which he had intended should be short, w as protracted 
 to five months by the embarrassments to the intercourse 
 with England, produced by the first operations of the 
 Berlin decree. His residence there, however, could 
 not be tedious amidst the literary resources of the 
 French capital, and the inexhaustible treasures of the 
 tine arts, with which the plunder of Europe has en- 
 riched it. Much of his time, also, both here and 
 in London, was employed in collecting a library, for 
 
 • • * Note A. 
 
XX>i MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKM1NSTER. 
 
 which his remarkable knowledge of literary history 
 eminently qualified him ; and, before lie left Europe, 
 he formed and sent home a collection of near three 
 thousand volumes of the choicest writers in theology 
 and general literature. Some of the motives, which 
 induced him to expend so large a part of a small for- 
 tune in the purchase of books ? will be seen in the fol- 
 lowing extract of a letter to his father — accompanied 
 with another very touching reference to the calamity, 
 which still followed him. 
 
 " London, May 5, 1807. 
 " If the malady, with which it has pleased God to 
 afflict me, should not entirely disappear, I hope I shall 
 be able, by his grace, so to discipline my mind, as to 
 prepare it for any consequences of such a disorder : 
 consequences, which I dread to anticipate, but which 
 I think I could bear without guilty complaint. I 
 sometimes fancy, my memory has already suffered ; 
 but, perhaps, it is all fancy. You will, perhaps, say, 
 that it is no very strong proof, that I have any serious 
 apprehensions on this score, that I am continually 
 purchasing and sending out books, and saying to my 
 mind, thou hast goods laid up for many years. True 
 — but, though I may be cut off by the judgment of 
 God from the use of these luxuries, they will be a 
 treasure to those, who may succeed me, like the 
 hoards of a miser, scattered after his death. I consi- 
 der, that, by every book I send out, I do something for 
 my dear country, which the love of money seems to 
 be depressing almost into unlettered barbarism. v 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXVU 
 
 In February he returned to London, passed the 
 following spring and summer in a tour through Eng- 
 land, Scotland and Wales, embarked at Liverpool 
 in August, and reached home in September. Some 
 of the general impressions, which he received from 
 his visit to Europe, maybe collected from a Thanks- 
 giving sermon, which he preached soon after his re- 
 turn, and which is inserted in this volume. His dis- 
 order — though the mild climate of the continent 
 seemed to mitigate it, and even for a while to flatter 
 him with the hope of complete recovery — remained 
 radically the same. His constitution, however, prob- 
 ably gained some additional vigour by his travels, 
 and was thus enabled longer to endure the attacks of 
 his malady. 
 
 Ho returned now to all the duties of his office with 
 redoubled activity. He was welcomed by his society 
 with unabated affection and regard. But no praise 
 ever seduced him to intermit his diligence. His 
 books gave him an inexhaustible source of interest 
 and delight ; and, as he was unavoidably exposed to 
 frequent interruptions during the day, his studies 
 were protracted till midnight with fatal constancy. 
 In the inquiries peculiar to his profession he took in- 
 creasing pleasure ; and he has more than once told me, 
 that he was fast losing his taste for all other studies. 
 In order that this all-absorbing interest in theology 
 should not wholly destroy his relish for elegant let- 
 ters — which he justly considered as a valuable aux- 
 iliary to his ministerial influence — he occasionally 
 
XXviii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMIXSTER. 
 
 lent his aid, as lie had done previously to his voyage, 
 to the Monthly Anthology, and other literary periodi- 
 cal publications of the day. I refer in a note to several 
 pieces in these works, of which he was the author.* 
 His only habitual relaxation was musick, of which, 
 from his youth, he was passionately fond, and in 
 which his taste was, I believe, very exquisite. This, 
 of course, led him to take an interest in the sacred 
 musick of his church ; and, to make this part of wor- 
 ship more perfect, he collected and published, in 
 1808, a number of hymns, as a supplement to those 
 appended by Dr. Colman to Tate and Brady's 
 psalms. The collection was formed on the general 
 principle, that, as singing is an act of worship, in 
 which all christians are to join, it is proper, that those 
 sentiments, which are peculiar to any of the different 
 sects, should be excluded, so that no tender con- 
 science may be prevented from sharing in this part of 
 social devotion. Reasonable, however, and evangel- 
 ical, as is this principle, it did not prevent his little 
 book — -though designed only for his own society, and 
 not regularly published — from being attacked with a 
 great deal of asperity. He was accused, in a contem- 
 porary theological journal, of mutilating the hymns of 
 Watts and others, in order to cover a design of sup- 
 pressing the great doctrines of the gospel by the au- 
 thority of their names. The charge was sufficiently 
 absurd; and I would not, willingly, revive a forgotten 
 controversy. But, as I find a reference to this affair in 
 his private journal, and as the charge affects his per- 
 
 * Hgtc b. 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXix 
 
 sonal integrity and may hereafter meet the eye of 
 those, who have not the means of knowing how un- 
 founded it was, I feel obliged to insert the following 
 extract. The observations, which introduce it, are 
 very striking illustrations of his humility, and his 
 habitual and elevated piety. 
 
 "Januarys, 1809. A new year has begun. In 
 looking back upon the events of my life the last year, 
 I see little or no improvement. Sure I am, that my 
 stock of theological knowledge has not been increas- 
 ed, though I have some reason to hope, that my ser- 
 mons, for the last year, have not been inferiour to any 
 preceding. In the trials, to which God has exposed 
 me, I endeavour to discern the design of his provi- 
 dence. The disorder, to which I am yet subjected, 
 ought to be to me a perpetual lesson of humility. I 
 have sometimes thought, that, if our powers and state 
 of mind, in another world, depend at all upon the 
 condition of the understanding, when we leave this, 
 I should prefer to die, before my mind shall be irre- 
 coverably debilitated by this disorder. May this 
 consideration— with others — keep me in a state of 
 perpetual willingness and readiness to depart. My 
 greatest trial this year was, the attack upon my se- 
 lection of hymns for the use of Brattle Street church. 
 I cannot but think it insidious and impertinent. If I 
 have indulged any improper feelings towards the sup- 
 posed author, I pray (rod to forgive me $ at least, I 
 trust, they do not appear in my reply. As to the 
 principal and most important charge in the review, 
 
XXX 
 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BCJCKMINSTER. 
 
 that of unsignificd alterations, I can here put down-, 
 what it was not necessary to tell the publicly that I 
 
 DID NOT KNOW OF THEM, TILL THEY WERE POINTED 
 
 out by the reviewer. I took the hymns, without 
 alteration, from Dr. Kippis's collection." 
 
 In the beginning of 1809 Mr. Buckminster pub- 
 lished a sermon on the death of Governour Sullivan, 
 the first production of his pen, to which he gave his 
 name. In the course of the year he wrote the circu- 
 lar address of the Massachusetts Bible Society, a;i 
 institution, in w r hich he took a very lively interest, and 
 of which he was corresponding secretary. He also 
 published an address " on the dangers and duties of 
 men of letters," pronounced before the society of 
 
 B. K. at Harvard College — an enchanting speci- 
 men of the variety and elegance of his literature, and 
 of his power and disposition to make it auxiliary to 
 the cause of truth and virtue. These, together with 
 a sermon on the death of Rev. William Emerson, 
 are the only writings, which he published, except the 
 fugitive pieces in the literary journals, to which I 
 have referred. 
 
 In 1808, he engaged, in conjunction with his friend, 
 Mr. William Wells, and under the patronage of the 
 university at Cambridge, in the publication of Gries- 
 ")aclrs Greek Testament, containing a selection of 
 i lie most important various readings. This work 
 passed under the most careful revision, in the course 
 of which several errours in the original w r ere discov- 
 ered and corrected. I believe, that this Amen- 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMIXSTER. XXXI 
 
 can edition may be safely said not to yield the palm 
 of accuracy to any, which has been published in Eu- 
 rope. Mr. Buckminster wrote several pieces, in 
 which the general merits of Griesbach were largely 
 and ably discussed, the peculiarities of the minor 
 edition were pointed out, and the fidelity and accura- 
 cy of this most candid and learned critick w ere vin- 
 dicated and explained.* Proposals were, also, issued ■ 
 for a supplementary volume to Griesbach, to contain 
 an English translation of the Prolegomena to his 
 large critical edition, the authorities for his variations 
 from the received text, aiid some dissertations, origi- 
 nal and selected, on subjects connected with the crit- 
 icism of the Bible. Some progress was made in pre- 
 paring this work by Mr. Buckminster and one of his 
 friends ; but, as he did not give his name to the pro- 
 posals, they did not receive sufficient encouragement 
 to induce him to persevere. In 1810 he formed the 
 plan of publishing all the best modern versions of the 
 prophetical books of the Old Testament. He pro- 
 posed to use the version of Bishop Lowth for Isaiah, 
 with the various renderings of Dodson and Stock in 
 the margin, where they differ materially from Lowth. 
 The major prophets were to be completed by Blaney's 
 version of Jeremiah and Lamentations, New r come 7 s 
 of Ezekiel, and Wintle's of Daniel, with Blaney's 
 of the LXX weeks. Newcomers translation of the 
 minor prophets was to have followed, with the most 
 important variations from Horsley's Hosea. Ben- 
 
 * Note G. 
 
XXXli MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTEIl. 
 
 join's Jonah, and Blancy's Zechariah. After this 
 he hoped to have been able to give an additional 
 volume, containing the most important notes and pre- 
 liminary dissertations to the several books. The 
 whole design, however, I am almost ashamed to say, 
 failed for want of a sufficient taste for these studies 
 among our countrymen. 
 
 The remaining years of the short life of Mr. Buck- 
 minster were marked by few incidents. The peace- 
 ful duties of a clergyman admit of but little variety, 
 and possess no general interest. He was an active 
 member of almost all our literary and charitable so- 
 cieties. He took the liveliest interest in every plan 
 for the improvement of the intellectual, moral and re- 
 ligious character of the community ; and scarcely one 
 was attempted, in which his advice and cooperation 
 were not sought and afforded. In 1811 he received 
 a proof of the estimation, in which his knowledge 
 in his favourite walk of study was held, by his ap- 
 pointment, as the first lecturer on biblical criticism at 
 Cambridge, on the foundation established by the late 
 Hon. Samuel Dexter. This appointment was uni- 
 versally thought to be an honour most justly due to 
 his preeminent attainments in this science. All his 
 studies had contributed to fit him for this office ; but, 
 to increase his qualifications, he immediately began 
 the study of the German language, and engaged in 
 a minute review of his former reading. He laid out 
 a very extensive plan for his lectures — of which, 
 however, some fragments only were found among hi* 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXxiii 
 
 papers — and expected to have been prepared to de- 
 liver them early in 1813. 
 
 But the all-wise Disposer had otherwise determin- 
 ed. In the midst of all his usefulness and activity, 
 when he was never more interesting to his friends, 
 and their hopes from him were never more highly 
 raised, they were all at once extinguished. A sud- 
 den and violent access of his old disorder instantly 
 made a total and irrecoverable wreck of his intellect, 
 and, after lingering for a few days — during Which 
 he had not even a momentary interval of reason — he 
 sunk under its force, Tuesday, June 9, 1812, having 
 just completed his twenty eighth year. 
 
 It remains, that I should now attempt to embody 
 some of my recollections of his person and manners, 
 his intellectual habits, acquisitions and powers, his 
 religious character and views, and his ministerial en- 
 dowments. 
 
 In his person, Mr. Buckminster scarcely reached 
 the middle size. His limbs were well proportioned 
 and regular. His head was formed after the finest 
 models of the antique ; and his features presented an 
 almost faultless combination of dignity, sweetness 
 and intelligence. The portrait prefixed to this volume, 
 engraved by Edwin from one of the happiest efforts 
 of the pencil of Steuart, will give a general idea of 
 his face ; though some of the most interesting traits, 
 which are yet remembered with fond regret by his 
 friends, it is, perhaps, beyond the reach of art to 
 preserve. 
 
 s 
 
xxxiv 
 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMIXSTER. 
 
 There were very few peculiarities in the manners 
 of Mr. Buckminster, to distinguish him from the gene- 
 rality of men of refined minds and familiar inter- 
 course with the best society. He was affable and 
 unconstrained, and very accessible to the claims of 
 his friends and the curiosity of strangers. There 
 was a remarkable simplicity and directness, if I may 
 so speak, an absence of all disguise in his mode of 
 uttering his thoughts ; and it might sometimes seem, 
 that his first impressions were made known with a 
 freedom, which more prudence or more selfishness 
 w ould have taught him to repress. He had that un- 
 failing mark of a good disposition, an easiness to be 
 pleased. His conversation, in large companies, was 
 not remarkably copious, but always very correct and 
 elegant. In the private society of his friends he de- 
 lighted in the exchange of minds- — particularly on sub- 
 jects connected with education, classical learning, biog- 
 raphy, the theory and laws of morals, the nature and 
 influence of religion, the prospects of mankind, &e. — - 
 and was very communicative of his great variety of 
 knowledge on all these subjects. Though he was emi- 
 nently and habitually cheerful, there were occasional 
 inequalities in his manner ; and there were moments, 
 when there appeared in him a sort of reserve, and 
 want of interest in those about him, which made his 
 character misunderstood by several, who, if they had 
 known him more, would have found him formed to 
 engage all their esteem and love. These occasional 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXXV 
 
 departures from his habitual manners were, I am 
 confident, to be traced to his bodily indisposition. 
 Many of his friends, who have entered his room, when 
 he was suffering under this effect of his disease, well 
 remember, that, after a few moments of conversation, 
 he would shake off the oppression of his languor, his 
 wonted smile would play over his features, that pe- 
 culiar animation, which usually lighted up his coun- 
 tenance, would again break out, and he would enter 
 into any subject proposed, with the warmest and 
 liveliest interest. 
 
 Mr. Buekminster possessed all the characteristick 
 features of a mind of the highest order. It was not 
 marked by any of those eccentricities, which some- 
 times distinguish and disgrace men of brilliant genius, 
 and which, I suppose, are usually to be ascribed, ei- 
 ther to the deficiency, or the undue predominance of 
 some one of the mental powers. His mind was a per- 
 fectly well balanced one. There was a soberness, a 
 rationality, a practicableness in all his views, which 
 proved, that judgment — in a degree very rarely found 
 united with such splendid gifts of fancy — presided 
 over his other faculties and regulated their use. The 
 most shining attribute of his mind was, undoubtedly, 
 philosophick imagination. It was this, which gave him 
 such unrivalled powers of delineation and illustra- 
 tion, and enabled him to impart novelty and lustre to 
 every thing he touched. His conception of any sub- 
 ject, which engaged his mind, was strong and orig- 
 inal ; and he could hold it in view, till it spread be- 
 
XXXVI MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 fore him in all its parts, and unfolded all its connex- 
 ions. When he was preparing to communicate his 
 thoughts, a thousand associated ideas sprang up and 
 gathered round the subject ; and imagination stood 
 ready to furnish him with innumerable delightful re- 
 semblances, which would often carry with them the 
 force of arguments from analogy, as well as shed 
 light and beauty on his conceptions. Yet he did not 
 abuse this exuberant faculty by too prodigal a display 
 of it. The sermons of this volume — while they will 
 prove, that I have not said too much of the richness 
 and fertility of this power — will show, also, the taste 
 and judgment; with which he always controlled its ex- 
 ercise. 
 
 In his intellectual habits I do not remember to have 
 remarked any singularity. He was a real student. 
 He had that first requisite of all true and durable 
 greatness, the habit of patient and long continued at- 
 tention. He possessed the genuine <pi\™*n«,, the love 
 of labour for itself. He could delight in the dryest 
 and most minute researches, as well as in the lofty and 
 ethereal visions of fancy. Like the majority of men 
 of learning, he loved to read more than to think, and 
 to think more than to write. He composed with rapid- 
 ity, but with intellectual toil ; and his best efforts were 
 not made without a high degree of mental excitement. 
 
 His acquisitions w r ere, for his years, preeminently 
 great. Besides the studies peculiar to theology, his 
 reading was very extensive in metaphysicks, morals, 
 biography, and particularly literary history ; and 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. EUCKMINSTER. XXXVil 
 
 whatever he had onee read, his memory made forever 
 his own. If I were required to state, in one word, in 
 what branch of knowledge his excellence was most 
 conspicuous, I should say it was, philology — under- 
 standing by this word, the knowledge of language 
 as an instrument of thought, in all its propriety and 
 force, as well as all its shades and varieties of 
 meaning, in its general theory, as well as in its 
 modifications in different countries, and finally in all 
 its grace and beauty, as it is fitted to invest truth in 
 its richest and most attractive dress. 
 
 But it was the light, which philology pours on 
 the records of our faith and hope, which gave it its 
 chief value to the mind of Mr. Buckminster. It was 
 the study of the scriptures in their original languages, 
 which most powerfully seized and occupied his at- 
 tention, and engaged him in a course of inquiries, 
 which he never thought himself at liberty long to de- 
 sert. His attainments in this department of knowl- 
 edge would not have been thought lightly of, w hen 
 compared with those of European criticks. He was 
 always of opinion, that the principles of Christianity, 
 in their original purity and simplicity, were to be pre- 
 served, where they are already held, and recalled, 
 where they are lost or obscured, only by the study 
 of the Bible, according to the maxims of a sound, and 
 cautious, and enlightened criticism. One of his 
 strongest passions was, the desire to diffuse a love of 
 biblical studies ; and the impulse among us, which has 
 been lately given to inquiries on these subjects, is, in 
 
XXXViii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTEIt. 
 
 no slight degree, to be attributed to liis exertions and 
 example. 
 
 It cannot but be interesting to know, in what views 
 of religion the inquiries of a mind so active, so candid, 
 so enlightened, and so pious as that of Mr. Buckmin- 
 ster resulted. It will be apparent from the following 
 sermons, that the foundation of all his opinions was 
 laid in the belief, that the great design of the gospel 
 is, to produce a moral influence on the human charac- 
 ter — to raise it from the degradation and ruin of sin, 
 and fit it for the pure and intellectual happiness of 
 heaven. From this simple principle — so obvious, so 
 undeniable, and yet so often forgotten — all his views 
 of Christianity took their character. It necessarily 
 follows from it, that all the doctrines and views of the 
 gospel — as far, at least, as they regard man — are to 
 be considered in the light of motives and means ; of 
 no intrinsick value, except as they are auxiliary to this 
 great end. Christian faith, therefore, derives none 
 of its efficacy from the number merely, much less the 
 mysticism and obscurity of the articles we believe. 
 Its genuineness and its worth are to be determined by 
 the energy and permanence of our practical persua- 
 sion of those truths, which supply the strongest and 
 most affecting motives and encouragements to repent* 
 ance and a holy life. These, in the view of Mr. 
 Buckminster, were, the paternal character of God — 
 his constant presence and overruling Providence — the 
 connexion of his favour always and only with moral 
 goodness — the pardon of sin to the penitent through 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. XXXix 
 
 Jesus Christ, his mission to enlighten and redeem 
 mankind — the confirmation of our immortality hy his 
 resurrection from the dead — the impartation of all 
 needed spiritual aids to assist our sincere exertions — 
 the just and impartial retributions of eternity to all 
 the human race, according to their deeds. These, 
 surely, are views, which, every christian will acknowl- 
 edge, enter largely into the grounds and support of 
 his faith, and hope, and charity. They are, beyond 
 all question, those, on which the writers on vital re- 
 ligion — who are most universally acknowledged to 
 have caught the true spirit of the gospel— chiefly in- 
 sist. And who will say, that any man, whose under- 
 standing acknowledges, and whose heart is imbued 
 with these truths, will want any essential characteris- 
 tick of a true disciple of his Saviour ? 
 
 It was the great object of the ministerial labours of 
 Mr. Buckminister to produce, under the influence of 
 these views, the practical religion of the heart and 
 life, as it is explained in the teaching and illustrated 
 in the example of our Saviour. How near this pur- 
 pose was to his heart, is very strikingly displayed in 
 the closing passage of his sermon on the mutual in- 
 fluence of knowledge, piety and charity. " It is 
 the constant object of my wishes and prayers, and 
 may it be the effect of my preaching, under the bles- 
 sing of God, to contribute to the formation of that no- 
 blest of characters, the christian, whose love, as the 
 apostle describes it, abounds more and more in 
 knowledge and in all judgment, who approves the 
 
\\ MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 things, which are excellent, and who remains sincere 
 and without offence, till the day of Christ, being filled 
 with tue fruits of righteousness, which are by Jesus 
 Christ, unto the glory and praise of God." These 
 are the words, with which he closed his earthly la- 
 bours in the desk of instruction.* His people bear 
 him witness now — and, I trust, will hereafter bear 
 him w itness before the throne of God — that all his 
 preaching justified this declaration, and all his life 
 harmonized with this prayer. 
 
 It is impossible, that a man, who entertained such 
 Tiews of the nature of religion, should be exclusive 
 or intolerant. Mr. Buckminster was eminently char- 
 itable towards those, w ho differed from him on specu^ 
 lative points. He felt, with all wide observers of hu- 
 man character, that great errours of the understand- 
 ing, on almost every subject, are consistent with up- 
 rightness of heart. How, indeed, can any one fail to 
 acknowledge, that this may be so in religion, who 
 remembers, that even the disciples of our Lord were 
 confessedly full of prejudice and misapprehension 
 before their Master's death ? Mr. Buckminster could 
 extend his affection towards good men of every sect 
 and communion. He could acknowledge in a Fene- 
 lon, with all his zeal for transubstantiation and Papal 
 infallibility, one of the purest and most lovely ex- 
 emplifications of the christian character, which the 
 
 * This sermon was delivered before the society for promoting christian 
 f* knowledge, piety and charity," and afterwards altered and adapted to his 
 own people, and preached on the Lord's day hefore he was seized with his last 
 
 illness. 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. xli 
 
 world has seen, since the days of St. John. He did 
 not, however, conceive, that any part of his or any 
 other man's goodness consisted in, or was necessa- 
 rily connected with his errours. He was, therefore, 
 a steady opposer of what he believed to be the cor- 
 ruptions of Christianity — not only because the gospel 
 is rendered incredible by them to so many intelli- 
 gent men — but because they lessen, in the minds of 
 many good persons, that joy and peace in believing, 
 Which the religion of Christ is fitted and intended to 
 impart. 
 
 Of what Mr. Euckminster was, and of what he 
 did, these sermons are now to be the only permanent 
 memorial. If the effect, which some of them produce, 
 w r hen read, might be anticipated for their effect, when 
 delivered, it will not often be surpassed. The re- 
 mark of Quinctilian, however, on the eloquence of 
 Hortensius, is, in some degree, true of the composi- 
 tions of every fine speaker. There is a certain 
 charm thrown over his thoughts by his manner, while 
 speaking, which, when we read them, we seek for in 
 vain.* But, though something of that interest will, 
 no doubt, be lost, which particular passages derived 
 from the liquid voice, the eloquent eye, the illuminat- 
 ed countenance, the indescribable animation, the va- 
 riety and frequent pathos of the manner of Mr. Buck- 
 minster, there are still several sermons in this col- 
 lection, which will gain by being read more than 
 
 * Apparet placuisse aliquid eo dicente, quod legentes non invenimus,, 
 Lib. IX. c. 3. 
 
Xlii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 they will lose ; and merits will be discovered, which 
 were overlooked, or not distinctly seen, amidst the 
 general splendour of his eloquence. 
 
 They will, perhaps, be considered as, upon the 
 whole, the most successful attempt yet made to unite 
 the peculiar excellencies of the English and French 
 pulpits. The best English sermons are, no doubt, 
 very powerful performances. There are to be found 
 in them some of the ablest defences of Christianity, 
 the most just and rational statements of its peculiar 
 doctrines, the most complete delineation of the virtues 
 and vices, the most learned and judicious illustra- 
 tions of the scriptures, the best and weightiest max- 
 ims of habitual conduct, and the deepest and most in- 
 timate views of the nature and spirit of devotion* 
 They have almost every merit as dissertations and 
 essays ; but, considered as addresses intended for an 
 actual audience, they certainly have many important 
 defects. They often fail of making any other, than 
 a very intellectual hearer, feel his own personal inter- 
 est in the truths, they inculcate. They are wanting in 
 directness and closeness of application. They are 
 studiously unimpassioned, to a degree, which makes 
 them often appear cold and unimpressive. Some ex- 
 ceptions are to be made for the sermons of Taylor 
 and Barrow, and several writers of later years ; but 
 the general character of English pulpit eloquence, 
 since the Restoration, has been such as we describe. 
 It has been produced, without doubt, in a great de- 
 gree, by a desire of avoiding those extravagancies, 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTERo xliii 
 
 which, in the times of the Commonwealth, brought 
 religion into disgraee, and laid the foundation of the 
 unbelief and libertinism of the age of Charles II. 
 
 It would be opposing the decision of all Europe, 
 to deny the great excellencies of the French sermons. 
 They are, perhaps, the most finished compositions of 
 modern times. They abound in passages of the most 
 splendid description, and, sometimes, of the truest 
 pathos. But their eloquence is usually too artificial, 
 too much designed for mere stage effect. An exces- 
 sive ambition of the higher attributes of eloquence 
 leads them to constant overstatements of the doc- 
 trines and duties of the gospel. They have a want 
 of truth and nature in their representations of relig- 
 ion and of human life — a fault, which no other ex- 
 cellencies can redeem. The origin of almost all the 
 corruptions of Christianity may be referred to this 
 tendency in men to overcharge their statements of re- 
 ligion, in order to make them dazzling and impres- 
 sive. If we attend to the arguments, which are 
 brought by the church of Rome to defend what we 
 esteem its errours, we find them chiefly drawn from a 
 literal interpretation of the rhetorical exaggerations 
 contained in the homilies of the early fathers. The 
 fact, that false eloquence has thus been the great cor- 
 rupter of Christianity, will give a lesson of caution to 
 every rational christian in the employment of that 
 which is real ; and will lead, perhaps, to the general 
 conclusion, that the higher forms of it cannot be often 
 safely attempted in the pulpit. Although, therefore, 
 
Xliv MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER* 
 
 no one, who is not wholly insensible to what is beau- 
 tiful and sublime, can read the best French sermons 
 without perpetual admiration, yet, when they are 
 considered, not as a mere feast of taste, but as an 
 instrument for the improvement of the hearts and 
 minds of men in religion, they must be often viewed 
 with the most serious disapprobation. If we would 
 admire them without reserve, we must regard them 
 merely as beautiful poetry ; and read Bossuet and 
 Corneille, Massillon and Jlacine too often with very 
 similar emotions. 
 
 That there is nothing necessarily irreconcilable in 
 w hat is really excellent in both these rival schools, 
 the following sermons will, I persuade myself, fur- 
 nish a proof. They seem to be the union of Truth, and 
 Keason, and Eloquence. Without saying, they are 
 faultless, every one will perceive in them a strength 
 and originality of conception, a power of delineation, 
 a beauty, novelty, and richness of illustration, which 
 proclaim a powerful and peculiar mind. When, 
 also, we consider the seriousness, the rationality, the 
 earnestness, the warm glow of devotion, they every 
 where exhibit, the apostolick freedom and intrepidity, 
 with which sin and errour, however popular and fash- 
 ionable, are denounced in them — and when, in ad- 
 dition to all this, we recollect, that they are sermons, 
 not prepared for the press by himself, but selected by 
 Ids friends from among several hundreds, all written 
 between his twentieth and twenty-eighth year — they 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. Xlv 
 
 will be regarded as among the most rare and admir- 
 able efforts, which the pulpit has called forth. 
 
 I have not attempted a formal description of the 
 qualities of Mr. Buckminster's heart. A life of such 
 uniform purity and rectitude, of such devotedness to 
 God, of such disinterested zeal for the good of man- 
 kind, is the surest pledge of its soundness and its 
 sensibility. I might speak of his perfect sincerity, 
 his simplicity, his love of truth, his candour of dis- 
 position. I might remark, how little the unbounded 
 admiration, he received, impaired any of the essen- 
 tial features of his character. I might attempt — but 
 I am sure it would be in vain — to describe the mag- 
 ick influence, by which he drew around him a circle 
 of most devoted friends, by whom his memory is 
 embalmed in the fondest recollections and regrets. 
 There are many, who feel with me, that his death was 
 the rupture of some of the strongest ties, which the 
 human heart can know. Even now, when time has 
 interposed to subdue all the more powerful emotions 
 of grief, there are those, who delight to recall the 
 hours, we have passed with him, and to dwell on 
 those traits, which we loved, while living, and which 
 death cannot efface from our memories. While w r e 
 think, how important to the interests of truth and 
 virtue were the light of his knowledge and the 
 weight of his influence, how many plans of improve- 
 ment were connected with his exertions and encour- 
 agement — when we remember, that a mind so rich, 
 so active, so original; so elevated, is no more to im- 
 
xlvi 
 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 part its conceptions to other minds, that the voice, 
 which has warmed so many hearts, and guided so 
 many steps to immortality, is silent as the grave, and 
 is no more to be heard in the church of God, or the 
 aircle of friendship, we are oppressed by the magni- 
 tude of the loss, and are ready to number it among 
 the darkest of the divine dispensations. Yet it is or- 
 dered by better wisdom than our's ; and we cannot 
 but discern many proofs of mercy in the time of his 
 departure. His wish was granted not to survive his 
 usefulness. He disappeared in all the brightness of 
 his honours, without any twilight coming over his 
 fame. We are spared the dreadful spectacle of be- 
 holding such a mind in ruins. God can raise up oth- 
 er instruments to effect his benevolent purposes—* 
 Farewell then ! We must say of thee, felix non vitas 
 tantum claritate, sed etiam opportunitate mortis.* 
 May the example of a life like thine, devoted to 
 truth, to virtue, and the best interest of mankind, 
 animate us to follow thy career of piety and benevo- 
 lence, that, by the grace of God, we may join thee it* 
 another world, where friendship will be uninterrupt- 
 ed, and virtue eternal. 
 
 * Tac. Agrie. 
 
MEMOIR OE MR. BUCKMINSTER. xlvti 
 
 NOTES* 
 
 NOTE A. PAGE xxv. 
 TO ARTHUR M. WALTER, ESQ. 
 
 Geneva, Sept 26th, 1806. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 WE have at length finished the tour of Switzer- 
 land, and add two more to the ten thousands, who 
 have seen and admired before us. Mr. ******** 
 has been my companion, ever since we reluctantly 
 parted with ******* at Rotterdam (13th of Aug.) 5 
 and as he has a taste for the picturesque, and I have 
 pretty good eyes, we have seen and enjoyed as much, 
 as other galloping travellers. You, I know, are rath- 
 er curious in geography ; and if you are at leisure to 
 pore over a large map of Switzerland, you will have 
 it in your power to trace your friend's route through 
 this interesting country. After a satisfactory jour- 
 ney up the Rhine, from Rotterdam through Utrecht^ 
 Nimeguen, Cleves, Cologne, Coblentz, Mayence, 
 Worms, Strasburg, and Colmar, we entered Swit- 
 zerland at Rasle the 5th of September. For th© 
 sake of seeing the famous chute du Rhin we went 
 fifty miles out of our way as far as Scbaffhausen, 
 passing through a part of the Brisgau, once belong 
 
Xlvili MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 ing to the humbled house of Austria, but now given 
 to the Prince of Baden. From Schatfhausen we 
 travelled to Zurich, in my estimation the most eligi- 
 ble spot in Switzerland ; thence we crossed mount 
 Albis on our way to Lucerne, by a road almost too 
 difficult for carriages. From Lucerne we sent our 
 voiture empty to Berne, while we prepared for our 
 excursion into the mountains. We began by cross- 
 ing the lake of Lucerne to Hussnacht, thence over a 
 strip of land to Imisee on the lake of Zug ; thence 
 to Art at its southern extremity, and thence along the 
 small lake of Lowertz to Bolinner, where we again 
 embarked for Altorf. In this day's tour we were in 
 three of the small cantons, Zug, Schweitz and Uri. 
 At Altorf properly commenced our passage into the 
 mountains, along the road which leads over the St. 
 Gothard into Italy. The path lies near the banks of 
 the Reuss, which it frequently crosses, especially by 
 the famous Pont du Diable. This road into Italy 
 is passable only by mules and pedestrians, to which 
 latter class we had the honour for three days to be- 
 long. We travelled on foot as far as Hopital, a small 
 village in the valley of Urseren, at the foot of St. 
 Gothard. Here we took mules to carry us over the 
 difficult passes of the Furea and the Grimsel, two of 
 the vast chain of Alps which laid between us and 
 Berne. The 14th September we crossed the Furea, 
 being obliged to descend from our mules, and wade 
 through snow above our knees, because the custom- 
 ary path was entirely concealed. We descended 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. xllX 
 
 then to the source of the Rhone, and to the village of 
 Oberyestelen in the Haut Valais, from which point 
 we began to ascend the Grimsel. If you have a good 
 map, you will see that we here made a very devious 
 track, because the shortest route, which leads over 
 the Mayenwund, was rendered impassable by the 
 snow. At five o'clock we reached the summit of the 
 Grimsel, seven thousand feet above the sea, and the 
 highest point of our peregrinations ; we slept this 
 night in what is called the Hospice of the Grimsel. 
 The next day we descended to Meyringen and left 
 our mules, thence across the lakes to Brienz and 
 Thun to Thun, where we took a carriage for Berne. 
 At this capital we found our empty voiture, and our 
 trunks safe, and sat off the next day for Lausanne. 
 We passed through Morat, Avenches, Payerne and 
 Moudon, all Roman cities, and full of antiquities, and 
 arrived the 19th at Lausanne, which was totally un- 
 interesting to us, except as the favourite residence of 
 Gibbon. The next day we travelled over one of the 
 most superb chaussees in the world to Geneva. 
 Nothing remained now but to visit Chamouni and the 
 glaciers of Mont Blanc, which, by the blessing of 
 heaven, we have safely accomplished in four days, 
 and are ready to set off for Paris to-morrow morning. 
 From this sketch of our wanderings, you will see 
 that we have made a pretty complete tour through 
 Switzerland, by travelling less, probably, than four 
 hundred miles. 
 
1 
 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 Excuse the meagre aspect of this itinerary. You 
 know it would be absurd to attempt to give in a let- 
 ter a proper journal of one's travels ; and to pretend 
 to describe any spot particularly interesting, would 
 be only to repeat what you may easily find in books. 
 All I mean by this sketch is, to let you know, where 
 your friend has been ; perhaps too it may refresh for 
 a little while your geographical recollection. 
 
 There is an event, however, which happened just 
 before our arrival in Switzerland, of which no parti- 
 cular account may have yet reached America, and 
 which I think cannot be uninteresting, especially to 
 those of our friends who have visited this charming 
 country. Indeed it is too disastrous to be related or 
 read with indifference. 
 
 If you have a large map of Switzerland, I beg of 
 you to look for a spot in the canton of Schweitz, sit- 
 uated between the lakes of Zug and Lowertz on two 
 sides, and the mountains of Rigi and Rossberg on 
 the others. Here, but three weeks ago, was one of 
 the most delightfully fertile vallies of all Switzer- 
 land ; green, and luxuriant, adorned with several lit- 
 tle villages, full of secure and happy farmers. Now 
 three of these villages are forever effaced from the 
 earth, and a broad waste of ruins, burying alive more 
 than fourteen hundred peasants, overspreads the val- 
 ley of Lowertz. 
 
 About five o'clock in the evening of the 3d of Sep- 
 tember; a large projection of the mountain of Ross- 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. U 
 
 berg, on the north east, gave way, and precipitated 
 itself into this valley ; and in less than four minutes 
 completely overwhelmed the three villages of Grol- 
 dau, Rusingen, and Rathleu, with a part of Lowertz 
 and Oberart. The torrent of earth and stones was 
 far more rapid than that of lava, and its effects as re- 
 sistless and as terrible. The mountain in its descent 
 carried trees, rocks, houses, every thing before it. 
 The mass spread in every direction, so as to bury 
 completely a space of charming country, more than 
 three miles square. The force of the earth must 
 have been prodigious, since it not only spread over 
 the hollow of the valley, but even ascended far up 
 the opposite side of the Rigi. The quantity of earth, 
 too, is enormous, since it has left a considerable hill 
 in what was before the centre of the vale. A portion 
 of the falling mass rolled into the lake of Lowertz, 
 and it is calculated that a fifth part is filled up. On 
 a minute map you will see two little islands marked 
 in this lake, which have been admired for their pic- 
 turesqueness. One of them is famous for the resi- 
 dence of two hermits, and the other for the remains 
 of an ancient chateau, once belonging to the house of 
 Hapsburg. So large a body of water was raised and 
 pushed forward by the falling of such a mass into the 
 lake, that the two islands, and the whole village of 
 Seven, at the southern extremity, were, for a time, 
 completely submerged by the passing of the swell. 
 A large house in this village was lifted off its foun- 
 dations and carried half a mile beyond its place. 
 
lii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 The hermits were absent on a pilgrimage to the ab- 
 bey of Einsideln. 
 
 The disastrous consequences of this event extend 
 further than the loss of such a number of inhabitants 
 in a canton of little population. A fertile plain is at 
 once converted into a barren tract of rocks and cal- 
 careous earth, and the former marks and boundaries 
 of property obliterated. The main road from Art to 
 Schweitz is completely filled up, so that another must 
 be opened with great labour over the Rigi. The 
 former channel of a large stream is choked up, and 
 its course altered ; and as the outlets and passage of 
 large bodies of water must be affected by the filling 
 up of such a portion of the lake, the neighbouring 
 villages are still trembling with apprehension of some 
 remote consequences, against which they know not 
 how to provide. Several hundred men have been 
 employed in opening passages for the stagnant wa- 
 ters, in forming a new road for foot passengers along 
 the lligi, and in exploring the ruins. The different 
 cantons have contributed to the relief of the suffering 
 canton of Schweitz, and every head is at work to 
 contrive means to prevent further disasters. 
 
 The number of inhabitants buried alive under the 
 ruins of this mountain is scarcely less than fifteen 
 hundred. Some even estimate it as high as two 
 thousand. Of these, a woman and two children have 
 been found alive, after having been several days un- 
 der ground. They affirm that while they were thus 
 entombed, they heard the cries of poor creatures who 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMTNSTER. liii 
 
 were perishing around them, for want of that succour 
 which they were so happy as to receive. Indeed, it 
 is the opinion of many well informed people, that a 
 large numher might still be recovered ; and a writer 
 in the Publiciste goes so far as to blame the inactivi- 
 ty of the neighbouring inhabitants ; and quotes many 
 well-attested facts to prove, that persons have lived a 
 long time, buried under snow and earth. This at 
 least is probable in the present case, that many 
 houses, exposed to a lighter weight than others, may 
 have been merely a little crushed, while the lower 
 story, which, in this part of Switzerland, is frequent- 
 ly of stone, may have remained firm, and thus not a 
 few of the inhabitants escaped unhurt. The con- 
 sternation, into which the neighbouring towns of Art 
 and Schweitz were thrown, appears indeed to have 
 left them incapable of contriving and executing those 
 labours, which an enlightened compassion would dic- 
 tate. 
 
 The mountain of Hossberg, as well as the Rigi, 
 and other mountains in its vicinity, is composed of 
 a kind of brittle calcareous earth, and pudding stone 
 or aggregated rocks. Such a prodigious mass as that 
 which fell, would easily crumble by its own weight, 
 and spread over a wide surface. The bed of the 
 mountain, from which the desolation came, is a plane 
 inclined from north to south. Its appearance, as it is 
 now laid bare, would lead one to suppose that the 
 mass, when first moved from its base, slid for some 
 distance before it precipitated itself into the valley. 
 
liv MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 The height of the Spitsberg — the name of the pro- 
 jection which fell — above the lake and valley of 
 Lowertz, was little less than two thousand feet. The 
 composition of the chain of the Rigi, of which the 
 Rossberg makes a part, has always been an obstacle 
 in the way of those system makers, who have built 
 their hypotheses upon the structure of the Alps. It 
 has nothing granitick in its whole mass, and though 
 nearly six thousand feet above the sea, is green and 
 even fertile to its summit. It is composed of nothing 
 but earth and stone, combined in rude masses. It is 
 also remarkable that the strata of which it is compos- 
 ed, are distinctly inclined from the north toward the 
 south, a character which is common to all rocks of 
 this kind through the whole range of Alps, as well 
 as to the greater part of calcareous., schistous, and 
 pyritick rocks, and also to the whole chain of the 
 Jura. 
 
 It was about a week after the fall of the mountain, 
 that our route through Switzerland led us to visit 
 this scene of desolation ; and never can I forget the 
 succession of melancholy views, which presented 
 themselves to our curiosity. In our way to it, we 
 landed at Art, a town situated at the southern ex- 
 tremity of the lake of Zug ; and we skirted along the 
 western boundary of the ruins, by the side of Mount 
 Rigi, towards the lake of Lowertz. From various 
 points on our passage, we had complete views of 
 such a scene of destruction, as no words can ade- 
 quately describe* Picture to yourself a rude and 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER* lv 
 
 mingled mass of earth and stones, bristled with the 
 shattered parts of wooden cottages, and with thou- 
 sands of heavy trees, torn up by the roots, and pro- 
 jecting in every direction. In one part you might 
 see a range of peasants' huts, which the torrent of 
 earth had reached with just force enough to over- 
 throw and tear in pieces, but without bringing soil 
 enough to cover them. In another were mills broken in 
 pieces by huge rocks, transported from the top of the 
 mountains, which fell, and were carried high up the 
 opposite side of the Rigi. Large pools of water had 
 formed themselves in different parts of the ruins, and 
 many little streams, whose usual channels had been 
 filled up, were bursting out in various places. Birds 
 of prey, attracted by the smell of dead bodies, were 
 hovering all about the valley. But the general im- 
 pression made upon us by the sight of such an extent 
 of desolation, connected, too, with the idea that hun- 
 dreds of wretched creatures were at that moment 
 alive, buried under a mass of earth, and inaccessible 
 to the cries and labours of their friends, was too hor- 
 rible to be described or understood. As we travel- 
 led along the borders of the chaos of ruined build- 
 ings, a poor peasant, wearing a countenance ghastly 
 with woe, came up to us to beg a piece of money. 
 He had three children buried in the ruins of a cot- 
 tage, which he w as endeavouring to clear away. A 
 little further on, we came to an elevated spot, which 
 overlooked the whole scene. Here we found a painter 
 seated on a rock, and busy in sketching its horrours. 
 
Ivi MEMOIR OF MR. BUCOHNSTER. 
 
 He had chosen a most lavourable point. Before him, 
 at the distance of more than a league, rose the Ross- 
 berg, from whose bare side had rushed the destroyer 
 of all this life and beauty. On his right was the 
 lake of Lowertz, partly filled with the earth of the 
 mountain. On the banks of this lake was all that re- 
 mained of the town of Lowertz. Its church was de- 
 molished ; but the tower yet stood amid the ruins, 
 shattered, but not thrown down. The figures, which 
 animated this part of the drawing, were a few mis- 
 erable peasants, left to grope among the wrecks of 
 one half their village. The foreground of the pic- 
 ture was a wide desolate sweep of earth and stones, 
 relieved by the shattered roof of a neighbouring cot- 
 tage. On the left hand spread the blue and tranquil 
 surface of the lake of Zug, on the margin of which 
 yet stands the pleasant village of Art, almost in con- 
 tact with the ruins, and trembling even in its preser- 
 vation. 
 
 We proceeded, in our descent, along the side of 
 the Higi, toward the half-buried village of Lowertz. 
 Here we saw the poor curate, who is said to have 
 been a spectator of the fall of the mountain. He saw 
 the torrent of earth rushing toward his village, over- 
 whelming half his people, and stopping just before 
 his door ! What a situation ! He appeared, as w e 
 passed, to be superintending the labours of some of 
 the survivors, who were exploring the ruins of the 
 place. A number of new-made graves, marked 
 with a plain pine cross, showed where a few of the 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. lvil 
 
 wretched victims of this catastrophe had just been 
 interred. 
 
 Our course lay along the borders of the enchanting 
 lake of Lowertz. The appearance of the slopes, on 
 the eastern and southern sides, told us what the val- 
 ley of Groldau was a few days since, smiling with 
 varied vegetation, gay with villages and cottages, and 
 bright with promises of autumnal plenty. The shores 
 of this lake were covered with ruins of huts, with 
 hay, with furniture and clothes, which the vast swell 
 of its waters had lodged on the banks. As we were 
 walking mournfully along toward Schweitz, we met 
 with the dead body of a woman, which had been 
 just found. It was stretched out on a board, and 
 barely covered with a white cloth. Two men, pre- 
 ceded by a priest, were carrying it to a more decent 
 burial. We hoped that this sight would have con- 
 cluded the horrours of this day's scenery, and that 
 we should soon escape from every painful vestige of 
 the calamity of Schweitz. But we continued to find 
 relicks of ruined buildings for a league along the 
 whole extent of the lake ; and a little beyond the 
 two islands, mentioned above, we saw, lying on the 
 shore, the stiff body of a peasant, which had been 
 washed up by the waves, and which two men were ex- 
 amining, to ascertain where he belonged. Our guide 
 instantly knew it to be one of the inhabitants of Gol- 
 dau. But I will mention no more particulars. Some 
 perhaps that have been related to me are not credi- 
 ble, and others which are credible are too painful. 
 
 H 
 
Iviii MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 The immediate cause of this calamitous event is 
 not yet sufficiently ascertained and probably never 
 will be. The fall of parts of hills is not uncommon; 
 and in Switzerland especially there are several in- 
 stances recorded of the descent of large masses of 
 earth and stones. But so sudden and extensive a ruin, 
 as this, was, perhaps, never produced by the fall of a 
 mountain. It can be compared only to the destruc- 
 tion made by the tremendous eruptions of Etna and 
 Vesuvius. Many persons suppose that the long and 
 copious rains, which they have lately had in this part 
 of Switzerland, may have swelled the mountains, in 
 the Rossberg, sufficiently to push this part of the 
 mountain off its inclined base. But we saw no marks 
 of streams issuing from any part of the bed which is 
 laid bare. Perhaps the consistency of the earth in 
 the interiour of the mountain was so much altered by 
 the moisture which penetrated into it, that the projec- 
 tion of the Spitzberg was no longer held by a suffi- 
 ciently strong cohesion, and its own weight carried it 
 over. Perhaps, as the earth is calcareous, a kind of 
 fermentation took place sufficient to loosen its founda- 
 tions. But there is no end to conjectures. The 
 mountain has fallen, and the villages are no more. 
 
 I cannot but reflect upon my w eakness in com- 
 plaining of our long delay at Strasburg. If we had 
 not been detained there ten days, waiting for our 
 passports, we should have been in Switzerland the 
 3d of September, probably in the vicinity of the lake 
 of Lower tz — perhaps under the ruins of Goldau. 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. llX 
 
 Several travellers, or rather strangers, were destroy- 
 ed ; but whether they were there on business or for 
 pleasure, I know not. Among them are several re- 
 spectable inhabitants of Berne, and a young lady of 
 fine accomplishments and amiable character, whose 
 loss is much lamented. My dear friend, bless God 
 that we are alive and enjoying so many comforts. 
 
 • [In the Monthly Magazine for July, 1807, a part 
 of the above letter is quoted, together with other par- 
 ticulars of this event, translated from a memoir of M. 
 Saussure, communicated to the Philosophical Society 
 at Geneva, and the narrative of M. J. H. Meyer. 
 The number of individuals, who perished, was, ac- 
 cording to these accounts, considerably less than that 
 stated by Mr. Buckminster. 
 
 Something of the manner, in which Mr. Buckmin- 
 ster was affected by the Alpine scenery, will be seen 
 by the following extract.] 
 
 YOU find in some of the rudest passes in the Alps 
 homely inns, which publick beneficence has erected 
 for the convenience of the weary and benighted trav- 
 eller. In most of these inns albums are kept to re- 
 cord the names of those, whose curiosity has led 
 them into these regions of barrenness, and the album 
 is not unfrequently the only book in the house. In 
 the album of the Grande Chartreuse, Gray, on his 
 way to Geneva, recorded his deathless name, and left 
 that exquisite Latin ode, beginning fc O ! tu severi re- 
 
IX MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. 
 
 ligio loci an ode which is indeed 6 pure nectar.' 
 It is curious to observe in these books the differenced 
 of national character. The Englishman usually 
 writes his name only, without explanation or com- 
 ment. The Frenchman records something of his 
 feelings, destination, or business ; commonly adding a 
 line of poetry, an epigram, or some exclamation of 
 pleasure or disgust. The German leaves a long dis- 
 sertation upon the state of the roads, the accommoda- 
 tions, &e. detailing at full length whence he came, 
 and whither he is going, through long pages of crab- 
 bed writing. 
 
 In one of the highest regions of the Swiss Alps, 
 after a day of excessive labour in reaching the sum- 
 mit of our journey, near those thrones erected ages 
 ago for the majesty of nature, we stopped, fatigued 
 and dispirited, on a spot destined to eternal barren- 
 ness, where we found one of these rude but hospita- 
 ble inns open to receive us. There was not another 
 human habitation within many miles. All the soil, 
 which we could see, had been brought thither, and 
 placed carefully round the cottage to nourish a few 
 cabbages and lettuces. There were some goats, 
 which supplied the cottagers with milk ; a few fowls 
 lived in the house ; and the greatest luxuries of the 
 place were new-made cheeses, and some wild alpine 
 mutton, the rare provision for the traveller. Yet here 
 nature had thrown off the veil, and appeared in all 
 her sublimity. Summits of bare granite rose all 
 around us. The snow-clad tops of distant Alps 
 
MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMINSTER. Ixi 
 
 seemed to chill the moon-beams, that lighted on 
 them ; and we felt all the charms of the picturesque, 
 mingled with the awe inspired by unchangeable gran- 
 deur. We seemed to have reached the original el- 
 evations of the globe, overtopping forever the tumults, 
 the vices, and the miseries of ordinary existence, far 
 out of the hearing of the murmurs of a busy world, 
 which discord ravages and luxury corrupts. We 
 asked for the Album, and a large folio was brought 
 us, almost filled with the scrawls of every nation on 
 earth, that could write. Instantly our fatigue was 
 forgotten, and the evening passed away pleasantly in 
 the entertainment, which this book afforded us. I 
 copied the following French couplet : 
 
 Dans ces sauvages lieux tout orgueil s'humanise ; 
 
 Dieu s'y montre plus grand ; l'homme s'y pulverise ! 
 
 Signed, p. ed. trenir. 
 
 I wish I could preserve the elegance, as well as the 
 condensed sentiment of the original. 
 
 Still are these rugged realms : e'en pride is hush'd : 
 God seems more grand : man crumbles into dust. 
 
 NOTE B. PAGE xxviii. 
 
 Review of Dr. Miller's Retrospect of the eigh- 
 teenth century, the first piece ever published by Mr. 
 B. Literary Miscellany, Vol. I. p. 82. Remarker, 
 No. 5, on criticism. Monthly Anthology. Vol. III. 19. 
 Review of Sherman on the Trinity. Id. III. 249. 
 Review of the Salem Sallust. Id. II. 549. Intro- 
 
Ixii 
 
 MEMOIR OF MR. BUCKMIXSTER. 
 
 ductiori to retrospective notices of American litera- 
 ture. Id. V. 52. Remarker, No. 31, on Gray. Id. 
 V. 367. and 484. Review of Logan's version of Cato 
 Major. Id. V. 281, 316 and 391. Editor's address. 
 Id. VI. 1. Discourse before the B. K. Id. VII. 
 14j. Translation of the article iineyma from Schleus- 
 ner's Lexicon, with notes. General Repository and 
 Review. Vol. I. p. 296. 
 
 NOTE C. PAGE xxxi. 
 
 Notices of Griesbach's Greek Testament. Anthol- 
 ogy. V. 18. VI. 349. X. 107 and 403. Defence of 
 the accuracy and fidelity of Griesbach. General Re- 
 pository. L 89. 
 
SERMONS 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 REV. JOSEPH STEVENS BUCKMINSTER. 
 
SERMON I. 
 
 GAL. iv. 4. 
 
 BUT WHEN THE FULNESS OF TIME WAS COME, GOD SENT 
 FORTH HIS SON. 
 
 MORE than eighteen centuries ago there appear- 
 ed in Judea an extraordinary personage called Jesus 
 of Nazareth. The consequences of his life, death, 
 resurrection and ascension have been such as no hu- 
 man foresight could anticipate, no human power con- 
 trol ; and it is not now in man's imagination to trace 
 them through the range of future generations. Even 
 if it should be maintained, that there was nothing 
 supernatural in this character, or these consequences, 
 yet the event and its influences must forever remain 
 stupendous. The appearance of such a person in 
 the world, and at such a period, with the consequent 
 change in so large a portion of society, ought always 
 to arrest the consideration of every thinking mind. 
 It has made an era in the history of mankind, which 
 
 must be eternally memorable. We, who believe that 
 1 
 
2 
 
 the birth of Christ was the birth of a Saviour for the 
 world, who see in him the Son of the omnipotent 
 God ; we, — who believe that the purposes of his in- 
 carnation were such as eye had not seen, nor ear 
 heard, nor lias any mind yet perfectly explored, and 
 who rest all our peace and hopes on him, and him 
 alone, as the vicegerent of Jehovah, — cannot be sur- 
 prised at the long established celebration of the sup- 
 posed day of his birth, or withhold our concurrence 
 from the honours, which so large a portion of the 
 christian world are disposed to pay it, especially 
 when it coincides, as at present, with our customary 
 day of worship. And at other times also w e are dis- 
 posed to say with the apostle, he that regardeth the 
 day, regardeth it unto the Lord, and he that regard- 
 eth not the day, to the Lord he doth not regard it. 
 Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. 
 
 It is certain that about eighteen hundred years ago, 
 Jesus, this extraordinary person, appeared, whose 
 birth, life, death, resurrection and ascension comple- 
 ted a series of astonishing and, as we believe, miracu- 
 lous events. This Jesus claimed the character of the 
 long expected Messiah, the light and salvation of the 
 world ; and under this character he is received by 
 all who embrace his religion and acknowledge his 
 divine authority. It will be our object in this dis- 
 course to show, that the time in which he appeared 
 was, in every respect, the most proper for his appear- 
 ance, — this is the ftrst head of discourse, — yet that 
 this Illness of the period lent no aid to the propaga- 
 
3 
 
 tion of his religion, and diminished not the least the 
 necessity of miraculous interposition for its support, 
 — this is our second division. In other words, the 
 state of the world, when Christ was horn, was such 
 as to constitute, at the same moment, the most proper 
 time for his appearance and the greatest impediment 
 to the success of his religion. 
 
 1. When the fulness of time was come, God sent 
 forth his Son. The fitness of the moment appears in 
 the first place from this undeniable fact, that there 
 was, at that time, a general expectation throughout 
 the world of the advent of some illustrious prophet 
 and deliverer, who should change the aspect of hu- 
 man affairs. The rumour seems to have advanced 
 from the east, and to have even reached the ears of 
 the Roman emperour. We shall omit the scriptural 
 proofs of this general expectation, till we have produ- 
 ced some remarkable passages from three indepen- 
 dent and unbiassed authors of that age. The first is 
 from Josephus, the Jewish annalist of that tremendous 
 war, which ended in the destruction of his nation ; 
 a man, all whose prejudices were against the Mes- 
 siahship and religion of Jesus. He is speaking of 
 the causes, which stimulated the Jews to revolt from 
 the authority of the Romans. " But that which 
 principally encouraged them to the war," says he, 
 66 was an ambiguous oracle, found also in our sacred 
 writings, that about that time some one from Judea 
 should obtain the empire of the world. This they 
 understood to belong to themselves, and many of their 
 
1 
 
 wise men were mistaken in their judgment ; for this 
 oracle referred to the government of Vespasian, who 
 was proclaimed emperour in Judea."* This you ob- 
 serve is the explanation of Josephus, in compliment 
 to his imperial master. The second is from Sueto- 
 nius, a Roman historian, who wrote, about the same 
 time, the biography of the emperours. His words 
 are these : " There had been for a long time all over 
 the east, a notion firmly believed, that it was in the 
 books of the fates, that some one from Judea was 
 destined, about that time, to obtain the empire of the 
 world. "f The third passage is from Tacitus, an 
 historian of veracity and universal credit. He has 
 been relating the calamities of the Jews, which pre- 
 ceded the destruction of their city, and then ob- 
 serves : " that the mass of the people entertained a 
 strong persuasion, that it was mentioned in the an- 
 cient writings of the priests, that at that very time 
 the east should prevail, and some one from Judea 
 obtain the empire of the world. These ambiguities," 
 says Tacitus, like the rest, u predicted Vespasian 
 and Titus ; but the common people, according to the 
 usual influence of human passions, having once ap- 
 propriated to themselves this destined greatness, 
 could not be brought to understand the true meaning 
 by all their adversities. ?? J There are other passages 
 in heathen authors, which I think it unnecessary to 
 mention, which prove that this expectation was prev- 
 
 * Lardner i. p. 132. f Suet. Vesp. cap. iv. 
 
 4 Tacit. Hist. 1. v. c. 15. 
 
alent at this time in the oriental world, and especially 
 in Judea. These surely are remarkable attestations ; 
 and the many instances of persons, who appeared in 
 Judea about this time, pretending to be the Messiah, 
 and collecting vast numbers of deluded Jews around 
 them — facts repeatedly mentioned by the historians 
 of that day — are additional proofs of this general per- 
 suasion. 
 
 If we turn now to the New Testament, we shall 
 find this state of things corroborated there by many 
 incidental circumstances. The state of the publick 
 mind in Judea is indicated by the anxiety of Herod 
 upon hearing of the birth of a remarkable child in 
 Bethlehem, and by the visit of the eastern Magi. 
 Still more illustrative is the thronging of the multi- 
 tude to John upon his first appearance, and the mes- 
 sage of the Pharisees and priests to inquire, if he 
 were the Christ. " And all the people mused in their 
 hearts," says the evangelist, " whether he were the 
 Christ, or not." We discover the same eager expecta- 
 tion of the Messiah, as a prophet as well as prince, 
 in the conversation of the Samaritan woman, who be- 
 longed, you will observe, to a different and hostile 
 nation. Observe too how the people pressed around 
 Jesus, demanding the sign from heaven which they 
 expected of the Messiah ; observe how they caught 
 at every appearance of extraordinary power ; how, 
 after his performance of a miracle, they were ready 
 to take him by force and make him a king ; and with 
 what acclamations and regal honours the multitude 
 
6 
 
 accompanied him into Jerusalem. His humble con- 
 dition and ignominious death alone restrained and ex- 
 tinguished their enthusiasm. In a word, every thing 
 in profane history and in the evangelical narrative 
 proves, that the minds of the men of that age were 
 wrought to a high pitch of expectation, that the great 
 prophet and king would soon come into the world. 
 
 2. But what was the source of this universal ex- 
 pectation at this moment ? I answer, that I can dis- 
 cover or imagine nothing, except what these historians 
 themselves assign as the authority, the oracles of the 
 Jewish scriptures. This was the fulness of time for 
 the advent of the Messiah, because it was the time 
 predicted in prophecy. To the prophets Christ and 
 his apostles repeatedly refer, and to me it appears, 
 that if every other prediction of a Messiah in the Old 
 Testament were allowed to be ambiguous, the single 
 prophecy in the fifty third chapter of Isaiah w ould be 
 sufficient to mark out the person we have acknowledg- 
 ed. It is too long to be quoted here, but it may safe- 
 ly be asserted that the description contained in it ap- 
 plies, in the most remarkable manner, to Jesus of Naz- 
 areth, and to no other person within our knowledge, 
 who ever lived. It is the prophecy, which engaged 
 the attention of the Ethiopian eunuch, and which 
 Philip explained to him in the only manner in which 
 it can be appropriated by any ingenuous man, who 
 has read the history of Jesus of Nazareth. But you 
 will inquire, perhaps, what prediction so accurately 
 marks the tune of the Messiah's advent, as to have 
 
7 
 
 excited this extraordinary expectation at this precise 
 period. I must acknowledge, that some of those pas- 
 sages which are commonly alleged, particularly the 
 mention of Shiloh, in Genesis, and the desire of all 
 nations, in Haggai, do not appear to me sufficiently 
 indubitable in any interpretation, which they have 
 hitherto received. There is however a remarkable 
 passage in Daniel — the celebrated prophecy of the 
 seventy weeks — which, if there were no other, ap- 
 pears to me sufficient to have authorized the general 
 expectation Ave have mentioned. There is not a sha- 
 dow of reason for yielding to the susrsrestions of 
 Porphyry, that this book was written after the events 
 it predicts, and that it is only an ambiguous history 
 of the times of Antiochus. Our Saviour himself ap- 
 peals to a part of it, in describing the desolation of Je- 
 rusalem. Therefore it certainly existed in his time, 
 and was applied to approaching events. Let it be re- 
 membered too, that Porphyry does not pretend to dis- 
 pute the existence of the book before the time of Christ, 
 but quarrels with the application of its prophecies to 
 him. In this celebrated prediction, then, it clearly ap- 
 pears, that in about five hundred years from the decree 
 to rebuild Jerusalem, after the captivity, the Messiah 
 should appear. From whatever date the reckoning is 
 made, or whatever length is assigned to the years, the 
 variations are not, upon any supposition, so great as to 
 prevent our acknowledging that such a prophecy, 
 wherever it was read, must have excited the expecta- 
 
8 
 
 tions, which we are sure prevailed, of the appearance 
 of the Messiah about the very time that Jesus lived. 
 
 If you add to these considerations, that more than 
 one intimation is given in the prophets, that the Mes- 
 siah should come while the second temple was stand- 
 ing, that it was well understood that he should be 
 born of the family of David, and of the tribe of Judah, 
 you will instantly perceive that he must have appear- 
 ed, if at all, before the destruction of Jerusalem. For 
 who does not know, that since that unparalleled deso- 
 lation the Jews have been dispersed throughout the 
 habitable globe, that they have not now the vestige of 
 a temple, that their distinction of tribes is confounded, 
 that their families and genealogies are utterly lost, and 
 that it became and has remained, from the hour of 
 this overthrow, utterly impossible to apply the distinc- 
 tive marks of the Messiah to any future pretender ? 
 Christ, then, must have appeared at the period he did, 
 or not at all ; and in our controversy with the Jews 
 this circumstance appears nearly decisive. It was 
 the fulness of time, the consummation of prophecy, 
 the closing period of the Jewish state. 
 
 3. In the third place the peculiar circumstances and 
 character of the nation, when God sent forth his Son, 
 render that period the fulness of time. Even from the 
 time of Malachi, a period of several centuries, they 
 had been favoured with no prophet, or authorized in- 
 structer. Their religion, which was introduced in 
 the infancy of the world, only to answer Grod's design 
 of exhibiting the providence, and preserving the 
 
ft 
 
 knowledge of one supreme Deity, in the midst of an 
 idolatrous world, had now accomplished its purpose. 
 About two centuries before Christ, the sacred books 
 of the Jews had been translated into Greek, which 
 might then be called the language of the civilized 
 world. They were thus made accessible to all the 
 readers and thinkers of that polished age ; and the 
 language of many of the heathen philosophers dis- 
 covers, that they were not unacquainted with Moses. 
 At this period, too, the Jews, under the favour of the 
 successors of Alexander, had established themselves 
 in every considerable city in the Roman empire. 
 Their synagogues were every where tolerated, and 
 they seem to have had proselytes all over the world. 
 The world was indeed in such a situation, that the 
 knowledge of any thing extraordinary in their for- 
 tunes would be instantly diffused. 
 
 The corruption of their manners and of their relig- 
 ion had, by this time, discovered the utter insufficiency 
 of their economy, and demanded a thorough revolu- 
 tion. The traditions of the elders had completely 
 nullified their law : it had lost all its moral, and re- 
 tained only its ceremonial force ; and an insane zeal 
 for this narrow and superstitious religion had usurped, 
 in their minds, the place of every virtue, human or di- 
 vine. They were at once the most corrupt and big- 
 oted of religionists, and God's mercy seemed to call 
 for the abolition of this peculiarity, and the introduc- 
 tion of a more liberal and more spiritual dispensation. 
 The common Jews were enslaved by a hierarchy, k- 
 
10 
 
 conceivably odious, and yet they were never more fu- 
 riously zealous for their rituals and their temple. In- 
 deed this private religious zeal,* as it was called, 
 appears to have been almost the only principle 
 by which they were actuated ; and this principle 
 is not only consistent with, but encourages and 
 justifies all the crimes of society, treachery, revolt, 
 discord, revenge, secret conspiracies, assassinations 
 and open murder. The testimony of Josephus, 
 in numerous passages, corroborates that of the apos- 
 tle Paul to the depravity of the Jews ; and he some- 
 where observes, that never was there a time, from 
 the beginning of the world, more fruitful in wicked- 
 ness than that in which he lived, and that if the Ro- 
 mans had delayed to come against their city, it must 
 have been swallowed up by an earthquake, or over- 
 whelmed by a deluge. Surely, if ever the extreme 
 corruption of a national religion could demand the 
 interposition of Jehovah, this was the fulness of time 
 for the appearance of his Son. 
 
 4. The moral and religious condition of the hea- 
 then world, at the period of Christ's birth, is another 
 proof, that this was the most proper time for his ap- 
 pearance. In consequence of the progress of philos- 
 ophy, and other causes, the polytheism of ancient 
 times had lost all its influence, except with the lowest 
 of the people, and there was nothing left to supply its 
 place in the minds of the great. The fear of the gods 
 had vanished, and with it almost all sense of moral 
 
 * Sec Larduer, vol. I. 
 
 / 
 
11 
 
 obligation. Power and wealth had introduced into the 
 Roman nation the most effeminate and selfish corrup- 
 tion, and the early virtues of the commonwealth were 
 no longer known. In Greece, the worship of the gods 
 was the mode, and their temples were the theatres of 
 inconceivable profligacy ; and in truth, the remains of 
 their idolatrous superstition seemed to exist only for the 
 more publick encouragement of every species of infa- 
 my. The glowing description, which Paul gives in 
 the first chapter of Romans of the corruptions of that 
 age, is confirmed by innumerable passages in pagan 
 writers. To say all in one word, they had united the 
 more dissolute vices of a luxurious age with the more 
 sanguinary crimes of a ruder state of society. 
 
 5. Lastly, the intellectual progress, which the world 
 had then made, was such as to demand the introduc- 
 tion of a revelation. The time of Christ was the age 
 of refinement in literature, and of acuteness in philo- 
 sophical investigation. The thinking part of the 
 world had proceeded just far enough to discover the 
 utter futility and absurdity of their idolatrous relig- 
 ion, and to reach the bounds of unassisted specula- 
 tion, without finding any thing on which to rest. The 
 result of the labours of philosophy appeared to be a 
 total scepticism on the most important subjects of hu- 
 man duty and expectation. The irregular fears of a 
 future state had been supplanted by the materialism 
 of Epicurus ; and this system — if system it may be 
 called, which left them without a God, a providence, 
 a morality, or a retribution — was the fashionable phi- 
 
losophy of tlie more cultivated classes. They had 
 learnt just enough to believe, that religion and morals 
 were entirely unconnected ; that the old rites were to 
 be kept up, only as the established religion of the 
 state ; and they had proceeded just far enough to 
 suppose, that it was the absurdest thing in the world 
 to talk of religion, except as an old established fol- 
 ly for weak minds. In all the fine writings of the 
 best sages of paganism, there is nothing to be found 
 like a system of morals, which reaches to the heart, 
 and regulates and sanctifies the affections. They 
 had attained glimpses of some great truths, but their 
 knowledge was like the occasional flashes of the 
 lights in the north, a knowledge, which, in their best 
 men, only excited a more ardent desire for the full 
 light of intellectual day. In this state of the human 
 understanding, in the fulness of time, the Sun of right- 
 eousness arose. 
 
 There are other circumstances in the state of the 
 world at that time, which sufficiently prove the fit- 
 ness of the moment Avhen God chose to send his Son 
 into the world ; but I forbear to enlarge on this head. 
 
 My second proposition was, that the very facts, 
 which show the fitness of the time for the introduc- 
 tion of Christianity, are the very circumstances which 
 show, that it would have been impossible to establish 
 it in the world without supernatural aid. This state 
 of the world not only lent our religion no aid in its 
 promulgation, but is the very state of things which 
 leaves us no other method of accounting for the unex^ 
 
13 
 
 ampled progress of Christianity, but the belief that the 
 power of God was exerted in its origin and propa- 
 gation. 
 
 If I should be so fortunate as to make this appear, 
 you will acknowledge, with me, the wonderful fore- 
 sight of God in this singular juncture of human af- 
 fairs : that the very circumstances, which most showed 
 the necessity and demanded the introduction of a new 
 religion, should also prove that it could not have made 
 its way in the world, except by supernatural means, 
 and of consequence unless it had been true. You 
 will cry out with the apostle, how unsearchable, O 
 God, are thy judgments, and thy ways past finding out ! 
 
 1. In the first place, that universal expectation 
 among the Jews of the appearance of their Messiah, 
 was the very circumstance which led to his almost 
 universal rejection by his nation. Do you ask, how 
 this could be ? I answer, because, with the earnest ex- 
 pectation of a great prophet and priest, who should 
 appear among them, they had inseparably connected 
 the idea of a temporal deliverer, a national head, and 
 the splendour of external royalty. Hence, whenever 
 they began to collect around Jesus, and to show him 
 marks of devotedness and attachment, it always hap- 
 pened that some proof of his humility, or of his peace- 
 able and unwarlike character appeared and disgusted 
 them, and turned the whole current of their feelings. 
 Hence, as soon as he was arrested, and their worldly 
 hopes were blasted, the crowd, who followed him with 
 acclamations into Jerusalem; were the Yery populace, 
 
14 
 
 who cried crucify him, crucify him, and followed him 
 to the mount of crucifixion with shouts of insult and 
 disdain. Their rulers and priests were wise enough, 
 from the first, to know, that so poor, humble and unre- 
 sisting a character could never be the Messiah they 
 had expected. Hence the inquiry, have any of the 
 rulers or Pharisees believed on him ? But the com- 
 mon people, who had from time to time caught at the 
 manifestation of miraculous power in Jesus, were in- 
 discribably vexed and disappointed when they found 
 their expectations false, and Jesus quietly submitting 
 to crucifixion. Nothing you know is so violent as 
 the rage of a mob, when completely disappointed in a 
 favourite project or channel. Hence we find, that the 
 true and insuperable objection to the reception of the 
 gospel in the Jewish nation was the ignominious death 
 of its author. The cross of Christ was their great 
 stumbling block. " This man cannot be the Messiah, 
 for he has died like a malefactor." I may safely 
 conclude, then, that the previous universal expectation 
 of the Jews, which was so completely overthrown by 
 the manner of our Lord's death, was the first obsta- 
 cle to the reception of his religion, of which the first 
 and fundamental article is, Jesus the Messiah. 
 
 2. In the second place, the prophecies, which ap- 
 peared to have their completion in Jesus, did not 
 probably lend any aid to his claims, when they were 
 announced to the Gentiles. For, as the Jews became 
 more known in the world, and their sacred writings 
 read by reading men, they were thought a credulous 
 
15 
 
 and superstitious face, and it could have been no re- 
 commendation to any personage to pretend, that he 
 was predicted in their prophecies. It appears to me, 
 that no circumstance would have been more likely to 
 excite a sneer in the wise men of Greece and Rome, 
 than to be invited to embrace the religion of a man, 
 who had been pointed out in Jewish prophecy. They 
 would have said, like Horace, let the credulous Jew 
 believe this. Their prophets are of no more authori- 
 ty with us, than our own Sybilline books ; and we all 
 know that augur cannot look at augur without laughing. 
 You will acknowledge, then, I think, with me, that to 
 assert that Jesus was the consummation of Jewish 
 prophecy, would have only excited a greater prejudice 
 against him in the minds of the majority of Greeks 
 and Romans. A Jewish Messiah was the last whom 
 they would have chosen for the founder of a universal 
 faith, after they had heard of such men among them- 
 selves, as Numa, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato. 
 
 3. In the third place, the very situation of the Jew- 
 ish nation, which rendered the necessity of a new dis- 
 pensation most evident, presented the very circum- 
 stances most hostile to the propagation of Christianity, 
 The corruption of their religion inflamed them with a 
 most bigoted attachment to it, because at that state it 
 most favoured their private vices and national pride. 
 Thus we find, that the contempt which Jesus discov- 
 ered for their traditions, the generous views of God 
 and virtue which he opened, and the internal purity 
 which he recommended, were the very things which 
 
46 
 
 awakened their suspicions, and excited against him 
 their most inveterate hostility. This single character 
 of our Lord, without any other revolting circumstance, 
 would have most effectually suppressed his cause, if 
 it had heen the cause of man only. 
 
 Again, the circumstance of the very general disper- 
 sion of the Jews throughout the Roman empire, at this 
 period, which, to a superficial ohserver, appears favour- 
 able to the propagation of Christianity, presented on 
 the whole a serious obstacle. It is true, the knowl- 
 edge of our Saviour's life was thus sooner communi- 
 cated and farther spread. But to counterbalance this, 
 let it be remembered, that the same national preju- 
 dices, the same corruptions of principle and practice, 
 which impelled the ruler and priest at Jerusalem to 
 reject and crucify Jesus, were diffused through the 
 whole Jewish people in every part of the world, and 
 that they exerted every where the same malignity to- 
 wards Jesus and his church. Wherever Jews were 
 found, there too were found enemies of the new religion. 
 Had it not been for the tumults and opposition, which, 
 as we learn from the Acts, they every where excited, 
 the new doctrine might have been received among 
 the Gentiles peaceably enough, though perhaps slow- 
 ly, and not without contempt. But the apostles al- 
 ways and every where found among the Jews the in- 
 defatigable opponents of the great truth they preach- 
 ed, that Jesus was the promised Messiah. 
 
 Still further ; the Jews, wherever they were known, 
 were odious to the Romans, and their more extensive 
 
17 
 
 intercourse with foreigners served only to increase 
 the general contempt and hatred which existed 
 against their nation. Hence it was a prejudice, 
 almost insurmountable in the mind of a Greek or a 
 Roman, that the apostles, the first preachers of the 
 new faith, were of so detestable an origin. " Are not 
 these men that speak, Galileans, and can any good 
 come out of such a country of rebels/' must have been 
 the first thought in the mind of a listening heathen. 
 Can you imagine any thing, my friends, more unfa- 
 vourable to the promulgation of Christianity in the 
 world, than this very state of the Jews at home and 
 abroad, Avhich seemed to you at first so favourable to 
 its progress ? 
 
 4. The corrupt morals of the pagan world, which 
 demanded the introduction of a purer system, were also 
 extremely unfavourable to the cordial reception of any 
 thing so pure as the gospel. The apostles of Christ 
 preached a purity of heart, of which the world had 
 then hardly a faint conception. The new religion 
 condemned, as odious in the sight of God, the vices 
 to which the Gentiles were most enslaved, and 
 threatened the punishment of hell to the very prac- 
 tices which they had consecrated, by making them a 
 part of their worship, and the best recommendations 
 to the favour of their deities. Wherever the gospel 
 was received, it banished all their pompous sacrifices, 
 their idol feasts, their dissolute worship ; wherever it 
 was received, their favourite fights of gladiators, their 
 
 theatrical shows, and all the sanguinarv amusements 
 3 
 
18 
 
 of the populace, which long habit had made necessary, 
 disappeared. In the midst of a luxurious, relaxed, 
 selfish and sensual age, it demanded a degree of morti- 
 fication and self denial, which must at any time have 
 appeared intolerable ; and not only so, but it exposed its 
 professors to contempt, persecution, the loss of former 
 friends, the dissolution of established habits, to pover- 
 ty, ignominy, and not seldom to deatli itself. This 
 was the prospect it opened to the mass of the Gentile 
 world. And how think you was it likely to be re- 
 ceived among the luxurious senators, the vain literati, 
 the tyrannical prefects, the military governours and 
 generals, the consulars decked out with honours, the 
 licentious favourites of the men of power — -a religion 
 which preached the vanity of temporal honours, the 
 folly of pagan w isdom, the dangers of station and in- 
 Huence, in one word, which preached a poverty of 
 spirit, which must have appeared to men, whose senti- 
 ments were so depraved, the height of fanatick ab- 
 surdity, If then the corruptions of the world called 
 for the introduction of the gospel, as soon as it was 
 preached, these very corruptions, from the emperour 
 on his throne down to his dissolute slaves, were ar- 
 rayed against it in all the hardihood of the gros- 
 sest depravity. 
 
 Lastly, the intellectual refinement of that period, 
 which may be thought to have prepared the minds of 
 men for some of the sublime instructions of revelation, 
 was perhaps still more unfavourable to its progress. 
 It enabled men indeed to understand the gospel, but 
 
it encouraged them at the same time to despise it 
 Do you ask, how was this ? I will attempt to show 
 yoiu The men of that age, who had thought at all 
 upon the subject of religion, had, as I before mention- 
 ed, proceeded far enough to know, that the establish- 
 ed idolatry was nothing but a creature of the state, 
 and therefore they easily consented to support, while 
 they believed it utterly false. They thought it the duty 
 of every man not to neglect the religion of his coun- 
 try ; and could see no possible harm in countenancing 
 a system which they did not believe. How extraor- 
 dinary, nay, how unacceptable must the new religion 
 have appeared to these men, a religion which declar- 
 ed their idolatrous conformity a crime, which was ut- 
 terly irreconcileabie with the notion, that all religions 
 were equally indifferent, or equally good, and which 
 seemed even to suspend the favour of God and their 
 eternal happiness or misery on their reception of this 
 new system. Surely nothing could be more hostile to 
 their latitudinarian philosophy. 
 
 Again, though some of their sages had discovered 
 much solicitude respecting a future existence, and 
 many of them eagerly wished for instruction, yet 
 the manner in which immortality was brought to 
 light in the christian revelation, coupled as it was 
 with the resurrection of the dead, and rested even 
 on the resurrection of a crucified man, seemed 
 to them a most contemptible, if not impious ab- 
 surdity. We see plainly enough, in the recep- 
 tion of Paul's discourses at Athens and Corinth, 
 
20 
 
 and the expressions of king Agrippa at his feri- 
 al, that the christian doctrine of a future life was no 
 recommendation of the new religion to the wits and 
 philosophers of that disputatious period. 
 
 But there is one circumstance resulting from the very 
 refinement of that age, which it is impossible the chris- 
 tian revelation could have surmounted, had not the 
 hand of God been engaged to establish it. It is this. 
 The Greek language w as at that time spoken in the 
 utmost purity all over the empire. Eloquence was ev- 
 ery where cultivated, and immoderately valued ; and 
 nothing could command the attention of men that did 
 not come recommended with the graces of elocution 
 and style. What now can be imagined more unfa- 
 vourable to the success of the apostles, who were 
 rude in speech and utterly unacquainted with the arts 
 ' of popular addresses, than such a polished period ? 
 What ! those men to overturn the systems of the 
 world, whose language was so idiomatical that Peter 
 was betrayed by it even to one of his own country- 
 women — men who were Galileans, w ithout any of the 
 fashionable science of the times — men humble in their 
 aspect, poor in condition, fishermen by occupation, per- 
 secuted in every step of their progress, and recommend- 
 ing themselves to the Greeks and Romans by profes- 
 sing to be the followers of one, who was crucified as a 
 v malefactor ! These, then, were the circumstances un- 
 der which Christianity made such progress in the 
 world, as that in three hundred years a christian em- 
 perour w as on the throne of the Csesars. 
 
u 
 
 My friends, if you have viewed this subject in the 
 light that I do, you will contemplate, with ever in- 
 creasing amazement, the establishment of Christianity, 
 and adore the power of God. How wonderful, that 
 the state of the world was such as to make that the 
 fittest time for the birth of Christ, and yet the most 
 unfavourable, in all human probability, to the success 
 of his religion ! Every circumstance, which goes to 
 prove the necessity of revelation at that moment, 
 proves also the utter impossibility of establishing it by 
 merely human means. Nothing but facts which could 
 not be denied, miracles which could not be resisted, 
 and a supernatural power in the teachers of the re- 
 ligion, could have made this astonishing change in the 
 world. — I know not w hether the reasoning in this dis- 
 course be new, but of this I am sure, that if this coun- 
 sel or this work had been of men, it would have come 
 to nought. Of this I am sure, that the foolishness of 
 God is wiser, and the weakness of God is stronger 
 than men. I see not only the fulness of time in the 
 period when Jesus appeared, but I am sure, from the 
 unexampled success of his religion, that it was God 
 who sent him forth, and that he sent forth his Son. He 
 asks us, my friends, w hom think ye that I am ? I an 
 swer with Peter, thou art the Christ, the Son of the 
 living God, 
 
SERMON II. 
 
 JOHN vii. 46. 
 
 NEVER MAN SPAKE LIKE THIS MAN. 
 
 THE excellence of the gospel is so distinguishing, 
 and the evidences of its divine original are so vari- 
 ous, that a constant study of it, instead of diminishing 
 our interest, or shaking our faith, tends rather to as- 
 tonish us by the constant increase of its proofs, and 
 the inexhaustible abundance of its motives. True 
 it is, that a mind, which comes fresh to the examina- 
 tion of Christianity, and, if such a thing is possible, 
 with perfect impartiality, ought first to ascertain what 
 is called the external evidence of the gospel, or, in 
 other words, the credibility and authenticity of the 
 historical testimony on which it rests. But when his 
 conviction from this source is sufficiently established, 
 and in this regular way, let the inquirer direct his at- 
 tention to what is called its internal evidence, such 
 as the character of Christ and his apostles, the na- 
 ture of his instructions, and what we understand in 
 general by the spirit of the gospel. In this way, if 
 he is an inquirer of an ingenuous disposition, and of a 
 
23 
 
 heart warmed with the love of virtue, he will love 
 the gospel too well to suffer any relicks of doubt to 
 disturb him ; he will be unable to reject what appears 
 so divine, and Avhat he finds so powerful, or to think 
 it to be any thing else than what he wishes it to be, — 
 the word of God. 
 
 There is something in the character of Jesus 
 Christ, which, to an attentive reader of his history, is 
 of more force than all the weight of external evidence 
 to prove him divine. If we attempt to persuade our- 
 selves, that there is nothing superterrestrial in the pic- 
 ture, which, with so much simplicity and unlaboured 
 consistency, the evangelists have given of our Lord, 
 this question rushes upon the mind, and demands an 
 answer : How was it, that in the common course of na- 
 ture, in one of the most corrupt ages of the world, and 
 in an obscure corner of an obscure country, a perfect 
 personage or model of the moral class should all at 
 once start up before the admiration of mankind, and 
 now r , after the lapse of many centuries, as well as then, 
 remain unrivalled, and almost unapproached ? This is 
 a phenomenon, which must be explained before any 
 man can be satisfied with the rejection of divine in- 
 terposition. 
 
 If, to relieve ourselves from this difficulty, which 
 no man who thinks will fail to feel, we choose, with an 
 absurd distrust of all history, to doubt that such a 
 personage as our Lord existed, a greater difficulty 
 meets us : How, if the original did not exist, did four 
 writers like the evangelists acquire, without inspire 
 
24 
 
 tion, the idea of such a character, and transmit, with 
 such harmonious and lively colours, the picture we 
 have of Jesus Christ. The imagination of any man 
 can form a singular combination of qualities, a char- 
 acter merely extraordinary ; but if four men conceiv- 
 ed, at the same time, and without any adequate proto- 
 type, such a character as is confessedly drawn of th« 
 blessed Jesus, I scruple not to say it was such a mir- 
 acle of genius, as neither before nor since had a par- 
 allel in the recorded history of the human mind. 
 
 In order that you may feel the argument, which 
 I wish now to set before you, let me transport you 
 back to Judea, and place you in the audience that 
 were listening to the discourses of our Saviour, 
 recorded in that chapter of St. John from which our 
 text is taken. 
 
 The Pharisees and chief priests, enraged at the 
 boldness of our Saviour's discourses, and jealous of 
 the attention which he appeared to excite, order some 
 of their officers to apprehend him. The officers go 
 forth determined, as we may suppose, to obey their 
 superiors, as usual. They advance toward the Son 
 of God, then in the midst of his discourse. They 
 behold a man standing in all the conscious dignity of 
 independent virtue, full of grave and impressive wis- 
 dom, which he delivers and enforces with the author- 
 ity of divine power. As they approach, no secret 
 anxiety betrays itself in his countenance. In his 
 manner they discover none of the reserve and cun- 
 ning of imposture, no arts to gain attention, ho soli- 
 
25 
 
 citude to provoke wonder or catch applause, none of 
 the extravagancies of the head of a sect, no absurdi- 
 ties, and no symptoms of concern for family interest, 
 or personal fame. All about Jesus of Nazareth is 
 as fair, and grand, and unaffected, as the sun in his 
 course through a cloudless sky. He appears to be 
 the delegate of Him, who sits at the head of the crea- 
 tion, proposing messages of love, and expressing, in 
 his own manner, the benevolent designs of his Fa- 
 ther in heaven towards this perverse nation. They 
 behold him affectionate in his address, sublime in his 
 conceptions, yet fearless in his manner, meekly con- 
 scious that God was with him, and that his unbeliev- 
 ing hearers were a wicked and cruel race, who would 
 bring upon themselves the vengeance of the Most 
 High, whose prophet they rejected. 
 
 The rude officers are arrested at the sight of this in- 
 explicable dignity, and an unaccountable awe spreads 
 itself over their consciences. They feel, as if they 
 were about to lay unhallowed hands on the Son of 
 God, or the inhabitant of some other world. They 
 stand at a distance, dwelling on his looks and lan- 
 guage, fixed in amazement. They return to their 
 employers without their prey. Why have ye not 
 brought him ? say the impatient priests. Never man 
 spake like this man, was all their reply. And who is 
 this wonderful teacher, my friends ? The Son of 
 the humble Mary of the village of Nazareth. 
 
 If, christians, there should be produced in your 
 
 minds a true sense of the dignitv of him, whose words 
 4 
 
26 
 
 .ind appearance arrested these officers in their design, 
 aud if you should feel too, that such a character can- 
 not be the unaidejl invention of the four evangelists, 
 but demands a real original, the purpose of this dis- 
 course will be answered, and the truth of the charac- 
 ter of Jesus will be substantiated. 
 
 We begin with this preliminary, if the history of 
 Jesus Christ, as it is recorded in the four evangelists, 
 is substantially true, then his claims to divine author- 
 ity must be admitted, for God was with him. 
 
 Now there are four remarkable circumstances in 
 the description of our Saviour, as it is left us in the 
 gospels, which sufficiently show the reality of the de- 
 lineation, and, of consequence, as we think, the divin- 
 ity of the original ; and these are the unexpectedness, 
 the originality, the sublimity, and the consistency of 
 the character. 
 
 • 1. The unexpectedness of the character, which Je- 
 sus assumed. You will understand the force of this 
 consideration, when you recollect, and bear in mind, 
 what the Jews had long, perhaps always, expected in 
 their Messiah, and w hat they found in Jesus. They 
 were impatiently looking out for a temporal deliver- 
 er ; they had figured to themselves a leader of mag- 
 nanimous spirit and celestial power ; they hoped to 
 find erected, on the hill of Zion, a standard of revolt 
 from the oppression of the Romans, under the imagin- 
 ed king, w hom they had clothed in robes of royalty, 
 and to whom they had given ensigns of power. Thus 
 the Magi, at the birth of Jesus, came with regal 
 
27 
 
 presents, and the populace too were afterwards ready 
 to conduct him, in regal triumph, into the holy city, 
 and crown him king of the Jews. Besides this gen- 
 eral impatience to be led on, under the banners of the 
 Christ, to national independence, and ultimately to 
 universal empire, they were continually demanding 
 some sign in the heavens, which they expected. 
 To this notion of the Messiah, which was unques- 
 tionably the prevailing one, they were led by a too 
 literal interp* tation of some of the passages in their 
 sacred book 3 well as by a national sentiment of 
 oppression. f was the expectation of some mighty 
 deliverer. 4 aat time to appear, confined to Ju- 
 dea. The lour was prevalent in the east. It was 
 certainly known to the classical historians of that 
 age, and there are strong reasons for believing, that it 
 had reached the Roman emperour.* 
 
 Now, this being the state of the Jewish minds with 
 regard to the Messiah, let us not forget, that Mat- 
 thew, Mark, Luke and John were Jews, who, in 
 addition to the prejudices of their nation, were ex- 
 posed to contracted views from the lowness of their 
 origin and condition in life. These men, however, 
 undertake, without any previous advantage that we 
 can imagine, to give us the history and show the 
 character of a Messiah in every respect a contrast to 
 the expectations of their nation, and, as they tell us 
 with much simplicity, long irreconcileable to their 
 own wishes and previous opinion. They have put 
 
 * See Sermon I. 
 
28 
 
 us indeed in full possession of the state of their own 
 minds on this subject, and relate, without artifice, the 
 great events of the death and resurrection of our Lord, 
 which alone succeeded at last to correct their worldly 
 mistakes. 
 
 Now, my hearers, I do not ask, whether their his- 
 tory is true ; but I do ask, how it could ever enter 
 the heads of four bigoted Jews to claim for Jesus, 
 of all persons in the world, the office of the Messiah, 
 if such a person had not existed and made pretensions 
 to the character, and, by w onderful evidence, which 
 they found it impossible to resist, substantiated his 
 claim to this singular dignity. 
 
 If any one will suppose the gospels to have been 
 written after the destruction of Jerusalem, a supposi- 
 tion to which unbelievers sometimes resort, to avoid 
 the evidence of divinity arising from our Saviour's pre- 
 dictions, our reasoning remains unaffected. For it is 
 still more unaccountable, that these Jewish'authors of 
 the gospels should represent him as the Messiah, 
 whom they make to predict the very overthrow, 
 which it was thought he would prevent. Whatever 
 other title or character he might, on account of his 
 prophecies, have deserved, still to declare him the Mes- 
 siah, that proud and cherished name among Jews, was 
 such an anomaly in the history of a Jew's mind, as 
 must have appeared little short of madness to one of 
 his own nation ; and is a phenomenon, which we have 
 a right to have explained by those, who seriously 
 doubt the reality of the character of Jesus, 
 
29 
 
 You perceive then, that to suppose the falsity of 
 the gospel story, or the fictitiousness of the character 
 of Jesus Christ, involves an unaccountable phenom- 
 enon in the Jewish historians. Allow the character 
 to have existed as described, and the difficulty vanishes, 
 for the evangelists themselves tell us of all their pre- 
 vious mistakes, wishes and prejudices, and the events 
 which produced their change of character and views. 
 
 2. The second mark of reality and truth, and con- 
 sequently of something supernatural, in the character 
 of Jesus, is its confessed originality. 
 
 There had been before, in the Jewish history, a 
 succession of prophets, who might have furnished the 
 evangelists with models for a character, if they had 
 been drawing an unreal, or. imaginary portrait. The 
 heathen world too had been favoured with eminent 
 instructers ; for the darkness of paganism is lighted 
 up with the rare lustre of Zoroaster, Pythagoras and 
 Socrates. But Jesus does not appear to have bor- 
 rowed a ray from these lights. He travels across 
 this galaxy of illustrious men, like the full moon in 
 all the brightness of her course, with a lustre totally 
 unborrowed from them, and casting their feeble and 
 collected light into distant obscurity by the mild, yet 
 overwhelming power of his rays. 
 
 Moses spake always like the mere interpreter of 
 the Most High, diffident of his own power, and not 
 without apprehensions from the unfaithfulness and 
 inconstancy of the people. Jesus speaks always with 
 the conscious and unhesitating dignity of one, who 
 
30 
 
 had the spirit without measure, who eould say with- 
 out douht and without presumption, I and my father 
 are one. The preceding prophets, and John too, the 
 immediate precursor of our Lord, had passed off the 
 stage without seeming to have imagined, that the 
 Jewish peculiarity would ever cease, except by Ju- 
 daism's becoming the religion of the world. Jesus, 
 low and humble as he was, gentle and patient as he 
 was, comes as if he knew that he was to consum- 
 mate the dispensations of the Most High, as if he 
 saw the innumerable prejudices, conniptions and su- 
 perstitions of his nation sinking away before him, and 
 the new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth 
 righteousness, descending from on high. Pointed out, 
 as he had been, by all that preceded him, he points to 
 no one. Verily, I say unto you, there hath not risen 
 a greater prophet than John the Baptist ; but he that 
 is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he. 
 He comes, as if he were conscious, that, after the 
 accomplishment of his mission, he was to sit down on 
 the right hand of the majesty of God, angels, and 
 principalities, and powers being made subject to him. 
 
 His manner too is as original as his doctrine. 
 Contrary to the example of all the founders of Jew- 
 ish sects, he comes without austerity, and without 
 any thing of that shade of reserve into which those 
 instructers withdraw, who think themselves oracular. 
 To the great astonishment of the Jews his man- 
 ners are familiar, yet dignified ; to the inexpressible 
 offence of his friends, he associates promiscuously 
 
31 
 
 with every class of men ; his conversations, while 
 they delight and instruct his honest and humhle fol- 
 io wers, send away his inquisitors confounded and 
 unable to reply. And with a still more extraordina- 
 ry assumption of greatness and independence, this 
 poor Jew from the village of Nazareth denounces, 
 without fear, and in the very seat of their authority, 
 the scribes, and priests, and Pharisees, all that was 
 hypocritical, however sacred, and all that was ini- 
 quitous, however powerful. Still more striking, anjl, 
 as it seems, unexampled, was the air of authority, 
 which he assumed in his sermon on the mount, and 
 in the performance of his miracles. Who art thou ? 
 say they. His manner seems to have been grand, 
 impressive, irresistible. " The multitude," says the 
 evangelist, u were astonished, for he taught them as 
 one having authority, and not as the scribes." 
 
 It is impossible for you to understand this wonder- 
 ful originality in the character of Jesus of Nazareth, 
 without at the same time calling to mind the charac- 
 ter of the nation among whom he appeared. 
 
 They were a people, in one respect, like the Hin- 
 doos, all whose habits, opinions, and even movements, 
 were scrupulously marked out by law or by tradi- 
 tion. For many centuries they had been the slaves 
 of a rigid ritual, originally adapted indeed to their 
 national circumstances and character, but now made 
 narrower by traditionary interpretations, which were 
 esteemed even more sacred than the text itself. The 
 Jew s of our Saviour's time were a priest-ridden, for- 
 
mal, and hypocritical nation, and proverbially odious 
 to the rest of the world, who, though not wiser, 
 were the slaves of a different superstition and of differ- 
 ent national vices. If there ever was a community 
 formed to reduce all minds to a common level of su- 
 perstitious imbecility, it was that of the Jews. The 
 best proof of this assertion is to be found, I think, in 
 the remaining w orks of the Jewish authors of that age. 
 The reveries of the Talmud, which are a collection of 
 Jewish traditionary interpolations, are unrivalled in 
 the regions of absurdity. The works of Philo, who 
 flourished about the same time, are only made tolera- 
 ble by their occasional mysticism after the fashion of 
 Plato, w hom he followed. Josephus, w ho was rather a 
 Roman than a Jew, is a sensible historian, and by no 
 means a fair standard of the state of Jewish cultiva- 
 tion, for he w as familiar with Greek literature. The 
 evangelists, though, except Luke, uncultivated men, 
 all w rite with great simplicity, and, what is truly re- 
 markable, without any mysticism or affectation. But 
 such being the state of Jewish cultivation, think only 
 how extraordinary, in such a nation as that, must a 
 character like Jesus have appeared ; sitting down to 
 meat without washing, where the ablutions were per- 
 petual, and of religious obligation ; mingling with- 
 out reserve, and even eating, with tax gatherers and 
 gentiles, whose touch the Jews considered as pollu- 
 ting ; and in all his discourses preferring mercy to 
 sacrifice, and obedience of the moral law of Grod be- 
 fore all the ceremonials of external sanctity, and all 
 
33 
 
 this singularity too under the character of the Mes- 
 siah, the darling object of national expectation ! 
 
 Now, my hearers, I again ask, how, if the original 
 did not exist, could such a character as this have en- 
 tered into the imagination of a Jew of that day ? For 
 let it be constantly remembered, that the historians of 
 Christ are Jews, by birth, by education, by interest ; 
 and that such persons should portray, and with 
 commendation too, such a character as Jesus, if it 
 did not exist, is more wonderful than the existence of 
 the true, the divine original. Would not the bare 
 conception of such a character, in any age, have been 
 enough to immortalize the mind that formed it ? — But 
 to draw such a character, and at the same to give no 
 intimation of any effort or art in the work ; to devise it, 
 and discover no desire to attract attention, or awaken 
 admiration of the writer or of the hero, but to leave it 
 undecorated to make its own impression — here, here 
 appear the power and ingenuousness of truth ! My 
 friends, I see the seal of God, and cannot refuse to 
 exclaim with awe, verily there is something more 
 than mortal in this affair. 
 
 3. A third peculiarity in the character drawn of 
 Jesus, in the gospels, is its wonderful sublimity. As 
 this is rather a matter of taste and feeling than a point 
 to be proved by facts, I shall not enter into a very 
 copious illustration. Reading the gospels, as we do, 
 from our childhood, and being so entirely familiari- 
 zed to every circumstance in our Saviour's life, and 
 
 every word recorded of him, we lose, I think, much 
 6 
 
too often, the full and fresh perception of those marks 
 of moral grandeur of which his history is full. But 
 to those, who can yet feel the sentiment of the 
 suhlime in character, Ave appeal. What simplicity, 
 what pathos, what greatness is there in the por- 
 trait of the Son of God ! There seems to he at 
 times a shade of melancholy thrown over his ap- 
 pearance hy the fatal certainty of his approaching 
 death, which heightens, astonishingly, the effect of his 
 supernatural greatness ; while, at the same time, his 
 tender compassion for his countrymen, and his fa- 
 miliarity, flowing from his benevolence, seem to relieve 
 the awe of his more than human endowments. 
 
 He controls nature, as God created the light, with 
 a word. To the waves, he says, peace, be still — 
 and to raise a dead man from his grave, he says only, 
 Lazarus, come forth ! He performs the most stupen- 
 dous miracles without emotion. Every one who sees 
 them is lost in amazement ; but the Son of God, con- 
 scious of his greatness, and unconcerned about his 
 fame, except to confine it, leaves the words which he 
 littered, and the miracles which he wrought, to pro- 
 duce their own proper impression on the mind : he 
 deigns not to draw the genuine conclusions. The 
 most sublime of all the portions of his life, is its 
 closing hour. His greatness in his sufferings must 
 be felt by every reader of sensibility, and no language 
 can render it more impressive than the simple record 
 of the evangelists. 
 
35 
 
 And now, my friends, if the evangelists are not 
 the conscientious relators of facts, how have they at- 
 tained to these touches of moral greatness ? How, in 
 that age of corrupt literature and taste, among such a 
 race of babblers and triflers as the Jews, did these 
 unlearned men construct such a story, and give such a 
 moral image, sublime beyond the conception of former 
 ages, clothed only in the unexaggerated language of 
 facts ? Here is no Plato to dress up the discourses 
 of Jesus, like those of Socrates, on his dying bed ; 
 and yet the discourses of our Saviour with his 
 disciples, and his prayer with them just before 
 his death, are the sublime of pathos and devotion. 
 This part of the character of Jesus owes nothing to 
 his historians. They do not carefully point us to 
 any striking traits ; they hardly make a reflection for 
 us, or discover that they feel themselves a sentiment 
 of admiration. If you feel, then, my hearers, this 
 sublimity in the character, it is because it really ex- 
 isted, not because the evangelists have taken pains to 
 display it ; it is because you see, in their irregular and 
 inartificial memoranda, the same person whom the 
 
 centurion saw expiring on the cross, when he cried 
 
 out, this was a righteous man, this .was the Sou 
 
 of God ! 
 
 4. The fourth trait, which we proposed to contem- 
 plate in the character of Jesus, as it stands in the gos- 
 pels, is its consistency. 
 
 To understand this, you must follow him, from the 
 commencement of his ministry, through the various 
 
36 
 
 changes of his life. There is, throughout, the same 
 devotedness to God, compassion for human misery, 
 contempt of malediction, meekness, self denial, 
 grandeur and solemn tranquillity. He is the same 
 great and gracious being, when driven in fury from 
 his native city, and when carried in triumph by the 
 people ; when giving his disciples his last adieu in 
 private, and when surrendered by the baseness of a 
 disciple to the violence of the rulers and the tumult of 
 the people ; w hen expiring on the cross, and when 
 risen in all the plenitude of his power and glory. The 
 great object of his life, and sufferings, and exaltation, 
 seems never to have been absent from his mind. Not 
 a syllable escapes him, in the most difficult and try- 
 ing crisis of his life, unworthy of the majesty of the 
 Son of God, or of the tenderness of one, who felt all 
 our infirmities, and learned obedience by the things 
 which he suffered. 
 
 The more we think of this subject, the more aston- 
 ishing we shall find it, and the more difficult to pre- 
 serve the consistency we have mentioned. Here is a 
 wonderful contrast of powers — divine greatness and 
 mortal debility, ignominy and glory, suffering and 
 triumph, the servant of all and the Lord of all, Jesus 
 expiring and Jesus risen and triumphant. Who 
 would undertake, without any adequate prototype, to 
 describe a consistent character out of these incongru- 
 ous elements ? Who could advance a step in such a 
 narrative without previous instruction ? 
 
37 
 
 Think how difficult it is to preserve, for any length 
 of time, the consistency of a common fictitious delinea- 
 tion. Suppose the character is taken from the walks 
 of every- day life, to make a natural portrait is a 
 mark of considerable talent. But when the charac- 
 ter is extraordinary, beyond the grasp of common 
 minds, when the events are mighty and unexampled, 
 and especially where supernatural agency makes a 
 part of the narration, then the preservation of consis- 
 tency discovers wonderful superiority of invention. 
 Great geniuses have often attempted this and failed. 
 
 Now when you add to this, that the history of Jesus 
 is the work not of one writer, but of four, and three 
 of these obscure and illiterate, and one of them confes- 
 sedly writing from the testimony of various witnesses ; 
 when you consider, that each of them contributes dif- 
 ferent portions of the history, and yet that they produce 
 such an harmonious whole, as the character of Jesus 
 Christ ; if you suppose that they did not copy, and mi- 
 nutely too, from a real original, that they did not 
 make use of undeniable facts, the work rises into a 
 miracle of human genius. It is impossible, utterly 
 impossible, in the nature of the human mind, that any 
 thing but truth should have furnished the materials, 
 the substance of the evangelical narrative. If you 
 deny, or doubt this, you have a moral phenomenon, 
 and an historical difficulty more unaccountable, more 
 prodigious, more incredible, than all the miracles of 
 the gospel, and at the same time utterly useless and 
 absurdly anomalous 5 and he who chooses this side of 
 
38 
 
 the alternative; knows not what he doth, nor whereof 
 lie affirmeth. 
 
 What we have said on these four points, the 
 unexpectedness, originality, sublimity and consisten- 
 cy of the delineation is enough, we hope, to satisfy 
 any man, who will meditate on the subject, that this 
 is a real picture ; and if Jesus Christ really existed, 
 as the evangelists have drawn him, I leave you to 
 judge of the truth of that declaration at the com- 
 mencement of his ministry, this is my beloved Son, 
 in whom I am well pleased. 
 
 What remains then, but to exhort you to some prac- 
 tical use of these meditations. 
 
 I hope you are among those advanced christians, 
 who, after having satisfied yourselves of the historical 
 truth of the facts in Christianity, because you thought 
 it a duty which you owed to truth, are now able to re- 
 pose on your original conviction ; and that in this 
 state your faith is continually strengthening itself, not 
 merely by time and habit, but by those secret and ir- 
 resistible influences, which flow from the frequent and 
 diligent reading of that wonderful collection of docu- 
 ments relating to Jesus Christ, the New Testa- 
 ment. To dwell upon the character of Jesus, must 
 be the delight of every christian who has any desire 
 to grow in virtue, and surely he is no christian who 
 makes no progress. 
 
 We have said, that the kind of character which Je- 
 sus exhibited as the Messiah, w as entirely unexpect- 
 ed to his nation. Instead of using his miraculous 
 
39 
 
 power to place himself at the head of his nation, as 
 their deliverer and the conqueror of the world, the 
 Son of God chose rather to appear as the son of 
 peace and consolation. The heart of man was the 
 only realm which he aspired to rule ; and it was 
 as grateful to him to convert the publicans and sin- 
 ners, as it would have been to receive the proud 
 submission of a prefect or an emperour, of Herod 
 or Tiberius. He went about doing good, when the 
 impatient Jews were tempting him to aspire to the 
 throne of David. What a lesson of humility is 
 this ; and what can more clearly show the unambi- 
 tious and holy spirit of the christian religion, than 
 this character of Christ in these circumstances. 
 
 Again, what an original character was that of Je- 
 sus Christ. How little w as it modified by the nation- 
 al character of the Jews, and how perfectly free was it 
 from any of the debilitating and corrupting influence 
 of general example. The Son of God, christians, did 
 not fear the charge of singularity. He did not seek fa- 
 vour by accommodating himself to the manners and 
 principles of the times in which he lived. He did not 
 choose to conciliate hypocrites, nor did he attempt to 
 secure the ruling authorities in aid of his designs by 
 falling in with their purposes. He dared to neglect su- 
 perstitions which he thought vain, and men w hom he 
 thought base, and to honour those whom the wicked 
 priests and elders neglected or disdained. He felt that 
 freedom from the common thraldom of prejudice, love 
 ^ popularity, and inveterate custom, which the con- 
 
40 
 
 sciousness of pure views, of fervent and rational pie- 
 ty, and the continual anticipation of a better world 
 will give you, my friends, even the most humble of 
 you, if you will make the trial. 
 
 But is there any thing to be learned, you will say, 
 from the sublimity of the character, which is so much 
 a subject of taste ? Yes, learn from it this, that there 
 is nothing truly great but what is simple and un- 
 affected. Sublimity is completely destroyed by vani- 
 ty and ostentation. Learn, that the moral grandeur of 
 independent integrity is the sublimest thing in nature, 
 before which the pomp of eastern magnificence and 
 the splendour of conquest are odious as well as perish- 
 able. 
 
 Again, from the consistency of the Saviour's char- 
 acter, learn, that the character of every christian must 
 be a consistent, a uniform one. The heavenly spirit 
 which pervades him discovers itself in all his visible ac- 
 tions. The true-bred pupil of Jesus Christ is the same 
 in prosperity and adversity, in ignominy and in honour, 
 in weal or wo, in the circle of admirers and friends 
 and under the calumnies of enemies, in publick and 
 in his closet, in the full flow of his health and spirits 
 and in the cold embraces of death. 
 
 To conclude — have you caught, my hearers, any 
 glimpses of Jesus ? If you believe in him as he was, 
 if you love what you know of him, and imitate what 
 you love, and study to know more and more of his 
 character, you will see that he was in the Father, and 
 the Father in him ; for the more like God, the perfec- 
 
tion of all excellence, you become, the more will you 
 feel all that is godlike in his Son* 
 
 Yet this wondrous image of excellence was muti- 
 lated by men, and Jesus died by the hands of those 
 whom he would have saved. My hearers, it was to 
 bring us to that state of light and privilege which we 
 now enjoy — nay more, it was to effect our recovery 
 and pardon, and exalt us yet higher in the scale of be- 
 ing — that this divine character was humbled even unto 
 the ignominy of crucifixion. Let it not be our accu- 
 sation, that we have been insensible to this wonderful 
 scene of majesty and infamy, of compassion and cru- 
 elty. Enough, enough, that we have ever wavered. 
 Thee will we follow, blessed Jesus ; and though all 
 should be offended in thee, yet will we never be 
 offended. 
 
 6 
 
SERMON III. 
 
 PSALM cxix. 71. 
 
 IT IS GOOD FOR JttE, THAT I HAVE BEEN AFFLICTED. 
 
 THIS acknowledgement is from the pen of Da- 
 vid, the monarch of Israel, whose life was chequered 
 with all the varieties of prosperous and adverse 
 fortune ; and happy should we pronounce any man, 
 whose sufferings, though less various and severe, have 
 enabled him to repeat with equal sincerity, it is good 
 for me, that I have been afflicted. 
 
 Little did I imagine, my christian friends — when 
 I last stood in this desk of sacred instruction, listen- 
 ing to the solemn counsels of those, who were conven- 
 ed to sanction our mutual relation, and joyfully ac- 
 cepting the proffered fellowship and tender congrat- 
 ulations of my elder brethren — little did I imagine, 
 that the cold hand of disease would so soon chill the 
 ardour of my expectations, and cripple the vigour 
 with which I hoped to enter on the duties, in which 
 I should need so much aid from Heaven and so much 
 indulgence from you. But our times are in (rod's 
 
43 
 
 hand. The course of Providence cannot be hastened 
 by our precipitancy ; nor the decrees of Heaven ex- 
 plored by our curiosity, or accommodated to our wish- 
 es. But the religion we profess, my friends, forbids 
 us to suffer disappointment to damp the liveliness of 
 our confidence in our Father who is in Heaven, or 
 to awaken even a sentiment, much less to call forth an 
 expression, of fretfulness, impatience or distrust ; and 
 though it is not in the power of human nature to look 
 at the beginning and the end of affliction with equal 
 pleasure, and to feel the approach and the departure 
 of pain with equal gratitude, still we can at least be- 
 lieve, and believing we shall confess, that the hand 
 of God is guided in both by equal goodness : we can 
 at least avoid despising the chastening, or fainting 
 under the rebuke. 
 
 But this is not the place to talk of ourselves, or of 
 our sufferings. Permit me only to observe, that I 
 have been induced to defer to some future day the ap- 
 propriate discourses, which are usually expected from 
 a pastor newly inducted, that I may direct your present 
 attention to a subject, which you will easily perceive 
 my late confinement has suggested to my thoughts. 
 And if, by seizing the moments when my own reflec- 
 tions are most copious and warm, and my own recol- 
 lections most vivid, I should be able, by the blessing 
 of God, to impress on the mind of a single hearer the 
 benefits of pain or sickness, or teach him to endure 
 with fortitude and advantage the chastisements of 
 Heaven, I shall bless the present occasion and say 
 
44 
 
 with additional pleasure, it is good for you also, that I 
 have been afflicted. 
 
 The discipline of Providence is as various, as are 
 the characters and circumstances of men. Every 
 thing which occurs to us in this life is probationary. 
 Calamities, though they may wear the guise of pun- 
 ishments, are never administered solely for the sake 
 of punishment, but of correction ; and what we call 
 indiscriminately fortunate events, and thoughtlessly 
 imagine to be blessings, are never dispensed merely 
 as the recompense, but rather as the trials of our 
 obedience. 
 
 Of all the various forms, which affliction assumes, 
 the most common is that of sickness. The shafts of 
 disease shoot across our path in such a variety of 
 courses, that the atmosphere of human life is darken* 
 ed by their number, and the escape of an individual 
 becomes almost miraculous. Is there one in this as- 
 sembly, w ho has reached even half the term of human 
 life, and who has never yet trembled at the approaches 
 of disease, who has never groaned under the anguish 
 of pain, who has never sunk helpless under the secret 
 and imperceptible operation of an enfeebling disorder ; 
 one on whose cheek the bloom of health has never 
 faded, whose limbs the vigour of youth has at no time 
 deserted, the energy of whose mind debility has at 
 no time relaxed, or confinement wasted or disabled ? 
 If there be such an one, who of you will venture to 
 say, I envy that man. Let us grant, indeed, that of 
 all the temporal gifts of God health is the most pure, 
 
43 
 
 valuable and desirable ; the blessing most worthy of 
 the petitions of the good, and least exposed to abuse 
 by the corrupt. Still it is no paradox to assert, that 
 the loss of blessings may itself prove a blessing, that 
 the maladies of the body may prove medicines of the 
 mind. Though that complacency, which is described 
 as the attendant of a healthful and vigorous constitu- 
 tion, may be the maximum of corporeal enjoyment, yet 
 we may venture to assert, without a play upon words, 
 that such uniform freedom from the infirmities of hu- 
 manity may gradually generate a selfish complacency 
 and confidence in health, which are nearly allied to 
 ignorance of our own frailty, and insensibility to the 
 pains and sorrows of others. The man, who has 
 never yet bowed to the power of disease, nor felt the 
 restless and unmitigated irritations of pain, has not en- 
 tered an important school of religious discipline, nor 
 exercised himself in the ample field of passive virtues. 
 Could he but know his moral wants, he would even 
 lament the absence of those personal trials, which are 
 adapted to call forth the highest excellencies of the 
 christian character. What then ! Do we say that 
 he, whom God has blessed with the temperate luxury 
 of uninterrupted health, has not reason for perpetual 
 gratitude ? By no means. We say only, that in the 
 assemblage of graces, which compose the character 
 of the christian, there are some which affliction may 
 improve and sickness invigorate. We say only, that 
 adversity must be mingled with prosperity, to form 
 the most perfect character; not only in the view of 
 
4(5 
 
 (xod, but in the estimation of society. We say only, 
 (hat for the present indeed, though no chastisement 
 appeareth joyous but grievous, nevertheless it yield- 
 eth afterwards the peaceable fruits of righteousness to 
 tii em, who have been exercised thereby. Therefore, 
 my brethren, lift up the hands that hang down, and 
 strengthen the feeble knees, if such there be among 
 us, and let us see if we cannot discover some roses 
 on the cheek of disease, some intelligence in the lan- 
 guid eye of decaying health, and hear a voice of in- 
 struction even from the still chamber of the sick. 
 
 1. In the first place, then, the secret and sudden at- 
 tacks, especially of those acute diseases, whose ap- 
 proaches human foresight cannot discern, and whose 
 immediate causes human wisdom cannot assign, call 
 the attention directly and forcibly to God. Wherever 
 we can discover second causes, to them we confine 
 our reasonings with a kind of atheistical short-sight- 
 edness. This calamity we attribute to our own im- 
 prudence ; and that to the negligence of others. In 
 one instance we fatter ourselves, that our affliction 
 comes forth from the dust ; in another, that our trouble 
 springs out of the ground. Here, we think, precau- 
 tion w ould have secured us ; and there retreat would 
 have effectually removed us from danger. But w hen 
 we are called to look in vain for the origin of illness, 
 when even the physician pauses and hesitates to assign 
 a reason, w hen the malady which walks in darkness 
 enters silent and noiseless, and the hand of pain 
 strikes unseen a staggering blow — then it is, that ex- 
 
±7 
 
 perience gives no consolation, philosophy is confound- 
 ed, art is baffled, presumption is abashed, security is 
 alarmed, thoughtlessness awakes and ponders — then it 
 is recollected, that there is a God in the earth, and 
 the sufferer casts himself at the feet of Almighty pow- 
 er, saying, it is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him 
 good. 
 
 Hence, whenever we can discover the immediate 
 instrument, the proximate cause of any event, on this 
 the mind, occupied about material things, reposes 
 with unthinking satisfaction, while the universal and 
 Almighty agent is virtually degraded into a sluggish 
 and Epicurean deity. From this slumber of the re- 
 flections, which is apt to creep at times upon the most 
 pious and devout, it is the office of violent and sudden 
 disease to awaken us ; and if we could trace no further 
 than this the advantages of occasional suffering, we 
 should be warranted in concluding, that it is good for 
 man to be thus afflicted. 
 
 But the immediate agency of God in whatever be- 
 fals us, is only one of many truths, which severe 
 affliction revives and reimpresses. 
 
 2. A second benefit of sickness is, that by it we are 
 reminded of the uncertainty of temporal enjoyments, 
 and the consequent folly of indulging confident ex- 
 pectations, of framing magnificent plans, of uttering 
 sanguine promises and cherishing extravagant desires. 
 But this uncertainty, you will say, no man is so ab- 
 surd as to deny : there needs no messenger of wrath 
 to tell us this. But, believe, me. there is a wide differ- 
 
46 
 
 ence between believing, or even assenting to a truth 
 in philosophy or morals, and being the subject of the 
 experiment, which proves it ; between gathering in- 
 struction, at leisure, from the disappointments of oth- 
 ers, and learning it, at a blow, from the calamities 
 which fall upon ourselves. It is one thing to rise 
 above the attractions of the world, in our chambers, 
 by the aid of moralists and maxims, meditation and 
 prayer ; and another to be disciplined, by personal 
 suffering, till we learn to look at its pleasures with an 
 undazzled eye, and hear its promises with an in- 
 credulous ear. 
 
 There are some truths, whose force seems to be 
 diminished by the very multitude and variety of the 
 facts, by which they are proved. Thus the collect- 
 ed experience of successive generations, the observa- 
 tion of every living man, and the solemn and multipli- 
 ed declarations of scripture have been conspiring, ev- 
 er since the world was made, to show the precarious- 
 ness of human enjoyments. The truth is so evident, 
 that we admit and forget it in the same moment. We 
 want some objection to awaken our consideration, 
 some difficulty to call out our attention. Wearied by 
 their repetition, and bewildered by their multitude, 
 we feel not the force of such innumerable proofs. 
 But when God in his mercy interposes, and blasts at 
 once the confidence of our expectations, when a sick- 
 ly wind is permitted to pass over our luxuriant hopes, 
 and they are gone — then the sinews of our presump- 
 tuousness are cut in a moment, and the proud heart, 
 
49 
 
 which said, " I shall never be moved/' drops with all 
 its purposes and plans, promises and hopes ; and 
 what volumes failed to teach, what instructers repeat- 
 ed, and example exhibited in vain, is enstamped for- 
 ever on the mind by one short, probing lesson of per- 
 sonal suffering. 
 
 3. But sickness teaches not only the uncertain ten- 
 ure, but discovers, thirdly, the utter vanity and unsat- 
 isfactoriness of the dearest objects of human pursuit. 
 Introduce into the chamber of a sick and dying man 
 the whole pantheon of idols, which he has vainly 
 worshipped — fame, wealth, pleasure, beauty, power. 
 What miserable comforters are they all ! Bind that 
 wreath of laurel round his brow, and see if it will as- 
 suage his aching temples. Spread before him the 
 deeds and instruments, which prove him the lord of in- 
 numerable possessions, and see if you can beguile 
 him of a moment's anguish ; see if he will not give 
 you up those barren parchments for one drop of cool 
 water, one draught of pure air. Go, tell him, when a 
 fever rages through his veins, that his table smokes 
 with luxuries, and that the wine moveth itself aright 
 and giveth its colour in the cup, and see if this will 
 calm his throbbing pulse. Tell him, as he lies pros- 
 trate, helpless and sinking with debility, that the song 
 and dance are ready to begin, and that all without him 
 is life, alacrity and joy. Nay more, place in his mo- 
 tionless hand che sceptre of a mighty empire, and see 
 if he will be eager to grasp it. The eye of Caesar 
 
 could not gain its lustre by the recollection, that its 
 7 
 
50 
 
 '•'bend could awe the world," nor his shaking limbs be 
 quieted by remembering, that his nod had commanded 
 obedience from millions of slaves. This, my friends, 
 this is the school, in which our desires must be disci- 
 plined, and our judgment corrected. The man, who 
 from such dispensations learns nothing but perverse- 
 ness, must be fearfully insensible. Let us then re- 
 member, that every man, at what he supposes his best 
 estate, is altogether vanity. God grant that we may 
 understand it, before others are called to learn it from 
 our graves, or to read it upon our tombstones. 
 
 But if sickness puts to the proof these worthless ob- 
 jects of our confidence, it ought also to direct us to 
 that staff which cannot be broken. Till we learn to 
 lean on an Almighty arm, and to support a mind vig- 
 orous with trust, and warm with devotion, in the midst 
 of a racked and decaying frame, the work of sickness 
 is but half completed. To learn the emptiness of the 
 w orld, is to learn but a lesson of misanthropy, if it do 
 not generate and awaken that confidence, which glad- 
 ly casts itself on God alone. When affliction has had 
 her perfect work, we shall involuntarily adopt this lan- 
 guage of a pious sufferer, be merciful unto me, O 
 God, be merciful unto me, for my soul trusteth in 
 thee : yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make 
 my refuge, until these calamities be overpast. I will 
 commit my soul unto thee, as unto a faithful Creator. 
 
 4. Violent diseases show us also our dependence 
 upon one another. Man, unaided by his fellow man, 
 is the most weak and helpless of animals. Placed 
 
H 
 
 beyond the reach of the kind, watchful., and sympa- 
 thetiek aid of others, his first malady would be his 
 last ; and the lord of this lower world would sink 
 under the first blow, which should strike his brittle 
 tenement. Take the most proud and fiery spirit, 
 which ever animated a muscular and gigantick frame, 
 one who disdains to be obliged, and spurns alike the 
 control and the assistance of others. Stretch him on 
 the bed of sickness, languishing, faint and motionless. 
 Where now is that surly independence, that irritable 
 haughtiness of soul ? Nay, where now is that resist- 
 less strength of limb, that mighty bone and lofty step ? 
 Has it come to this ? — that a child may lead so un- 
 traceable a spirit ; that a child may contend with that 
 withered arm ? 
 
 It is a common remark, that death is the universal 
 leveller. The same is true, in its degree, of sickness. 
 When we are reduced to such weakness that we can- 
 not help ourselves, we find that many, whom we de- 
 spised, can essentially help us. We find, that the 
 meanest of our species can lay us under obligations, 
 which we can never discharge. We find, ourselves 
 at the mercy of those, on whom, if we have ever be- 
 stowed a thought, Ave have been accustomed to look 
 down with pity or contempt. But, from a sick bed, 
 it is impossible to look down on any one. On the 
 contrary, I appeal to you who have ever suffered, 
 whether you have not sometimes gazed with grateful 
 admiration at the patient, condescending, untired offi- 
 ces of affectionate fidelity and tender watchfulness, 
 
which have at once ennobled in your esteem and en- 
 deared to your affections the humblest of your species. 
 
 But it is the tendency of sickness not only to reduce 
 our extravagant self estimation, by exhibiting our soli- 
 tary helplessness, but, by leading our friends to perform 
 for us innumerable and nameless offices of affection, 
 it confirms and fastens forever those tender ties, which 
 bind us to each other. Often, indeed, has a severe and 
 tedious confinement added new strength to the attach- 
 ments of consanguinity, and new delicacy to the bonds 
 of friendship. Often, in the chamber of the sick, a 
 stern temper has been melted to forgiveness, indiffer- 
 ence has ripened into love, aversion has changed into 
 regard, and regard mellowed into attachment. 
 
 5. It is the tendency of sickness to intenerate and 
 soften the heart. It is impossible properly to com- 
 miserate afflictions, which we have never experien- 
 ced, and cannot therefore estimate. Of course, every 
 variety of suffering aids the general groAvth of com- 
 passion. A new affliction strings a new chord in the 
 heart, which responds to some new note of complaint 
 within the wide scale of human woe. Since the pains 
 and weaknesses of the body constitute so large a por- 
 tion of the afflictions, which besiege the path of hu- 
 man life, who of you is unwilling to acquire, even by 
 personal suffering, a sympathy for the exercise of 
 which your intercourse with mankind will present in- 
 numerable opportunities. Mark the delight, with 
 which the afflicted communicate to each other the cir- 
 cumstances of their common woes. It is an enviable 
 
53 
 
 eloquence, which they only feel and understand. Hce 
 with what facility and advantage one, who has endur- 
 ed pain, will anticipate the wants of a sick compan- 
 ion, and administer relief or whisper cheering conso- 
 lations, while another is standing by, who, if not in- 
 sensible, is at least dumb and useless, unable to com- 
 fort, because he knows not how to commiserate. 
 Whatever he, who has grown callous through unin- 
 terrupted prosperity, and presumptuous by perpetual 
 health, may think of his immunity from pain, there is 
 a satisfaction, a luxury in being able to exclaim with 
 Paul, that sympathetick apostle, who is weak and I 
 am not weak, who is offended and I burn not. 
 
 6. Our sixth remark on the benefit of sickness, 
 though the most common yet not the most unimportant, 
 is, that sickness is sometimes necessary to teach us 
 the value of health. In the present state of refined 
 and luxurious society, there are two large and increas- 
 ing descriptions of men, to whom it is of no little im- 
 portance to understand the real value of health. The 
 first is the numerous class of imaginary invalids, who, 
 though subject only to the unavoidable infirmities of 
 mortality, create to themselves a host of fancied ills, 
 and waste a really healthful life in perpetual appre- 
 hensions, ungrateful complaints, idle precautions, and 
 uninterrupted discontent. It is well known, that such 
 men never felt the severity of serious and painful ill- 
 ness. A single rude and violent attack of real disor- 
 der would soon shake off this cluster of uneasinesses, 
 and put to flight the cowardly tribe of imaginary- woes. 
 
34 
 
 It would be good for these men, to be afflicted indeed. 
 There is, however, a precisely opposite class, com- 
 posed of the presumptuous, thoughtless and adventur- 
 ous ; men, whom age has not yet made cautious, nor 
 adversity wise. Ignorant of the value of a blessing, 
 which to youth is so common, they delight rashly 
 to expose it, and insensibly to waste it away. Af- 
 ter experience has counselled, friendship intreated, 
 and authority commanded in vain, disease comes 
 at last and closes the presumptuous game, and teach- 
 es them, that health, strength and life, though they 
 may be possessed without gratitude, cannot be sport- 
 ed with without loss, or won .back again by dexterity 
 or courage. 
 
 It is the distinguishing mark of habitual piety to be 
 grateful for the most common and ordinary blessings. 
 There is no man so insensible and vile, as not to feel a 
 glow of thankfulness for distinguishing favours or 
 wonderful interpositions. But sickness discovers the 
 value of the usual and customary degree of health, 
 and reminds the convalescent, that he has scarcely 
 thanked God for a blessing, in the place of which 
 nothing can be substituted, and for whose recovery 
 every thing but innocence may justly be surrendered. 
 
 7. Lastly, the attacks of violent disease will 
 teach us, if we are not absolutely insensible, a most 
 solemn and salutary lesson, which, if not early acquir- 
 ed, may be useless, because the next experiment may 
 be fatal. We shall then find, that the hours of tor- 
 turing pain and languishing confinement are not the 
 
55 
 
 hours most favourable to quiet reflection and pious 
 thoughts. We shall find, that the mind will sympa- 
 thize so much with the anguish and debility of the 
 body, that it will be too feeble to expatiate, or too dis- 
 tracted to fix itself in meditation. lieligious contem- 
 plations and celestial visions do not necessarily throng 
 around the pillow, which supports an aching head. 
 In one word, confinement will not afford you that lei- 
 sure, which you want and which you expect, to think 
 at last of your future destination, to learn the truths 
 you have neglected, to revive those you have forgotten, 
 and to prepare for that world which now seems near- 
 er to you than ever. The lessons, which affliction 
 imparts, she leaves to be considered, when health is 
 returning, and to be practised, when it is estab- 
 lished. To have been afflicted, is of little import- 
 ance, if no time remains for the confirmation of our 
 dispositions and the establishment of better habits. 
 When the psalmist observes, it is good for me, that I 
 have been afflicted, he does not mean, that the mere 
 suffering of pain made him instantaneously better, 
 that debility and distress prepared him immediately 
 to leave the world, that affliction led him necessarily 
 and directly to God. Suppose, what is not improba- 
 ble, that during his distresses he was exercised with 
 remorse, and melted with contrition. Still, unless 
 his penitence had been so deep, that, if he had lived, 
 it would have exhibited a permanent influence by con- 
 firming his piety into habit, and leading him to a sin- 
 cere relinquishment of his former sins, the anguish of his 
 
56 
 
 mind would have been morally worth little more than 
 the tortures of his body ; and the royal criminal, if he 
 had then been summoned from the world, would have 
 rushed tarnished and impure into the presence of his 
 God, though he might have gone thither from a bed of 
 sickness, and even with the language of contrition and 
 confession on his lips. 
 
 We heseech you, then, do not mistake us. When 
 we discourse to you of the beneficial fruits of affliction, 
 we talk of no secret and magical power, which sick- 
 ness possesses, to make you necessarily and immedi- 
 ately wise and good ; but we speak of fruits, which 
 must form, and swell, and ripen — fruits, which time 
 must mature and watchfulness preserve. We repre- 
 sent affliction as a discipline, which you must live to 
 improve ; a medicine, whose operation cannot be as- 
 certained, if the patient dies in the experiment. O, 
 defer not, then, I beseech you, defer not to the frantick 
 hours of pain, to the feverish hours of disease, to the 
 languishing hours of confinement — defer not an atten- 
 tion to the things which concern your everlasting 
 peace. You think, they will be hours of leisure. Be- 
 lieve me, it will be the leisure of distraction or of in- 
 sensibility — it may be the leisure of death. 
 
 I have thus attempted to direct your attention to 
 some of the numerous benefits, which follow from af- 
 fliction ; benefits, which may at least light up a smile 
 on the pale and gloomy countenance of disease, if they 
 cannot invest it with beauty and grace. Permit me 
 
57 
 
 now to surest a few reflections naturally connected 
 with the subject. 
 
 1. In the first place, then, if all the natural evils of 
 life, pain, sickness, losses, soitoavs, dangers and dis- 
 appointments, are disciplinary and remedial, it follows, 
 that nothing is really and ultimately calamitous but 
 sin. Moral evil alone mars the intellectual works of 
 God. While this remains, pain will wave over us 
 her scourge in triumph, and disease will call exult- 
 tingly upon her train of woes, and let them loose to 
 prey on fallen man. And shall we willingly harbour 
 this monster of the rational world ? Shall we throw 
 open our hearts, to give a hospitable shelter to this 
 polluted and polluting tenant ? Shall we roll this poi- 
 son as a sweet morsel under our tongue, and then 
 complain of the salutary sufferings, which are neces- 
 sary to expel it from our system ? 
 
 2. If the tendency of affliction is so beneficial, a 
 stronger motive cannot be suggested to encourage us 
 to support pain with fortitude and patience, and all 
 kinds of suffering with resignation to the will of hea- 
 ven. Other considerations indeed there are, which 
 may have their weight on other minds, but I know of 
 none at once so intelligible, so rational and so pious 
 as these : by the sadness of the countenance the heart 
 is made better ; and our light affliction, which is but 
 for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding 
 and eternal weight of glory. There may, indeed, be 
 found minds so well disciplined in piety, and so far 
 
 advanced in the career of holiness, as to acquiesce 
 8 
 
58 
 
 humbly in every dispensation, from the simple consid- 
 eration, that it proceeds from the hand of an Almigh- 
 ty disposer. But I conceive, that this temper of un- 
 alloyed suhmission must he grounded on a conviction, 
 that this disposer is merciful, that his chastisements 
 are parental, and his designs exclusively benevolent 
 and pure ; so that the perfection of resignation is noth- 
 ing more than a principle ripened into a habit ; a 
 principle, which was originally suggested by an atten- 
 tion to the established tendency of affliction, and by 
 conclusions thence formed of the character of the cor- 
 rector, that he does not afflict willingly, nor for sor- 
 row's sake alone grieve the children of men. 
 
 Others, however, submit unrepiningly to evils, mere- 
 ly because they are inevitable. This is a spirit, 
 which is often dignified with the name of philosoph- 
 ical submission. But, Avhatever it may possess of 
 philosophy, it has little of piety, for it is at best a 
 spurious kind of resignation, a doubtful virtue, which 
 might be recommended with equal propriety, and from 
 the same considerations, under the government of a 
 malignant as of a good being ; and would, indeed, 
 be peculiarly accommodated to the inhabitants of a 
 world, if such there were, whose affairs were subject 
 to the fluctuations of a blind chance, or bound down 
 by an invincible and physical fatality. 
 
 But, my christian friends, in the. enjoyment of that 
 pure light, which our religion throws upon the char- 
 acter of God, we should be ashamed to recommend to 
 you this Stoical principle. Leave such cold-blooded 
 
5$ 
 
 virtue to that chilling system of philosophy, which 
 sees in the universe no design, in adversity no tenden- 
 cy to good, in futurity no gleams of hope, and in hea- 
 ven no creator, benefactor, father or judge. 
 
 From the view of affliction, which we have attempt- 
 ed to give yon, what duties result ? Consideration. 
 In the day of adversity consider. Prayer. Is any 
 among you afflicted, let him pray : In the day of my 
 trouble I will call upon thee, O God, for thou wilt an- 
 swer me. Fortitude. If thou faint in the day of ad- 
 versity, thy strength is small. Patience. Patient in 
 your tribulation, possess ye your souls, and let pa- 
 tience have her perfect work. And, to comprise all 
 these virtues in a single word, resignation. The cup, 
 which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ? 
 Not my will, O God, but thine be done. 
 
 The reflection, that if our affliction does not make 
 us better, it will assuredly make us worse, is, to those 
 who have recovered, solemn, and full of awful thought. 
 To grow worse under the discipline of Providence, is 
 the most deplorable and desperate state, into which a 
 moral being can sink. In the time of his distress did 
 he trespass yet more against the Lord : this is that 
 king Ahaz. Believe me, this is no chimerical danger. 
 The fire, which does not melt, will harden ; the stain, 
 which is not purified by the furnace, will be more 
 deeply engrained. If sickness, for instance, have not 
 taught us the vanity of some of our dearest pleasures, 
 we shall only return to them with appetites sharpen- 
 ed by abstinence, and desires rendered more ungov- 
 
60 
 
 ernable by temporary restraint. If it has not im- 
 pressed upon us also the uncertainty of health, and 
 prepared us better for the loss of life, it has probably 
 increased our presumptuousness, and induced us to 
 hope, that disease has now discharged his quiver of 
 arrows, and that, as soon as our wounds are healed, 
 we have little more to fear from this dreaded enemy 
 in our passage through the troubled path of life. If 
 we have not learned resignation, it is probable we have 
 become more impatient, discontented and irritable. 
 If we have learned no humility, we have probably 
 learned perverseness, and — what is still more to be la- 
 mented, what we can hardly contemplate without 
 horrour — it will require a harder blow to make us feel 
 hereafter, a severer chastisement to make us submit. 
 And who shall say, whether the next chastisement shall 
 be inflicted in this world, or in another? Who will 
 be so hardy as to assure us, whether it shall be part of 
 the discipline of this state of probation, or a portion of 
 the sufferings in a state of punishment ? 
 
 4. Lastly, if there is any one, who, despairing of 
 the return of health and strength, labours under the 
 gradual advances of an incurable disease, to such an 
 one I would say, it may be good even for you, to be af- 
 flicted. There are advantages even in the long con- 
 tinuance of confinement, and in the prospect of inevi- 
 table and slowly approaching death. To him who 
 knows, that he must soon close his eyes on this pleas- 
 ant scene, it is no small preparation, that every morn- 
 ing's sun rises upon his sight with daily diminishing 
 
61 
 
 lustre, luxuries pall gradually upon his taste, sounds 
 die away gently upon his ear, and the ties, which 
 bind him to earth, weaken by degrees, and at last the 
 silver cord is loosed with gentle hands, without pain- 
 ful or perceptible disruption. 
 
 Long confinement, also, brings with it the advan- 
 tages of drawing us off from those partialities, which 
 bind us to society in general ; and, though it may 
 strengthen our attachment to those, who watch imme- 
 diately around our bed, and are the inmates of our 
 decaying hours, yet even here the energy of the affec- 
 tions wastes with the energy of the body, and tne 
 dissolution of the ties of love and friendship is, by 
 the kindness of Heaven, rendered as gentle as the 
 dissolution of the soul and body. Lengthened illness,^ 
 too, not only draws off our attention gradually from a 
 world we must leave, but it seems to usher into view, 
 by a similar and solemn gradation, the world which 
 we are about to enter. It places us in an extended 
 and narrow vista, in which the various objects on each 
 side are excluded, and eternity, that vast object at the 
 termination of the view, seems to enlarge, as we ap- 
 proach it, till it fills at last, and engrosses the concep- 
 tions* 
 
SERMON IV. 
 
 LUKE xiv. 18. 
 
 AND THEY ALL WITH ONE CONSENT BEGAN TO MAKE 
 
 EXCUSE. 
 
 THIS parable, of the invitation refused, who ever 
 read without indignation at the contemptuous incivil- 
 ity and ingratitude of these men ? A nobleman, we are 
 told, on the marriage of his son, proclaims his intention 
 of making a liberal entertainment. Many guests are 
 invited. To some, we may suppose, he was a bene- 
 factor ; to others, a friend ; to all, a kind and conde- 
 scending superiour. At the hour of supper his ser- 
 vants are again despatched to urge their coming, to 
 inform them, that every thing is ready, and that he 
 waits only their arrival. With one consent they be- 
 gin to excuse themselves. Without any expression 
 of regret, they all find other engagements of business 
 or of pleasure, with which they cannot dispense. One 
 must visit his farm, another must attend to his mer- 
 chandize, and a third is detained at home by domes- 
 tick cares. 
 
63 
 
 It is unnecessary to inform you, that by this parable 
 our Saviour represents the perverseness and prejudice, 
 with which the Jews rejected the Messiah. But it is 
 also true, that this parable, which with such gentle 
 remonstrance exhibits their ingratitude, holds out a 
 faithful picture of a numerous and increasing class of 
 men within the pale of Christendom ; and those upbraid- 
 ing discourses, which ought to have belonged to Jews 
 only, we find are not inapplicable to christians. Do you 
 ask, if it be possible, that such contemptuous and friv- 
 ulous excuses are still offered to extenuate neglect of 
 religion, and to quiet an insulted conscience ? Yes ; 
 they are yet offered, and yet admitted, not indeed by 
 God ; seldom indeed, and not without reluctance by 
 our consciences ; but easily and often by a thoughtless 
 and indulgent age. In the time of our Saviour, they 
 were offered to excuse the rejection of the Messiah ; 
 now, to excuse a neglect of the peculiar duties of his 
 religion, even where its truth is acknowledged. The 
 gospel feast is still open. Religion offers her repast 
 of pleasures, unadulterated, inexhaustible and immor- 
 tal. The master of the feast continues to send forth 
 his servants to repeat his urgent invitations, to ex- 
 press his unabated good will, and even while he is 
 waiting to welcome us to his presence, we still ven- 
 ture to return some one of these worthless excuses, 
 w r hieh seem to have served even to the present day as 
 a manual of apologies for irreligious negligence. 
 
 Let us then take a rapid review of the excuses, 
 which are offered to palliate indifference to religion ; 
 
6* 
 
 let us see if their importance consists not rather iu 
 their number, than in their strength. The profligate 
 and incorrigibly wicked seldom offer excuses ; those 
 of the professed infidel demand a longer and closer 
 attention, than the limits of a discourse allow ; the ex- 
 cuses of the christian world only, we propose now to 
 examine. 
 
 1. First, then, it is often said, that time is wanted 
 for the duties of religion. The calls of business, the 
 press of occupation, the cares of life, will not suffer 
 me, says one, to give that time to the duties of piety, 
 which otherwise I would gladly bestow. Say you 
 this without a blush ? You have no time, then, for the 
 especial service of that great Being, whose goodness 
 alone has drawn out to its present length your cobweb 
 thread of life ; whose care alone has continued you in 
 possession of that unseen property, which you call 
 your time. You have no time, then, to devote to that 
 great Being, on whose existence the existence of the 
 universe depends ; a Being so great, that if his atten- 
 tion could for an instant be diverted, you fall never 
 again to rise ; if his promise should fail, your hopes, 
 your expectations vanish into air ; if his power should 
 be weakened, man, angel, nature perishes. 
 
 But, let me ask, by what right do you involve your- 
 self in this multiplicity of cares ? Why do you weave 
 around you this web of occupation, and then com- 
 plain, that you cannot break it ? Will you say, that 
 your time is your own, and that you have a right to 
 employ it in the manner you please ? Believe me, it 
 
65 
 
 is not your own. It belongs to God, to religion, to 
 mankind. You possess not an hour, to which one of 
 these puts not in a preferable claim ; and are such 
 claimants to be dismissed without allotting to them a 
 moment ? 
 
 But for what else can you find no leisure ? Do you 
 find none for amusement ? Or is amusement itself your 
 occupation ? Perhaps pleasure is the pressing busi- 
 ness of your life ; perhaps pleasure stands waiting to 
 catch your precious moments as they pass. Do you 
 find none for the pursuit of curious and secular 
 knowledge ? If you find none then for religion, it is 
 perhaps because you wish to find none ; it would be, 
 you think, a tasteless occupation, an insipid enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 But this excuse is founded on a most erroneous con- 
 ception of the nature of religion. It is supposed to be 
 something, which interrupts business, which wastes 
 time, and interferes with all the pleasant and profita- 
 ble pursuits of life. It is supposed to be something 
 which must be practised apart from every thing else, 
 a distinct profession, a peculiar occupation. The 
 means of religion, meditation, reading and prayer will 
 and ought, indeed, to occupy distinct portions of our 
 time. But religion itself demands not distinct hours. 
 Heligion will attend you not as a troublesome, but as 
 a pleasant and useful companion in every proper place, 
 and every temperate occupation of life. It will follow 
 you to the warehouse or to the office ; it will retreat 
 
 with you to the country, it will dwell with you in 
 9 
 
66 
 
 town ; it will cross the seas, or travel over mountains, 
 or remain with you at home. Without your consent, 
 it will not desert you in prosperity, or forget you in 
 adversity. It will grow up with you in youth, and 
 grow old with you in age ; it will attend you w ith 
 peculiar pleasure to the hovels of the poor, or the 
 chamber of the sick ; it will retire with you to your 
 closet, and watch by your bed, or walk with you in 
 gladsome union to the house of God ; it will follow 
 you beyond the confines of the world, and dwell with 
 you in heaven forever, as its native residence. 
 
 2. It is said, am I not as good as others ? Why 
 is an attention to religion, an unpopular piety, a rigid 
 virtue required of me, which cannot be found in the 
 circle of my acquaintance, or in the world at large ? 
 Why am I urged to set up as a reformer, or expose 
 myself to the scorn of mankind ? But the majority of 
 men are poor ; does this however cheek the ardour 
 of your pursuit of w ealth ; or do you avoid a new ac- 
 quisition, because you fear it will expose you to the 
 envy of your inferiours ? The majority of mankind 
 are ignorant ; but is ignorance therefore honourable, 
 or is learning contemptible or invidious ? We have 
 now supposed, that piety and unsullied virtue would 
 sometimes be attended with scorn. But even this is 
 an unwarranted supposition. Piety is venerated by 
 the impious. Unyielding virtue is admired by the 
 corrupt, disinterested goodness by the selfish, tem- 
 perance, chastity, humanity by the intemperate, un- 
 chaste, and ambitious. Consider, too, to what extrav- 
 
07 
 
 agances this excuse would lead. It places you loose 
 ly floating on the inconstant tide of popular manners. 
 If this rises, you indeed are raised ; if it falls, you de- 
 scend, however imperceptibly, on its surface. It is an 
 excuse, which might be offered with equal propriety 
 by the corrupt inhabitant of Sodom, as by you. 
 
 3. Again, it is said, religion is dull, unsocial, un- 
 charitable, enthusiastick, a damper of human joy, a 
 morose intruder upon human pleasure. If this were 
 true, nothing could be more incongruous than the par- 
 able, which represents it as an entertainment. But 
 if this be the character of religion, it is surely the 
 very reverse of what we should suppose it to be, 
 and the reverse indeed of what it ought to be- 
 Perhaps, in your distorted vision, you have mis- 
 taken sobriety for dulness, equanimity for morose- 
 ness, disinclination to bad company for aversion 
 to society, abhorrence of vice for uncharitableness, 
 and piety for enthusiasm. No doubt at the table 
 of boisterous intemperance, religion, if she were ad- 
 mitted as a guest, would wear a very dull countenance. 
 In a revel of debauchery, and amidst the brisk inter- 
 change of profanity and folly, religion might appear 
 indeed a dumb, unsocial intruder, ignorant of the 
 rhetorick of oaths and the ornaments of obscenity. 
 These are scenes, it must be acknowledged, of what 
 is falsely called pleasure, in which religion, if em- 
 bodied and introduced, would be as unwelcome a 
 guest as the emblematick coffin, which the Egyptians 
 used to introduce in the midst of their entertainments. 
 
68 
 
 From .such instances, however, to accuse religion of 
 being unfriendly to the enjoyment of life, is as absurd 
 as to interpret unfavourably the silence of a foreign- 
 er, who understands not a word of our language. But 
 as long as intemperance is not pleasure, as long as 
 profaneness, impurity, or scandal is not wit, as long 
 as excess is not the perfection of mirth, as long as 
 selfishness is not the surest enjoyment, and as long as 
 gratitude, love, reverence and resignation are not 
 superstitious affections, so long religion lays not an 
 icy hand on the true joys of life. Without her all 
 other pleasures become tasteless, and at last painful. 
 To explain to you, indeed, how much she exalts, pu- 
 rifies and prolongs the pleasures of sense and imagi- 
 nation, and what peculiar sources of consolation, 
 cheerfulness and contentment she opens to herself, 
 would lead us at present into too wide a range. 
 
 4. Excuses for irreligion are drawn from the fail- 
 ings and imperfections of christians. There, says 
 the profligate, are your boasted saints. They have 
 their faults, as well as those who make not so great 
 pretensions to piety. Thus it happens, that some re- 
 mains of imperfection, some constitutional infirmity, 
 some unamiable weakness of good men, is brought 
 forward and exhibited in all the triumph of illiberali- 
 ty to the gaze of a censorious world. The character 
 of the mind is drawn from a single trait, from some 
 casual wrinkle, some unlucky deformity. The point, 
 in which a good man is as frail as others, is selected 
 and contemplated with renewed pleasure, while those 
 
69 
 
 points, in which he is superiour to other men, are un- 
 observed or unacknowledged. This is partial, un- 
 just, uncharitable, iniquitous. But the excuse clos- 
 es not here. Of what religion has failed to remove, it 
 is most absurdly called the cause. If apparently de- 
 vout and pious habits are ever found associated with a 
 temper, which is not open as day to melting charity, 
 it is religion which hardens the heart, it is religion 
 which locks the coffers. Whatever passion it has 
 failed to subdue, or whatever fault it has been un- 
 able to prevent, it is impiously said to encourage* 
 Equally absurd would it be, to attribute the weakness 
 of a broken bone to the kind attentions of the sur- 
 geon, the pain of a wound to the balmy hand which 
 would assuage it. 
 
 But of all the faults of christians, from which ex 
 cuses for irreligion are drawn, the occasional extrav- 
 agances into which pious men have fallen afford the 
 most plausible apologies. The history of religion is 
 ransacked for instances of persecution, of austerities 
 and enthusiastick irregularities, and when they are all 
 collected, the cold-hearted, thoughtless irreligionist 
 exclaims, these are the fruits of piety ! But why is it 
 never considered, that the same ardent temperament, 
 the same energy of passions, if they had been united 
 with any other subject, would have rushed into simi- 
 lar extremes ? In a mind of such a mould, religion, as 
 is often said, is the occasion only, not the cause of ex- 
 travagance. When enthusiasm, however, is the re- 
 sult of mere ignorance, as it most commonly is, the 
 
70 
 
 excuse entirely fails. Ignorance is not devotion, nor 
 the mother of devotion, zeal is not religion, enthu- 
 siasm is not piety, solitude is not purity, spiritual 
 pride is not conscious innocence, and the preternatu- 
 ral heat of the passions is not the warmth of love to 
 God or man. You would not judge of the usual 
 moisture of any region from the occasional inunda- 
 tion of its rivers. The influence of true religion is 
 mild, and soft, and noiseless, and constant as the 
 descent of the evening dew on the tender herbage, 
 nourishing and refreshing all the amiable and social 
 virtues ; but enthusiasm is violent, sudden, rattling 
 as a summer shower, rooting up the fairest flowers, 
 and washing away the richest mould in the pleasant 
 garden of society. 
 
 5. Excuses for a neglect of religion are suggested 
 by different seasons of life. Youth, in the fulness of 
 its spirits, defers it to the sobriety of manhood ; man- 
 hood, incumbered with cares, defers it to the leisure of 
 old age ; old age, weak and hesitating, is unable to en- 
 ter on an untried mode of life. The excuses of youth 
 are those which are most frequently offered, and 
 most easily admitted. The restrictions of relig- 
 ion, though proper enough for maturer age, are too 
 severe, it is said, for this frolicksome and gladsome 
 period. Its consolations, too, they do not want. 
 Leave them to prop the feeble limbs of old age, or to 
 cheer the sinking spirits of adversity. False and 
 pernicious maxim ! As if, at the end of a stated num- 
 ber of years, a man could become religious in a mo- 
 
71 
 
 mcnt ! As if the husbandman, at the end of summer, 
 could call up a harvest from the soil which he had 
 never tilled ! As if manhood, too, would have no ex- 
 cuses ! And what are they ? That he has grown too 
 old to amend. That his parents took no pains with 
 his religious education, and therefore his ignorance is 
 not his own fault. That he must be making provis- 
 ion for old age 5 and the pressure of cares will allow 
 him no time to attend to the evidences, or learn the 
 rules of religion. Thus life is spent in framing apol- 
 ogies, in making and breaking resolutions, and pro- 
 tracting amendment, till death places his cold hand 
 on the mouth open to make its last excuse, and one 
 more is added to the crowded congregation of the 
 dead. 
 
 The excuses, which we have already considered, 
 are trifling, how ever, compared with the following. 
 
 6. It is said, u it is by no means certain, that there 
 is a future state of retribution beyond the limits of the 
 w orld. Who has ever seen it ? It is not certain, that 
 the religion, which you urge us to embrace, comes from 
 God. Many objections may be made to its evidences." 
 Most of the irreligion, which prevails among the more 
 informed classes of society, results from a lurking 
 skepticism, which infests their thoughts, and, in rela- 
 tion to religion, leads them to act in direct opposition 
 to all the maxims, which usually govern the conduct 
 of men. 
 
 It is indeed true, that the existence of a future 
 world is not to us as certain as the existence of the 
 
73 
 
 present ; neither can we ever have that intuitive as- 
 surance of the being of a God, that we necessarily 
 possess of our own existence ; neither can the facts 
 of the gospel history, w hich happened two thousand 
 years ago, be impressed on our belief with that undoubt- 
 ing conviction, which we have of the reality of scenes, 
 w hich are passing immediately before our eyes. But 
 the question is not, whether the gospel history can be 
 demonstrated. Few subjects which occupy human 
 contemplation admit strict and mathematical proof. 
 The w hole life of man is but a perpetual compari- 
 son of evidence, and balancing of probabilities. And 
 upon the supposition that religious truths are only 
 probable, the excuse we have mentioned will not re- 
 lieve irreligion from the charge of presumptuous and 
 consummate folly. 
 
 But it is said, many objections have been made to 
 the evidences of revelation ; and many of its difficul- 
 ties remain yet unexplained. It is true, that objec- 
 tions have been often made and often answered, and 
 not only answered, but refuted. But some difficulties, 
 it is said, yet remain. It is true, they do remain ; and 
 the excuse shall be admitted, when any other subject 
 of equal importance shall be produced, in which diffi- 
 culties do not remain. The most plausible objections, 
 which have been made to any truth within the circle 
 of human knowledge, are those which have been offer- 
 ed against the existence of a material world ; but did 
 this ever check an operation in mechanics, or excuse, 
 from his daily task a single labourer. A man of in- 
 
73 
 
 genuity might offer a thousand objections against the 
 probability of your living till the morrow, but would 
 this rob you of a moment's rest, or frustrate a single 
 plan, which you had meditated for the approaching 
 day ? If we subtract from the difficulties, which attend 
 revelation, those which have been created by the inju- 
 dicious zeal of some of its friends in attempting to 
 prove too much, we shall find, that, in the vast store- 
 house of facts which history presents, for none can 
 there be produced a greater mass of evidence than for 
 the birth, the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ — 
 and upon the supposition of their truth irreligion is 
 nothing better than distraction. 
 
 Another excuse, however, is offered, which perhaps 
 has greater secret influence in quieting the conscience 
 than any other. We are desired to look at the 
 list of great names, who have been adversaries of 
 Christianity. Can that evidence, it is asked, be satis- 
 factory, which failed to convince such minds as these ? 
 If the probable truth of revelation is to be ascertain- 
 ed in this manner, the dispute will soon be at an 
 end ; for it would be no difficult task to produce, 
 from among the friends of revelation, a greater num- 
 ber of greater names within the last hundred years, 
 than all the hosts of infidelity can furnish in eighteen 
 centuries since the birth of Christ. But I believe 
 these instances are not alleged to disprove the truth, 
 but only to weaken the importance of Christianity. 
 They are alleged only to excuse an inattention to re- 
 ligion, and show that it is not very dangerous to err 
 10 
 
74 
 
 a> ith such great names on our side. Truths, it is said, 
 which such understandings disbelieved, surely cannot 
 be of infinite importance. Nothing would tend more 
 to remove such apologies, than a fair, impartial, and 
 full account of the education, the characters, the intel- 
 lectual processes, and the dying moments of such men. 
 Then it would be seen, that their virtues were the re- 
 sult of the very principles they had assailed, but 
 from whose influence they were unable wholly to es- 
 cape. Then it would be seen, that they have gained 
 by their skepticism no new pleasures, no tranquillity 
 of mind, no peace of conscience during life, and no 
 consolation in the hour of death. 
 
 Such are the excuses which irreligion offers. Could 
 you have believed, that they were so empty, so unwor- 
 thy, so hollow, so absurd ? And shall such excuses 
 be offered to the God of heaven and earth ? Bv such 
 
 m 
 
 apologies shall man insult his Creator ? Shall he hope 
 to flatter the ear of omnipotence, and beguile the ob- 
 servation of an omniscient spirit ? Think you that 
 such excuses will gain new importance in their ascent 
 to the throne of the Majesty on high ? Will you 
 trust the interests of eternity in the hands of these su- 
 perficial advocates ? You have pleaded your incessant 
 occupation. Exhibit then the result of your employ- 
 ment. Have you nothing to produce but these bags 
 of gold, these palaces, and farms, these bundles of 
 cares, and heaps of vexations? Is the eye of Heaven 
 to be dazzled by an exhibition of property, an osten- 
 tatious shew of treasures ? You surely produce not 
 
To 
 
 all these wasted hours, to prove that you have had no 
 time for religion. It is an insult to the Majesty of 
 Heaven. Again, you have pleaded your youth, and 
 you have pleaded your age. Which of these do you 
 choose to maintain at the har of Heaven ? Such tri- 
 fling would not be admitted in the intercourse of men, 
 and do you think it will avail more with Almighty 
 God? 
 
 It must however he acknowledged, that the case 
 of the irreligious is not desperate, while excuses are 
 thought proper and necessary. There is some glim- 
 mering of hope, that the man who apologizes is willing 
 to amend. God preserve us from that obduracy of 
 wickedness, which disdains to palliate a crime ; from 
 that hardihood of unbelief, which will not give even a 
 weak reason, and which derides the oiler of an ex- 
 cuse. But remember, my friends, the season of apol- 
 ogies is passing away. All our eloquent defences of 
 ourselves must soon cease. Heath stiffens the smooth 
 tongue of flattery, and blots out, with one stroke, all 
 the ingenious excuses, which we have spent our lives 
 in framing. At the marriage supper, the places of 
 those who refused to come, were soon filled by a mul- 
 titude of delighted guests. The God of Heaven needs 
 not our presence to adorn his table, for whether we ac- 
 cept, or whether we reject his gracious invitation, 
 whether those who were bidden taste or not of his 
 supper, his house shall be filled. Though many are 
 called and few chosen, yet Christ has not died in vain, 
 religion is not without its witnesses, or heaven with- 
 
76 
 
 out its inhabitants. Let us then remember, that one 
 tiling is needful, and that there is a better part than 
 all the pleasures and selfish pursuits of th.s world, a 
 part which we are encouraged to secure, and which 
 can never be taken away. 
 
SERMON V. 
 
 JOHN xii. 43. 
 
 FOR THEY LOVED THE PRAISE OF MEN MORE THAN THE 
 PRAISE OF SOD. 
 
 IT is one of the distinguishing traits in the chris- 
 tian scheme of morals, that it no where enjoins the love 
 of human estimation, as a principle of action. Very 
 rarely is the approbation even of good men, much less 
 the applause of the many, mentioned as a desirable 
 reward of good deeds. But if we only turn from the 
 discipline and the precepts of the gospel to the sys- 
 tems of ancient and of modern education, what pro- 
 digious importance is given to a motive, of which, in 
 the precepts of our Saviour, there cannot be found the 
 trace of commendation. By the hope of honour and 
 the fear of shame is many a child governed, many a 
 school regulated, many a capacity exercised, and 
 many a mature character affected and modified. So 
 little has the real value of this principle been fairly 
 weighed, that the love of human estimation is tender- 
 ly fostered in the infant, as soon as it is capable of at- 
 tending to the opinions of those about it $ and the anx- 
 
78 
 
 ious parent never feels more delight, than upon per- 
 ceiving the first pulse of ambition to beat in the heart 
 of the child. The love of fame, thus early encoura- 
 ged, has been called by one of the most sober of our 
 satirists, the universal passion. By some moralists it 
 has been recommended generally, as the spring of all 
 that is great and glorious in character ; by others it is 
 restricted to particular spheres of action, and cautious- 
 ly directed to certain valuable objects ; by others it is 
 discountenanced only w hen it rises to a ridiculous ex- 
 cess ; but by the great moralist of the gospel it is pas- 
 sed over in silence, or mentioned only to be depreci- 
 ated. 
 
 Let us, then, look narrowly into this principle, 
 w hich insinuates itself so early, and with such honour- 
 able pretensions, w hich spreads through such a variety 
 of character, which domineers w ith such authority, al- 
 ways in the weak, sometimes in the wise, always in 
 the worldly, and too often in the saint. In this dis- 
 course w r e propose to consider, first, the nature of this 
 passion, and some of the varieties of its operation ; 
 secondly, we shall endeavour candidly to acknowl- 
 edge all its real utility as a motive of action ; third- 
 ly, we shall mark out some of those limits within 
 which it ought to be restrained ; and fourthly, sug- 
 gest some considerations by which its influence on 
 our own hearts may be diminished. 
 
 1. Let us attend to the nature of this passion, and 
 the different modes in w hich it discovers itself. By 
 the love of human estimation we mean every degree 
 
79 
 
 of regard to the opinion of the world, from the passion 
 of glory, which mounts up into the fancy of the con- 
 queror, to the dread of shame, which endeavours to 
 hide itself in the heart of the coward. In some or oth- 
 er of its various modifications, it is perhaps inseparahle 
 from man as a social heing. Besides the immense do- 
 main in which it exerts itself, its very entrance into 
 the heart is the most insinuating and honourable. To 
 know what others think of us, is one of the earliest em- 
 ployments of our curiosity. It is discovered in chil- 
 dren, as soon as they begin to mix with their fellows. 
 Then appear the little struggles for eminence, and the 
 jealousy of attentions paid to others. Presently, the 
 heart, unsatisfied with love, looks out for applause ; 
 the eye begins to sparkle with the pride of dress, the 
 ear is pampered with flatteries of foolish friends, and 
 expressions of injudicious praise which fall even 
 from the lips of the wise, so that the desire of admira- 
 tion grows even under the caresses of the parent. 
 Soon comes the age of instruction. At the lap of the 
 mistress, the little pupil is almost taught to speak by 
 the love of distinction ; and from this time forward the 
 whole system of education is constructed on the ap- 
 plication of this equivocal principle. All our arts of 
 dicipline, and all our schemes of tuition are calculated 
 to excite instead of regulating emulation. If we can 
 but make this passion effervesce in the youthful breast, 
 our hopes brighten and our care is rewarded. Pres- 
 ently, it begins to break out in vanity, which we 
 mistake for knowledge ; in garrulity and impudence. 
 
80 
 
 which we indulge as the symptoms of a forward ca- 
 pacity. Soon after, it discovers itself in the young 
 man in the shape of honour. It begins to affect an 
 excessive delicacy of reputation, and explodes in a 
 passion at the touch of insolence, or at the application 
 of reproof. In some, it branches out in the love of 
 show, and follows obsequiously the ever-changing 
 dictates of fashion. Under the disguise of making 
 what is called a good appearance in the world, it ob- 
 tains its greatest triumph. Avarice is compelled 
 sometimes to yield to the love of ostentation ; and all 
 our noble and ignoble propensities are sacrificed at 
 the shrine of credit in the world. 
 
 It follows us also into all the professions and occu- 
 pations of life. It labours with the artisan in his 
 shop, and there polishes and perfects the productions 
 of his industry ; it retreats with the student to his clos- 
 et, and there strikes out the scintillations of his ge- 
 nius. In our hours of relaxation this principle is bu- 
 sy. It discovers itself perpetually in common con- 
 versation, in our petty contests for victory, in our ele- 
 vated voices, in our eager display of wit, in the quick 
 retort and noisy and disputatious triumph. Go out 
 into the forum, and you will hear it haranguing elabo- 
 rately with the utmost appearance of disinterested- 
 ness ; into the popular assembly, and you find it flour- 
 ishing in declamation. In publick life it shoots out 
 into extravagances, which are sometimes called great- 
 ness. In the conqueror, for instance, it towers into 
 the love of glory. It displays itself in deeds, at which 
 
81 
 
 the multitude stands aghast with astonishment, the po 
 litical moralist is bewildered and hesitates, deeds, 
 about which the opinions of posterity may be divided 
 according to their hereditary prejudices, but on which 
 the christian in every age will dare to look down with 
 horrour and contempt. 
 
 From this dazzling discovery of the love of human 
 estimation in the conqueror, descend and mark its 
 influence among mankind in the less observed charac- 
 ter of the dread of shame. Here you may see it keep- 
 ing men back from the ordinances of the gospel ; and 
 there suppressing the acknowledgements which they 
 owe to God in their families and in their closets, dis- 
 turbing us with perpetual fear of being singular, and 
 bringing even serious men insensibly down to the lev- 
 el of corrupt manners, which they cannot approve. 
 
 Is it true, then, that a passion of such powerful and 
 various operation, as that we have now been consider- 
 ing, is no where recommended in scripture as a mo- 
 tive of action ? Are we no where referred to the opin- 
 ion of the world, no where expostulated with from 
 a regard to reputation ? Are there no appeals 
 made by any of the messengers of God's will to our 
 sense of shame, to our pride, to our ambition, to our 
 vanity ? Certain it is, that such appeals are at least 
 rarely to be met with. Our Saviour, indeed, ap- 
 pears to have thought it hazardous, in any degree, to 
 encourage a regard to the opinion of the world, as 
 a motive to action, because, however advantageous 
 
 might be its operation in some instances, where a 
 11 
 
82 
 
 higher principle was wanting, still the most casual 
 recommendation of a sentiment so natural, so sedu- 
 cing, and so universal, would have been liable to per- 
 petual misconstruction and abuse. 
 
 Indeed, no man can read the discourses of our Sa- 
 viour, or of his apostles, without observing how utter- 
 ly they are at war with the spirit of self-aggrandize- 
 ment. Perhaps, however, you may expect, that I 
 should refer you to examples where this temper is 
 clearly censured or punished. What think you, 
 then, of the history of Herod Agrippa ? On a set day, 
 says the historian, Herod, arrayed in royal apparel, 
 sat upon his throne, and made an oration unto the 
 people. And the people gave a shout, saying, It is 
 the voice of a god, and not of a man. And immedi- 
 ately the angel of the Lord smote him, because he 
 gave not God the glory ; and he was eaten of worms, 
 and gave up the ghost. My friends, I make no com- 
 ments on this story. It is too solemn. Think only, 
 if such was the punishment of a man for accepting 
 the idolatrous flattery offered him, can they be guilt- 
 less in the eyes of heaven, who cannot live but upon 
 the honey of adulation, and whose whole life is but a 
 continual series of contrivances to gain the favour of 
 the multitude, a continual preference of the glory of 
 themselves to the glory of their Creator ? Is not this 
 example of the requisitions of the gospel sufficient ? 
 Read then the dreadful woes denounced against the 
 Jewish rulers, not merely because they did not receive 
 our Saviour, nor merely because they were continu- 
 
83 
 
 ally meditating his destruction ; but because they did 
 all their works to be seen of men. 
 
 But as nothing, perhaps, is gained in point of prac- 
 tical improvement by pushing these principles of in- 
 difference to the world to an extreme, or in declaim- 
 ing indiscriminately against any prevailing sentiment 
 of extensive influence, before we consider the restric- 
 tions under which the love of fame should be laid in 
 the mind of a christian, we will, as we proposed, in 
 the second place, endeavour to ascertain and candid- 
 ly to allow all those advantages, which may result 
 from this regard to the opinion of others, when more 
 pure and evangelical motives are either wanting, or 
 not sufficiently established. 
 
 Here, then, we will allow, that much of the real as 
 well as fictitious excellence, which has adorned the 
 world, may be traced in some degree to the principle 
 of emulation. We allow, that it calls forth the ener-, 
 gies of the young mind, that it matures in our colleges 
 and schools some of the earliest products of youthful 
 capacity, and that it offers incalculable aid to the les- 
 sons and to the discipline of instructers. When we 
 look at our libraries, we can hardly find a volume, 
 which does not, in a measure, ow r e its appearance to 
 the love of fame. When we gaze on the ruins of an- 
 cient magnificence, on the rare remains of ancient 
 skill, we are obliged to confess, that we owe these to 
 the influence of emulation. Nay more, when we read 
 the lives of great men, and are lost in wonder at their 
 astonishing intellectual supremacy, we are compelled 
 
84 
 
 to acknowledge, that for this we are partly indebted 
 to the love of fame. We acknow ledge, also, that it of- 
 ten supplies successfully the place of nobler motives ; 
 and that, notwithstanding the evils w hich grow out of 
 its abuse, the world w ould suffer from its utter extinc- 
 tion. For the weight of publick opinion is sometimes 
 thrown into the scale of truth. We know that the pop- 
 ular sentiment will sometimes control the tyranny of 
 the powerful, and counteract the influence of wealth ; 
 that it restrains sometimes the madness of lust, and some- 
 times the cunning of malevolence. We are also sen- 
 sible, that the influence of a regard to reputation is of- 
 ten favourable to the improvement of social intercourse. 
 To a deference to the w orld's opinion, and to a love of 
 its good w ill, are w e to attribute much of that politeness 
 and propriety, which are discoverable in manners, and 
 much of , that courtesy, which, by habitual observance, 
 sheds perhaps at length a favourable influence on the 
 disposition. It is this, w hich brings down the haugh- 
 ty <to condescension, and softens the rough into gentle- 
 ness. It is this, which sometimes checks the offen- 
 siveness of vanity, and moderates the excess of sel- 
 fishness. It causes thousands to appear kind, who 
 would otherwise be rude/and honourable, who would 
 otherwise be base. 
 
 These genial effects upon the intercourse of society 
 are sufficient to induce us to retain the love of human 
 estimation in the number of lawful motives. It was 
 probably a view of some of these influences partially 
 supplying the place of real benevolence, which indu- 
 
ced the apostle sometimes to recommend a regard to 
 human opinion. He advises the Roman converts to 
 " provide things honourable in the sight of all men." 
 To the Phillippians, after recommending all things 
 honest, just, pure, and lovely, he ventures also to add, 
 whatsoever things are of good report. Nay more, he 
 says, not only, if there be any virtue, but if there be 
 any praise, think on these things. We believe this 
 is the most decisive testimony of approbation, which 
 can be gathered from the scripture. We will add, 
 also, in favour of the useful operation of this universal 
 passion, that it perhaps cannot be completely engaged, 
 like all the other passions, on the side of vice. For 
 the highest degree of moral depravity is consistent 
 only with an utter insensibility to the opinion of the 
 world ; and we are willing to believe also, that were 
 it not for this, the form and profession of Christianity 
 would be more frequently outraged than it now is by 
 those, who secretly detest it. 
 
 And now, my friends, after all these acknowledge- 
 ments, what new merit is conceded to your favourite 
 passion ? After it has done its utmost, it can only 
 quicken the energies of the mind, restrain sometimes 
 the other passions, afford occasional aid to the cause 
 of order and propriety, soften some of the asperities 
 of social intercourse, and perhaps keep the sinner 
 from open and hardened profligacy. But it cannot pu- 
 rify the affections, melt the hardness of the heart, 
 and break its selfishness, or elevate its desires to the 
 region of purity and peace. 
 
86 
 
 We proposed, in the third place, to mark out some 
 of the limits, within which it ought to be restrained. 
 
 And, first, there can be no doubt, that regard to the 
 opinion of the world must not become the predominant 
 motive ; that is, it must neither be the habitual idea in 
 our fancies, nor must we dare ever to place it in com- 
 petition with the plain commands of conscience and of 
 God. 
 
 When we say, that a regard to the opinion of the 
 world ought not to be the principal motive of our con- 
 duct, we are far from admitting, that there are any in- 
 feriour motives, by which this may be safely counter^ 
 acted. No ! If the question were about the relative 
 value of the principles, which actuate the world at 
 large, I should exclaim, give me the love of glory. 
 There are motives, yes, and common ones too, in com- 
 parison with which, this is honourable, nay, sublime. 
 The avarice of gold is baser than the avarice of ap- 
 plause. The love of sensual pleasure is brutal, when 
 compared with the love of reputation. Excessive 
 selfishness, or continual regard to personal comfort 
 and convenience, are mean and worthless habits of 
 mind, in comparison even with vanity, or with the 
 love of praise, though pushed to ridiculousness. In 
 short, when we say, that regard to human estimation 
 must be restrained and kept in subordination, we 
 mean that it should be subjected only to principles of 
 more than earthly energy 5 we mean that it should 
 bow before the authority of religion ; we mean that it 
 should fall before the meek and silent influence of 
 
87 
 
 evangelical morality. It is true, as we have before 
 acknowledged, that there are instances of men, who, 
 if they should lose their respect for the opinion of the 
 world, would lose all that preserved them from moral 
 degradation and ruin. But we are not addressing 
 such men. We call upon men, who are not insensi- 
 ble of the relation in which they stand to a higher tri- 
 bunal than that of society ; men, who recognize the 
 authority of the gospel, who are not unacquainted 
 with the spirit of its precepts ; in fine, we call upon 
 men, who are not entirely unaccustomed to consult 
 their consciences, and to appeal to the approbation of 
 an omniscient Judge. To such men we would say, 
 beware of the imperceptible encroachments of the 
 love of human estimation. If unrestrained, it will not 
 fail to contaminate your best services. You perhaps 
 have concluded within yourselves, that you will be 
 governed by this regard to the world's opinion only 
 in your manners, which you consider as an indifferent 
 part of conduct ; but believe me, the step is but short 
 from manners to morals, nay, they are partly coinci- 
 dent ; and from morals to religious duties the pas- 
 sage is easy. If you obey the laws of morality only 
 as far as the world thinks necessary, when you pre- 
 tend to piety also, you will probably consult its opin- 
 ion, and be careful to be observed. 
 
 2. Another limit to the fondness for human estima- 
 tion may be discerned in that distinction, which we 
 believe to exist, between the desire of approbation and 
 the desire of admiration. The former we rarely con 
 
88 
 
 ileum ; the latter, always. The former is often con- 
 nected with a tender conscience ; the latter, always 
 with a vain imagination. The one relates to our mo- 
 tives and to the heart \ the other, to our manners and 
 to the exteriour. Approbation is the reward of good 
 intentions ; admiration, of good appearances. The 
 desire of being approved is a passion which may in- 
 clude Grod himself among the objects of its concern ; 
 and from a desire of his approbation the descent is 
 easy to a lively regard for the good opinion of his chil- 
 dren. But the desire of being admired can have no 
 reference to God, for God cannot admire. Admiration 
 is an emotion unknown to the mind of omnipotence. 
 He, in whose sight all worldly glory is but a glimmer- 
 ing exhalation, low in its origin, transitory in it$ conti- 
 nuance, delusive in its effects, cannot be dazzled by 
 splendour, or deceived by appearances. He, who 
 wishes to be admired, must not look above the earth. 
 
 Again, the love of approbation is a gentle, moderate 
 and equable affection ; the love of admiration grows 
 fast into excess : then it inflames the imagination, 
 preys upon the spirits, and disturbs the whole frame 
 of the soul. The lover of admiration disdains the 
 cool commendations, which are bestowed upon moral 
 qualities. He pants to be eminent, and makes haste 
 to be known. He is willing to be hated, if he may 
 but be feared ; or censured, if he may but be wonder- 
 ed at. When he talks, he talks to be listened to ; 
 when he is silent, he sits to be observed ; when he 
 does good, he is disappointed, if it be not known \ 
 
89 
 
 when he does evil, he is willing it should be known, 
 if it will gain respect to his talents, even at the ex- 
 pense of his disposition. On the contrary, he, who 
 seeks only to be approved, receives with diffidence, as 
 well as pleasure, the praises which he has not covet- 
 ed, nor disdained. He is contented with the still and 
 quiet commendation of the few, and suspects the noi- 
 sy encomiums of the many. He waits for approba- 
 tion from others, rather as a grateful echo of the whis- 
 pers of his own conscience, than as a precursor and 
 herald of his own self-complacency. The praise 
 which he receives is, therefore, bestowed the more 
 freely, because unsought ; and he regards the good 
 opinion of the good, as the annunciation provided by 
 God on earth of the judgment already passed in 
 Heaven. 
 
 We shall mention only one more restriction of this 
 universal passion, a restriction which is the more def- 
 inite as it is the more important, and more peculiarly 
 conformable to the spirit of our religion. It is this. 
 Human estimation should be valued, as the means of 
 usefulness, but should never be sought, as the end 
 and ultimate reward of our exertions. Let us look 
 round on some of the numberless examples of self- 
 deception on this subject. Here you may see a man, 
 whose bosom is just beginning to burn with senti- 
 ments of patriotism. Awakened by some accidental 
 circumstance, he is full of ardour, seeks for populari- 
 ty that he may obtain power, and for power, only that 
 
 he may put in execution his long meditated plans of 
 12 
 
90 
 
 publick utility. He soon finds, however, that popu- 
 lar favour is more easily retained by flattery and ac- 
 commodation, than by the contrivance of publick ben- 
 efits ; and he sits down in the easy chair of office in- 
 active and useless, contented with believing, that the 
 times are not yet ripe for his schemes of improvement. 
 
 Do you wish for another instance of one who de- 
 ceives himself into the belief, that he seeks for human 
 estimation only as an instrument of greater usefulness ? 
 Look at that man, who is so painfully solicitous to keep 
 on good terms with all with whom he is acquainted, 
 how different soever may be their characters, their 
 principles, and their importance in society. If you 
 ask him, why he is thus anxious to be thought well of 
 by every one, he will answer you with apparent sin- 
 cerity, " because I wish to be extensively useful. I 
 would retain favour even with the ignorant and the 
 worthless, that I may have it in my power to throw 
 all this influence into the scale of virtue and good prin- 
 ciples, in cases of emergency, difficulty and tumult." 
 When the long expected hour of his usefulness ar- 
 rives, we find him neutral, sycophantick, and unwor- 
 thy of trust. The universal reputation, which he has 
 sought to obtain, is first replaced by universal indif- 
 ference, and changes at last to universal contempt. 
 
 My friends, it is a noble triumph of evangelical 
 morality, to make us willing to employ distinction as 
 a means of others' good. You, then, whose names 
 are the wonder and delight of your contemporaries, 
 come, lend your reputation to the cause of religion. 
 
91 
 
 You, whose names are now highest in the list of how . 
 our, let us hear, that you have accomplished some 
 service for mankind before your downfal. And you, 
 who are now pressing forward in the career of dis- 
 tinction, before you triumph over another rival, con- 
 sider whether you shall supply his place in all the 
 beneficial extent of his influence ; and when you take 
 another step on the rough acclivity of fame, remember, 
 that not only are the eyes of many more directed to 
 you, but that, from a greater height, you may now 
 scatter blessings more diffusively. 
 
 We proposed, lastly, to consider the means, by which 
 this love of human estimation may be diminished in 
 our own hearts. The following considerations are a 
 few of the many, which may be suggested. 
 
 In the first place, consider what we all arc, in the 
 estimation of him who cannot be deceived, and who 
 will not be mocked. Think, you who are daily pant- 
 ing for acclamation and applause, are these shouts 
 heard in heaven ? And you, also, to whom the eyes 
 of the world are raised, as to a lofty and portentous 
 object of admiration, think from what an inconceiva- 
 ble distance the eye of omniscience looks down upon 
 you, even at your highest elevation. What ! Is it 
 man, the lowest, perhaps, in the order of rational in- 
 telligences — man, who at his best estate is altogether 
 vanity, whose purest actions are polluted services, 
 whose most mighty deeds are the varied struggles of 
 a worm, whose most enviable reputation must at last 
 be examined before the tribunal of all-searching jus- 
 
92 
 
 ticc — is it man ay ho requires to be admonished not 
 to he elated with the applause of creatures like him- 
 self ? My friends, let us go and humble ourselves in 
 prayer before the throne of God, and I think we can- 
 not rise directly from our knees, and stretch ourselves 
 out in the importance which the world may have giv- 
 en us. 
 
 The excessive value, which we may be inclined to 
 put upon human estimation, must be diminished, when- 
 ever we seriouslv examine ourselves in the following 
 manner. For what am I now most esteemed ? Per- 
 haps for the very quality, of which I know that I 
 possess the least. The world seeb me only in pub- 
 lick, when I am all upon my guard, when I have put 
 on my most showy and agreeable dress, when I have 
 taken pains to conceal the deformities of my heart, 
 and to patch up the imperfections of my understand- 
 ing. But when I retire into my closet, I see at once, 
 that I have been flattered. This man's attention I 
 won by an affected complaisance ; another's compla- 
 cency I secured by luckily coinciding with his pecu- 
 liar passion or prejudice. As to my talents, one man 
 mistook my silence for wisdom ; another, my fluency 
 for knowledge ; one was caught by some superficial 
 display of my wit ; another formed his conclusions of 
 my powers from my accidental superiority to him in a 
 particular instance. As to my disposition, no man 
 knows, how many evil passions prey upon me in se* 
 cret ; how many contests are there going on between 
 malevolence and fear, between hatred and politeness : 
 
93 
 
 no man can see the workings of my passions, or esti- 
 mate the difficulty which I find in preserving agreea- 
 ble appearances. When I consider, too, how incom- 
 petent are many of the judges of my character, how 
 subject are my friends to prejudice, and the multitude 
 to blind admiration, I cannot but fear, lest I should 
 appreciate too highly a reputation, which is built upon 
 the ignorance of some, and the prejudice of others of 
 my fellow creatures. 
 
 Another consideration, which ought to diminish our 
 desire of human estimation, is the excessive uncertain- 
 ty of the favour of the world. It is uncertain, be- 
 cause it may be lost by our own inadvertencies. The 
 fair character, which years have been polishing and 
 whitening, may be blasted in a moment of imprudence. 
 The proud reputation of talents or of wit may be lost 
 in an hour of forgetfulness,^of weakness, or of low 
 spirits. Nay more, the monument of our fame may 
 tumble over in an instant, even by our rash endeavours 
 to build it too high. How often has a trifling mis- 
 take, or a casual impropriety, precipitated a popular 
 idol from his seat in the admiration of the multitude. 
 We may lose our reputation by our ignorance, indeed, 
 more easily than by our fault. But even if we were 
 in no danger from ourselves, if we were sure of always 
 deserving the credit, which we at any time possess, 
 consider how fickle in itself is the opinion of mankind. 
 They rush forever into opposite extremes. Let us, then, 
 anticipate their changes. Let us become indifferent 
 to them, before they become indifferent to us. The 
 
94 
 
 world cannot long endure to admire. Admiration is 
 an exertion of the mind which fatigues ; and even if it 
 were as easy to continue to admire, as to love or to ap- 
 prove, the passion must at length be exhausted. What 
 we look at for any length of time infallibly becomes 
 familiar ; and what has become familiar no longer ex- 
 cites admiration. No man appears great, says a se- 
 vere moralist, no man appears great to his domesticks. 
 But even if it were not the natural tendency of great 
 worldly credit gradually to exhaust itself, yet when 
 we consider, how many are envious of eminence, 
 which they cannot reach, and how many hate the 
 goodness, which they cannot imitate, w hen we consi- 
 der that thousands, whose favourable opinion would 
 not enhance our reputation, are yet able to blast it in 
 a moment by falsehood, by treachery, or insinuation, 
 let us sit loose to the opinion of the world, and seek 
 the honour which cometh from God only. 
 
 We have seen, that this regard to human estima- 
 tion, though a principle of universal, I had almost 
 said infinite influence, is confined to very narrow lim- 
 its in the gospel of Christ. Is there nothing, then, 
 provided to supply the place of so powerful an agent 
 in the formation of the human character? Is there 
 nothing left to awaken the ambition of the christian, 
 to rouse him from sloth and universal indifference, to 
 call forth the energies of his mind, and to urge him 
 forward in the career of holiness ? Yes ; if we will 
 listen to the language of an apostle, whose history pro- 
 claims, that his passions were not asleep, that his em- 
 
9fr 
 
 illation was not quenched by the profession of Chris- 
 tianity, and whose spirit ever glowed with a most di- 
 vine enthusiasm — I say, if we listen to him, we shall 
 find, that there is enough to stimulate all the faculties 
 of the soul, and finally to satiate the most burning 
 thirst of glory. Yes, my friends, eye hath not seen, 
 nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of 
 man to conceive the things, which God hath prepared 
 for them that love him. Yes, my friends, our whole 
 progress here, through all the varieties of honour and 
 of dishonour, of evil report and good report, is a spec- 
 tacle to angels and to men. We are coming into an 
 innumerable company of angels, and to the spirits of 
 the just made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of the 
 new covenant, and to God the judge of all. These 
 have been the spectators of our course, and from such 
 are we to receive glory, and honour, and immortality. 
 
 Wouldest thou, then, christian — allow me to quote 
 an eloquent exhortation from a most pious writer, and 
 to close this discourse — 66 wouldest thou indeed reduce 
 this love of human estimation under just control ! 
 Rise on the wings of contemplation, until the praise 
 and the censures of men die away upon the ear, and the 
 still small voice of conscience is no longer drowned 
 by the din of this nether world. Here the sight is 
 apt to be occupied with earthly objects, and the hear- 
 ing to be engrossed with earthly sounds ; but there 
 shalt thou come within the view of that resplendent 
 and incorruptible crown, which is held forth to thy 
 acceptance in the realms of light, and thine ear shall 
 
96 
 
 be regaled with heavenly melody. Here we dwell 
 in a variable atmosphere — the prospect is at one time 
 darkened by the gloom of disgrace, and at another 
 the eye is dazzled by the gleamings of glory ; but 
 thou hast now ascended above this inconstant region ; 
 no storms agitate, no clouds obscure the air, and the 
 lightnings play and the thunders roll beneath thee. ?? * 
 
 * Wilberforce, p. 145. 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 PHILEMON 
 
 THE subject of the present discourse is the epistle 
 of Paul to Philemon, which, as it will be repeated in 
 the course of the sermon, I shall not now recite. 
 This epistle, though the shortest, and in some respects 
 the least important, which has reached us of this apos- 
 tle, is, notwithstanding, one of the most interesting. 
 It is a private letter from one man to another, written 
 on an occasion not very extraordinary ; admitted, how- 
 ever, and retained in what is called the canon of the 
 New Testament, in consequence of the apostolical 
 character of the writer. It neither presents us with 
 any summary of doctrines, nor statement of import- 
 ant facts ; but it invites the attention of christians by 
 the place where it is found, the well known character 
 of the author, the characteristick merit of the letter 
 itself, and, last of all, by the consequences, which, I 
 think, may be deduced from it. Its brevity will allow 
 us to consider it in a single discourse ; and such is 
 
98 
 
 its plainness, that it does not call for a more close and 
 critical examination, than may be given from the pul- 
 pit, or comprehended by a promiscuous assembly. 
 
 The apostle, when he wrote this letter, was in con- 
 finement at Home, fastened, it is supposed, by a chain 
 of a convenient length, to the soldier, who guarded him, 
 and in the house which lie had hired ; so that his con- 
 finement was of such a nature as not to restrain him 
 from preaching at home, and receiving converts to the 
 faith of Jesus. Philemon, to whom he writes, was a 
 rich, generous, and eminent christian at Colosse, in 
 Phrygia, one of whose slaves, named Onesimus, had 
 absconded, and, as was natural, had found his way to 
 Home, the metropolis of the empire. Here, it ap- 
 pears, he had by some means met with Paul, who 
 converted him to the christian faith. The apostle 
 seems to have discovered in him the best disposi- 
 tions ; not only a sincere repentance for his fault, but 
 an honest disposition to return to his master. Accor- 
 dingly, though Paul had become exceedingly attached 
 to him in his confinement, he sends him back to Co- 
 losse, furnished with this letter, in which the apostle 
 entreats Philemon, instead of punishing Onesimus 
 with death, as the Homan law authorized him to do, 
 to receive him again without taking notice of his 
 crime, and, for his friend Paul's sake, to treat him in 
 future as a penitent and faithful servant, and, what was 
 more, as a convert to the same faith with himself, and 
 peculiarly dear to the apostle. Such is the simple 
 occasion of the epistle. I shall now recite it from the 
 
09 
 
 beginning, interweaving observations on the few ex- 
 pressions, which have in them any obscurity. 
 
 66 Paul, a prisoner of Jesus Christ, and Timothy, 
 our brother, unto Philemon our dearly beloved, and 
 fellow labourer, and to our beloved Apphia, and Ar- 
 chippus, our fellow soldier, and to the church in thy 
 house, grace to you, and peace, from God our father, 
 and the Lord Jesus Christ." — The only remark to 
 be made on this common christian salutation, is, that 
 Paul forbears to style himself an apostle, as usual in 
 his epistles to societies, because he was now writing, 
 not in the character of a minister to enjoin obedience, 
 but in that of a friend, to solicit a favour. It may be 
 added, that by the church in the house of Philemon it 
 is not intended, that all the christians in Colosse as- 
 sembled for worship under his roof, but rather, that 
 all the members of his family were converts. This, at 
 least, is the interpretation of some of the fathers, and 
 is confirmed by similar expressions in other epistles.* 
 
 " I thank my God, (making mention of thee always 
 in my prayers,) hearing of thy love and faith, which 
 thou hast toward the Lord Jesus Christ, and toward 
 all saints,"— ^By a very common transposition, faith 
 is to be referred to Christ, and love to the saints, that 
 is, to the christians, who especially needed the kind- 
 ness and -hospitality of their richer brethren, in those 
 days of poverty and persecution. The whole passage, 
 beginning with this sentence, is an introductory civil- 
 
 * Vide Col. it. 15. Rora. xvi, 5. and Macknight ad locum. 
 
100 
 
 ity, adapted to conciliate the favour of Philemon, and 
 repress the first motions of passion toward his slave. 
 
 The next clause is the only one in this letter, w hich 
 remains obscure. " Making mention of thee always in 
 my prayers, that the communication of thy faith may 
 become effectual by the acknowledging of every good 
 thing which is in you in Christ Jesus. V — The apostle 
 seems to express a wish, that the generous disposition 
 and good offices of Philemon might produce in others 
 a persuasion of the worth of the gospel, and an ac- 
 knowledgement and imitation of its benevolent effects 
 in this distinguished convert. 
 
 " For we have great joy and consolation in thy 
 love, because the bowels of the saints (i. e. the hearts, 
 minds, spirits of the christians) are refreshed by thee, 
 brother." This phraseology is common in scripture, 
 and it is not without care, that Paul has introduced 
 the engaging and endearing appellation of brother. 
 
 He now proceeds to the main object of his letter, 
 the restoration of Onesimus. There is a mixture of 
 tenderness and of authority, of affection and polite- 
 ness, in this short letter, an earnestness of interces- 
 sion, united with a care not to offend even by a word, 
 a choice of phrases the least obnoxious, of arguments 
 the most honourable, and of motives the most pene- 
 trating, which show the writer to have been a man of 
 great address, as well as of strong affections, and mas- 
 tor of a persuasion not easily resisted. 
 
 " Wherefore, though I might be much bold in 
 Christ to enjoin thee what is convenient, (or fit,) yet 
 
101 
 
 for love's sake I rather beseech (being such an one as 
 Paul the aged ; and now also a prisoner of Jesus 
 Christ,) I beseech thee for my son, whom I have be- 
 gotten in my bonds, Onesimus." — This keeping the 
 reader in suspense till the very close of the period, as 
 to the name of the offender, has been often produced 
 as a great rhetorical beauty in the apostle's style. 
 But the croud of motives, which he has contrived to 
 collect in these few words, is yet more remarkable. 
 He reminds Philemon of his reputation for kindness, 
 of his friendship for the "writer, of his respect for 
 character, and especially for age, of his compassion 
 for his bonds ; and, with all this, lets fall an insinua- 
 tion, that perhaps some deference was due to his 
 wishes as an apostle. On the other hand, he presents 
 before Philemon the repentance of Onesimus, and 
 his return to virtue, his christian profession, and the 
 consequent confidence and attachment of Paul, his 
 spiritual father. 
 
 " (Onesimus) who in time past was to thee un- 
 profitable, (a very mild expression indeed of his 
 fault.) but now profitable (or rather of value) to 
 thee and me, whom I have sent back again — do 
 thou, therefore, receive him, that is mine own 
 bowels, (or as a part of myself,) whom I wish- 
 ed to have retained with me, that, in thy stead, he 
 might have ministered unto me in the bonds of the 
 gospel, (i. e. during my confinement on account of 
 preaching the gospel) but without thy mind, (or con- 
 sent,) would I do nothing, (not even retain him an hour) ; 
 
102 
 
 that thy benefit, (rather thy goodness,) should not be 
 as it were of necessity, but willingly." The apostle 
 means by this, that lie chose, that Onesimus should 
 first go and put himself in his master's power, so that 
 the pardon might be perfectly voluntary on the part of 
 Philemon. For, if the apostle had detained Onesimus, 
 (ill., by his intercession, there had been obtained from 
 his master a previous promise to receive him kindly, 
 the act of goodness in Philemon would have been nei- 
 ther so free, nor so disinterested, as that which he 
 had now an opportunity to exert. 
 
 Observe, in the next clause, the softness, with which 
 the apostle mentions the offence of Onesimus, as if it 
 w ere simply a providential separation of the master 
 and slave, with a view to a future and superiour good, 
 " For, perhaps, he therefore departed (or, as in the 
 Greek, was separated) from thee for a season, that 
 thou mightest have him forever ; no longer as a ser- 
 vant, but above a servant, as a beloved brother ; spe- 
 cially so to me, but how much more to thee, both in 
 the flesh, and in the Lord that is, in modern phrase, 
 both as he is a man, and a christian. 
 
 The apostle continues his intercession by every 
 mode of persuasion, which his ardour and generosity 
 can suggest. 66 If thou count me therefore a partner, 
 (or a friend,) receive him as myself. If he have 
 wronged thee in any thing, or oweth thee aught, put 
 that to my account. I Paul have written it with mine 
 own hand, I will repay it ; not to say to thee, that 
 thou owest to me even thine own self." — What a 
 
103 
 
 dexterous combination of appeals to interest, honour, 
 duty and affection ! " Yea, brother, let me have joy 
 of thee in the Lord ; — refresh my feelings in the 
 Lord. Having confidence in thy compliance, I have 
 thus written to thee, knowing that thou wilt do even 
 more than I say." 
 
 He concludes with the following request. " And, 
 at the same time, prepare me a lodging, for I trust, 
 that through your prayers I shall be given unto 
 you."— This discovers a singular familiarity be- 
 tween the apostle and Philemon, and a regard to the 
 prayers of a good family, or a good friend. The 
 salutations at the end of the epistle are from the com- 
 panions of Paul, and need not be repeated. 
 
 1. From the recital of this epistle, and the occa- 
 sional illustrations, which you have iioav had, you may, 
 I think, in the first place, naturally conclude, that 
 there is nothing peculiarly unintelligible in this apos- 
 tle's mode of writing ; and that on common subjects 
 his meaning is as plain, as his language is familiar and 
 unpretending. You may also be inclined to believe, 
 that if we could as certainly ascertain the subjects of 
 the other epistles, as of this ; if we could know the 
 character and circumstances of the churches, to w horn 
 they were written, as we understand the situation of 
 Philemon and Onesimus, many passages, which now 
 perplex us, would become clear, and innumerable dif- 
 ficulties, the source of endless theological discussions, 
 would vanish into the simplest matters of fact. In an 
 historical explication of the writings of the New 
 
% 
 
 104 
 
 Testament, such as we have now given of this short 
 letter, would be found the most interesting and satis- 
 factory mode of studying them. Instead of looking 
 into every text, separated from its context, to find some- 
 thing which may bear upon a favourite system, we 
 should be content to understand the apostles, as they 
 meant to be understood by those to whom they wrote. 
 We should learn, that they were not, on every occa- 
 sion, delivering a system of dogmas for the instruction 
 of all succeeding time ; but that Paul, in particular, 
 consulted the circumstances of his correspondents, 
 reasoned with them sometimes on their own assump- 
 tions, and sometimes upon prevailing hypotheses, now 
 according to their peculiar habits of interpretation, 
 and then upon suppositions and accommodations of 
 his own, never losing sight, however, of the grand 
 object of his labours, the establishment of Christianity, 
 unincumbered with the burden, and unfettered with 
 the trammels of Judaism. 
 
 2. By reflecting on the circumstance, that this let- 
 ter is found in the canon of the New Testament, you 
 may be led to form the most intelligible notion of 
 what is called the inspiration of the book, and also to 
 understand the most important use of the apostolical 
 writings. You may thus ascertain, what it is that 
 gives any ancient writing a place in y6ur New Tes- 
 taments. You will find, that it is not because this 
 writing or that was dictated by divine inspiration ; 
 for the question still returns, what proof is there, that 
 this or that writing was inspired ? But the true rea- 
 
105 
 
 son is simply, because we have sufficient edviencc to 
 believe it to be the work of an apostle. If the apos- 
 tles had written many more epistles, which had been 
 transmitted to us, or if any should now be discovered, 
 as unsuspiciously authentick as those we possess, 
 they would, on that account, and that alone, make a 
 part of the New Testament, and consequently of the 
 rule and records of our faith. So, also, on the other 
 hand, if the epistles, which we now have, had not by 
 any means been preserved, the limits of what we call 
 the word of Grod would have been reduced, and we 
 should have been compelled to resort, perhaps, to the 
 gospels only, for our information respecting the relig- 
 ion of Christ. 
 
 When we say, therefore, that the letter to Phile. 
 mon, or any other part of the New Testament, is the 
 word of Grod, we mean only, that it is the genuine 
 production of one of those men, to whom Grod had 
 communicated a miraculous knowledge of the truth 
 as it was in Jesus. It is, in short, the real work of 
 an authorized apostle of Jesus. We do not mean, 
 that either the suggestion or the superintendence of 
 the Divinity was necessary for the conception or the 
 composition of a letter like this, addressed to an ind ; * 
 vidual friend, without reference either to the churches 
 or to posterity, on a subject of merely personal con- 
 cern, and in a style of epistolary familiarity. No — 
 we feel at once, that, in such a composition, there was 
 no call for any thing more than the natural powers 
 and common state of the understanding. But we re- 
 14 
 
106 
 
 ccivc even this, as the word of God, because it makes 
 a part of the authentiek writings of one of his inspir- 
 ed ministers ; for it is fair to conclude, that the same 
 God, who had illuminated and empowered them 
 to preach the gospel, would not suffer them, in 
 writing on any occasion in which his revelation was 
 even remotely concerned, to give a false or mistaken 
 statement of his truth, or incidentally to mislead in 
 any important point. If it were possible that we 
 should be so misled, it would imply, that God had 
 made choice of incompetent witnesses. We re- 
 ceive this gift, therefore, however small, as a part 
 of the records of Christianity ; and, without a servile 
 credulity in the supernatural inspiration of every line, 
 which at any time flowed from the pen of the apostle, 
 we feel a confidence, that, wherever we understand his 
 meaning, we are not mistaken in the views of the gos- 
 pel which he presents. If the apostles were honest 
 men, we are sure that they were inspired for every 
 practical purpose : and where we have no reason to 
 suspect the genuineness of their works, we place as 
 complete a reliance on the doctrines and facts, which 
 they contain, as if we had received them directly 
 from Jesus himself. 
 
 3. This little epistle instructs us, also, in the use of 
 the apostolical writings. Not one of them appears to 
 have been written to furnish us with a complete sys- 
 tem of theology ; nor were they originally contrived, 
 as they now appear, to give us a series of disconnected 
 axioms to serve for every occasion, and every genera- 
 
107 
 
 tion. They were suggested, like other letters, by 
 particular circumstances ; and they are now of use to 
 throw light upon the early history of the gospel, to 
 enable us to enter into the character of the apostles 
 and their converts, to assist us in judging of the prob- 
 ability of the principal facts mentioned in the evangel- 
 ical narrative ; in one w ord, they are documents, w hich 
 awaken an interest in, and add confirmation to the 
 wonderful history of Jesus and his apostles. It would, 
 indeed, be a subject of curious inquiry to ascertain, if 
 we could, what the apostles thought upon some sub- 
 jects of modern speculation ; but it is likely that few, 
 perhaps none of them, ever once entered their minds. 
 Their testimony to facts is all that is of indispensable 
 importance ; and besides this, we are enabled to ac- 
 quire a lively idea of the leading doctrines and precepts 
 and the animating spirit of Christianity, as it existed in 
 their minds, and among their churches. But they wrote 
 in a popular style, influenced, no doubt, by the pre- 
 vailing notions of their own age and nation ; a style 
 by no means nicely accommodated to the metaphysicks 
 of our times, or regulated by a strict regard to philo- 
 sophical precision. 
 
 Of the uses even of this short letter, in confirmation 
 and illustration of the gospel history, I will now at- 
 tempt to give you a specimen. 
 
 You all know, that there is extant, in our volume 
 of the New Testament, a history, called the Acts of 
 the apostles, commonly believed to have been written 
 by Luke, a physician. Let us now T suppose, that an 
 
108 
 
 inhabitant of Colosse, in the first century, the execu- 
 tor, for instance, of Philemon's estate, in looking 
 over the papers of his deceased friend, finds a letter, 
 purporting to be an epistle from one Paul to Phile- 
 mon, about the restoration of a runaway slave. If 
 this man had formerly read, though without perfect 
 satisfaction, the extraordinary narrative of Luke, the 
 name of Paul, in this newly discovered letter, would 
 instantly recal to his mind the remarkable history 
 of a man of the same name, which he had read in the 
 Acts. He soon perceives, also, that this letter, which 
 he has just found, was written from Rome, while the 
 writer was in confinement, as he expresses it, on ac- 
 count of Jesus. Upon turning to the conclusion of the 
 history in the Acts, he finds, that the apostle, named 
 Paul, was actually put in bonds at Rome, in conse- 
 quence of an arrest in Judea, for preaching what he 
 called the gospel of Jesits. The letter, then, would 
 excite his attention, as a natural confirmation of the 
 history, at least in that particular. Unacquainted, 
 however, with all the Roman customs, as he reads on, 
 he thinks it not a little extraordinary, that the apostle 
 should have had an opportunity of converting Onesi- 
 mus to the christian faith, while he was himself in 
 close confinement. Upon reverting to the history, he 
 discovers, that Paul lived all the while at Rome in 
 his own hired house, with the soldier who guarded 
 him, where he was allowed to receive the visits of 
 his friends, and thus to discourse to them of Jesus. 
 In this view of the apostle's imprisonment, the con- 
 
109 
 
 version of Onesimus, and the apostle's desire to retain 
 him near his person, seem no longer extraordinary. 
 
 Again, let us suppose, that this friend of the de- 
 ceased Philemon, at Colosse, should chance to find 
 some years after, in the records of the church of his 
 native town, the epistle, which is styled, in our Bibles, 
 that of Paul to the Colossians ; or rather, let us sup- 
 pose, that he heard it read then, for the first time, in 
 the publick congregation. If he recollected any thing 
 of the private letter of Paul, which he had before dis- 
 covered among Philemon's papers, he would not, for 
 a moment, doubt of the authenticity of this publick 
 epistle to the Colossians. For he would instantly be 
 struck with the coincidences between them, and ob- 
 serve the light and confirmation, which they communi- 
 cate to each other, and to the history of the apostle. 
 He would remark, that this epistle to the church was 
 written about the same time, and from the same place, 
 with the letter to Philemon ; of course he would ex- 
 pect to find, what is repeatedly mentioned in the Co- 
 lossians, the writer speaking of himself, as imprison- 
 ed. There is one coincidence, however, which 
 would strike him with singular force. He remembers 
 to have found in the letter, that the name of Phile- 
 mon's slave, who had absconded, and returned to him 
 penitent, was Onesiinus, and he now finds, in the epis- 
 tle to the Colossians, that it is mentioned by mere 
 accident, that a convert, named Onesiinus, was the 
 bearer of this publick epistle to the church ; and that 
 he is there also, as in the other, commended by Paul 
 
110 
 
 with singular affection, as a faithful and beloved 
 brother. Could he suspect, for a moment, the au- 
 thenticity of the epistle to the Colossians, after ob- 
 serving these and many more undesigned coincidences 
 between this publick correspondence with a church 
 and this private letter to his deceased friend ; a letter, 
 which, for any thing that we know, might, but for some 
 such circumstances as those we have imagined, have 
 remained forever buried in the desk of Philemon ? 
 
 Let us pursue' this subject. What idea would the 
 reader of this letter be apt to form of the character of 
 the writer ? Would he not conclude him to be a man 
 of the most affectionate dispositions, of the most 
 glowing philanthropy, capable of strong sympa- 
 thies, interested in the fortunes of his friends, and 
 disposed to any exertions in their favour ? Would he 
 not set him down as a minister, devoted altogether to 
 the cause, which he had espoused, esteeming it his 
 first and highest object, in defiance of every personal 
 inconvenience, to communicate, in his bonds, the 
 knowledge of the gospel, solicitous, even in such a sit- 
 uation, to save the soul of a poor slave, and unable to 
 conceal his delight at the change of character even in 
 the obscure Onesimus ? Yes, and with all this in- 
 terest in the minutest circumstances connected with 
 the credit of the gospel, I think lie might discover in 
 the writer of this letter a consciousness of dignity, min- 
 gled with his condescension, and consummate pru- 
 dence of address, united with expressions of undissem- 
 bled friendship for Philemon ; I think he would say, 
 
lit 
 
 here is a man, who is sensible of the influence, which 
 age and office should command, and yet is master of a 
 politeness, which knows how to bring itself, without 
 abasement, to a level with the place, the feelings, and 
 the prejudices of every class of men. He would pro- 
 nounce him familiar with all the avenues to the heart. 
 He would say, this man is no stranger to the world, 
 but he is raised above its common interests ; and be- 
 neath all the graces of this insinuating style you may 
 discern the magnanimity and disinterestedness of an 
 apostle of the Son of God, a preacher of sublime and 
 everlasting truths. 
 
 It happens, by a singular coincidence, that there 
 has come down to us a letter of Pliny, the courtier, 
 the consul, the man of letters, who lived in the same 
 age with the apostle a letter, addressed to one of 
 his friends, upon an occasion precisely similar to 
 this of Paul, interceding for the pardon of a runaway 
 slave. The time and the occasion must excuse me. 
 from reciting it. In comparison w ith that of Paul, 
 however, I hesitate not to say, that it is altogether 
 inferiour, not merely in affection, in dignity, and the 
 spirit of Christianity, of which Pliny was ignorant, 
 but also in the subordinate beauties of style, and in 
 eloquence of persuasion. And yet Paul was a Jew 
 of Tarsus, and Pliny, the ornament of an accomplish- 
 ed court and of a literary age. But to return. 
 
 If such, then, would be his conception of Paul's 
 character, from the faint sketches, which appear in 
 
 * Pliny, lib. ix, let. 21 , 
 
113 
 
 this letter, let him turn to the history in the Acts, and 
 contemplate there a full-length portrait of this won- 
 derful man, this suhlimc apostle, and say, whether he 
 does not recognize the resemhlance. There, he ap- 
 pears animated with a zeal, which nothing earthly 
 could quench, and fearless of every thing which ap- 
 pals ordinary men ; affectionate as a child, when ta- 
 king his leave of the elders at Ephesus, bold as a 
 lion, in the presence of corrupt Roman governours ; 
 in his speeches before the Areopagus and the Athe- 
 nians, discovering a masterly address and a cultiva- 
 ted mind ; in the hearing of Agrippa, eloquent as a 
 practised rhetorician ; in the presence of his enemies, 
 the Jewish council, prudent, dexterous, and alert to 
 seize every lawful advantage ; yet, with all this, a 
 most humiliating sense of his former sinfulness, on the 
 one hand, attends, controls, attempers, and charac- 
 terizes all his greatness ; while, on the other, a senti- 
 ment of inexpressible gratitude to the Saviour, who 
 had rescued and pardoned him, gives a kind of super- 
 natural energy of love to all his exertions, sanctifies all 
 his success, and seems to spiritualize all his con^ 
 sciousness of desert, all the glory of his triumphs, 
 Yes, the penitent and the hero break out in his char- 
 racter, whether he preaches or writes ; whether he suf- 
 fers, or is worshipped as a God. It is the same extra- 
 ordinary man, who discovers himself in the familiarity 
 of a private letter, and in the wonders of a miraculous 
 history. The dress is altered, but the bold cast of 
 countenance is the same. It is Paul's, and Paul's only. 
 
113 
 
 Truly, the conquest of such a mind was the first and 
 the nohlest of the triumphs of the cross. 
 
 Lastly, what ideas would the reader of this letter 
 form of the nature and spirit of Christianity ? I think, 
 that, even from this short epistle, he would learn to rev- 
 erence and love the cause, which could form such men, 
 and dictate such sentiments. Here he would see the 
 distinctions of master and slave, of the chief apostle 
 and his meanest convert, vanishing in their common 
 relation to Jesus and his gospel. Love counts noth- 
 ing humble, nothing mean. Heie he would learn, 
 that the soul, even of a fugitive slave, is not unworthy 
 of being rescued from the tyranny and misery of sin ; 
 that the gift of eternal life, in the sight of Jesus and of 
 Paul, is no less important to Onesimus, than to his 
 master. Yet, in remarkable coincidence with the 
 doctrine of the apostles in other epistles, he would 
 find, that Christianity made no alterations in the civil 
 or political relations of the converts, for Paul de- 
 mands not the emancipation of the slave, but, on the 
 contrary, returns him to tlie service of his master. 
 
 In this epistle, too, he would see recommended 
 that temper of forgiveness, which the gospel requires, 
 and requires, too, without respect of persons, from a 
 superiour justly incensed toward the most abject depen- 
 dent. It acknowledges neither the pride of revenge, 
 nor the haughtiness of office. We see, also, exempli- 
 fied the duty of reconciling those, who are at variance, 
 however distant or unequal. We see a religion, in 
 short, which takes an interest even in the continuance 
 15 
 
114 
 
 of the attachment of a master and his domesticks. How 
 generous, how disinterested, and yet how practicable 
 is all this ! How conformable to the preaching of Je- 
 sus of Nazareth, and how unlike the customs and 
 the spirit of modern society ! 
 
 Besides all this, we are taught, by the example of 
 •Paul and Onesimus, not to turn away from any por- 
 tion of the community, as irreparably wicked, or out 
 of the reach of instruction and conversion. It gives 
 a lesson to every christian minister, and not less, let 
 me add, to every master of a family. It shows us, 
 too, that the gospel was intended to find its way 
 to the breast of a slave, as well as to the head of a 
 philosopher ; to form the characters of the lowest 
 order of a community ; to make a worthy man, where 
 every other religion, which the world has yet seen, 
 and all the lectures of the Lycseum besides, would 
 have left a worthless, ignorant criminal. 
 
 To conclude, he who feels not the worth of this 
 amiable, benevolent, unpretending epistle, may study 
 mysteries till he is tired ; he may talk of our holy re- 
 ligion, till he fancies himself its champion ; but 
 he understands not the nature of Christianity. He 
 has not imbibed that spirit of charity, without which 
 the most confident faith and the most burning zeal arc 
 but a hypocritical show, or a ruinous delusion. 
 
SERMON VIL 
 
 JOHN vi. 12* 
 
 GATHER UP THE FRAGMENTS THAT REMAIN, THAT NOTHING 
 
 BE LOST. 
 
 OF many virtues it may be remarked, that they 
 are so nearly allied to particular vices, that, by 
 minds unwilling or unaccustomed to make nice moral 
 distinctions, they are continually confounded. Thus, 
 on the one hand, what is called liberality in sentiment 
 is sufficiently near to indifference, and devotional 
 fervour, on the other, to enthusiasm, to deceive those, 
 who are not disposed to distinguish them. What in 
 one man is only caution, in another is thought nothing 
 better than timidity ; what in this mind is al- 
 lowed to pass for generous emulation, in that is gross 
 envy, or inordinate ambition. In the view of the un- 
 discerning, generosity spreads itself out into waste 
 and profusion, and prudence shrinks into parsimony. 
 
 * In order to feel all the force of some passages of this discourse, the reader 
 should be informed, that it was written at the commencement of our com- 
 mercial restrictions, and pronounced at the quarterly charitable lecture in 
 Xioston. 
 
 / 
 
116 
 
 Since, then, there is a great affinity between certain 
 dispositions, which yet differ in moral character ; and 
 since some virtues stand, in fact, on the confines of 
 certain vices ; the more nearly any one of our charac- 
 tcristick qualities is allied to an unpopular or una- 
 miable vice, the more careful ought we to be of the 
 simplicity, and the more sure of the rectitude of our 
 motives, because the easier is it for the world to mis- 
 represent their nature and depreciate their value. 
 Since, also, many of those feelings and habits, on 
 which men rest their claims to superiour worth, are 
 sometimes vices in disguise, and still oftener the pro- 
 ducts of doubtful dispositions, it becomes of especial 
 importance to ascertain the true nature and real worth 
 of those qualities, to which we find ourselves the most 
 disposed, and which wear the form of virtues. 
 
 Among those moral qualities of close affinity, which 
 occasion much perversion and mistake of judgment 
 in the world, we may reckon the virtue of frugality, 
 and the vice of avarice. On these every man feels 
 competent to decide in the character of another. We 
 propose now to consider the virtue of frugality, to re- 
 lieve it from disesteem, and to guard it from perver- 
 sion. In doing this, we shall attempt to draw the re- 
 quisite distinctions between it and its unworthy coun^ 
 terfeits ; to distinguish what in it is prudent from 
 w hat is purely selfish, what in it is wise and honour- 
 able from what is childish and disgraceful ; and what 
 is useful to the individual, and good for society, 
 
117 
 
 from what is always useless to the one, and ultimately 
 destructive to the other. 
 
 Among the considerations, which have induced me 
 to make this virtue the subject of a discourse on this 
 occasion, it is not one of the least, that nothing will 
 more effectually enable us to preserve in all their vig- 
 our, and, in fact, to multiply and extend the charities 
 of this place, than the revival or the preservation of 
 frugality. We have been living in a period and 
 state of society, where the facilities of profit hav* 
 been numerous beyond a parallel, and the frequent 
 examples of sudden gains flattering and seductive. 
 Temptations to extravagance have increased daily. 
 Thousands have been spending upon anticipation, 
 and dissipating, not hereditary wealth — for of that we 
 possessed little — not sure and tangible acquisitions, 
 for these w r e have wanted patience to collect — but 
 that airy and invisible representative of wealth, credit, 
 which, of all possessions, it is most necessary to econ- 
 omise and guard from violation. The time seems to 
 be approaching, if it have not already come, in which 
 men are to learn, that they cannot, with impunity, de- 
 spise this virtue of frugality ; and we have begun to 
 see, that uninterrupted profit is not the order of nature. 
 We have found, that there are other enemies to rapid 
 gains, besides the elements of nature, or the shoal 
 which wrecks our vessels, or the indiscretion which 
 mismanages our means, or the moth and rust which 
 corrupt treasures long ago collected. We find, that 
 there may be serious obstructions to usual channels 
 
118 
 
 of profit, which check in an instant the movements of 
 the vast machine of acquisition; that the calculations 
 of the aspiring man of business may he arrested, and 
 every man in society compelled to pause, some to 
 inquire into the sources of their prosperity, others into 
 the security of their actual possessions. We find, that, 
 in the ordinary course of human affairs, changes occur 
 against which nothing but habitual frugality can pro- 
 vide ; and we are taught to feel the importance of es- 
 tablishing the habits of a rising community in that 
 state of moderate expense, which can be easily main- 
 tained through all these changes. It is a time, in fact, 
 to learn the great riches of frugality. Gather up, then, 
 the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. 
 
 Before we proceed further to recommend this vir- 
 tue, let us attempt to distinguish it from that vice of 
 avarice, to w hich some will persist in supposing it re- 
 lated. There is no man, whatever be his place, his 
 means, or his character in life, who does not feel au- 
 thorized to decry the spirit of parsimony. Though 
 he denies that lie lias ever felt it himself, it is the pas- 
 sion which he is always most sharp-sighted to detect 
 in others. But, if we mistake not, economy differs 
 from avarice, not merely in degree, but in kind. The 
 utmost excess of frugality never sinks into avarice ; 
 nor does the low est degree of avarice ever amount to 
 frugality. They proceed from different propensities, 
 they avail themselves of different means, they are di- 
 rected to different ends. Avarice accumulates for the 
 sake of accumulation ; economy spares for the sake of 
 
119 
 
 use. Avarice becomes at last a disinterested pas'r 
 sion ; and money, the more it is gained, is loved and 
 hoarded more solicitously, merely because it is mon- 
 ey. Economy does not grow more saving, as the 
 means of expense are multiplied : it lays by with a 
 view to some future accommodation, but with less 
 scrupulosity, the more it has to deposit. Avarice, 
 even when it is cheated into bounty, reluctantly parts 
 with the little that it yields ; economy never gives 
 merely on compulsion, and is often grieved that it 
 dares not bestow a more ample favour. Avarice, al- 
 ways intent on minute savings, is frequently blind, 
 and is sometimes betrayed by her rapacity into serious 
 losses ; economy, while she gathers up the fragments 
 that remain, is never hurried, by a thirst of gain, into 
 imprudent and destructive speculations. Avarice re 
 gards only money, or what it represents ; economy is 
 a branch of that comprehensive prudence, which 
 knows how to be frugal of every thing, of time, op- 
 portunities, and talents, as well as wealth. An av- 
 aricious man feels like a unit in creation, and saves 
 for himself alone ; a frugal man considers himself 
 one of a circle of creatures, mutually dependent, 
 whose expectations and whose claims he consults, 
 and in all his habits of frugality has reference to his 
 relation to society and to posterity. The highest 
 benevolence of character may consist with a habit of 
 regulated and moderate expenditure, and consists, in- 
 deed, with nothing else ; but it is the curse of the av- 
 aricious man, to experience th« miseries of pure self- 
 
120 
 
 ishness, to be at once envious of* the rising prosperi- 
 ty of others, and anxious about his own possessions, 
 to be ever afraid of losing, and still more afraid to 
 give, because he sees nothing in bounty but delibe* 
 rate waste, and uncompensated diminution. In short, 
 frugality will associate with any of the virtues, and 
 becomes herself the parent of others, and not only 
 of virtues, but of a thousand permanent comforts ; 
 avarice, in its very nature, defeats its own wishes, and 
 encounters from others nothing but enmity and con- 
 tempt When mature, it sheds a blasting influence 
 over the finest affections and sweetest comforts of 
 mankind. Men spontaneously combine to detest it, 
 and God, the most bountiful of beings, looks down 
 with abhorrence on a spirit, which does nothing but 
 counteract his benevolent designs. 
 
 This, you may say, however, is rather a rhetorical, 
 than a precise description of the quality, which we 
 mean to recommend under the name of frugality. To 
 avoid, then, all cavil or subterfuge, all excuses from 
 the plea, that you know not how far your expenses 
 may be carried without profuseness, or how much 
 economy you may observe without penuriousness, 
 I would say, once for all, that I mean by the eco- 
 nomical man, him who does not exceed his income, 
 who does not spend upon anticipation, and who is not 
 ashamed to gather up the fragments that remain, that 
 nothing be lost; and who, in the regulation of his ex- 
 penses, always has regard to the claims of charity, 
 and retrenches always, when he can, from his owa 
 
i21 
 
 personal gratifications, to do good to those who want 
 what he can spare. 
 
 If, then, you ask for the reasons, why you should 
 practise this virtue, I answer, in the first place, from 
 the authority of the text. I have chosen it, as a re- 
 commendation to you as christians. Gather up the 
 fragments that remain, that nothing he lost. The 
 precept is introduced at a time and in a place, which 
 render it most extraordinary and remarkable. It was 
 w hen the Son of God had been feeding five thousand 
 men, by a miraculous multiplication of food. It was 
 in the midst of this generosity and supernatural 
 abundance, when they were all filled and satisfied, that 
 our Saviour charges them to gather up the fragments 
 that remain, that nothing be lost. What then ! If 
 the son of God, with whom there could be no appre- 
 hension of want, and who might have provided for 
 his family of disciples by a daily miracle, chose 
 that moment of plenty to give a precept of frugality, 
 is this a virtue to be disdained by man, the most de- 
 pendant of animals, who possesses nothing, which he 
 has not received, and w ho knows not what shall be, 
 even on the morrow? 
 
 2. The next reason, which I shall offer you for the 
 practice of frugality, is, it seems also to be the prac- 
 tice of omnipotence itself. In those vast operations 
 which are continually going on in nature, there ap- 
 pears no waste, no unnecessary profusion. Though 
 he, who created this stupendous whole, might conti- 
 nually reproduce whatever might be lost, yet, amid 
 
the endless changes of matter, not a particle is anni- 
 hilated. Magnificence every where displays itself 
 without waste, and grandeur is every where made 
 subservient to utility. Those vast orbs, which com- 
 pose our planetary system, are all so nicely counter- 
 poised, that we can discover no unnecessary exercise 
 of power, no useless and unaccountable movements. 
 Those bright bodies, which adorn the arch of heaven, 
 modern discoveries make it probable, are themselves 
 the residences of animated beings, while they diffuse 
 light and heat to countless and habitable spheres. 
 They are not placed above us merely to furnish us 
 with some feeble light ; nor is all this profusion of 
 magnificence expended to delight the eye of man 
 by the decoration of the concave, which over- canopies 
 him. Even the comet, which makes such wild and 
 apparently extravagant excursions into the regions of 
 boundless space, may be the messenger, and perhaps 
 the agent of the most necessary purposes in creation. 
 The air, which seems to be diffused with such waste- 
 ful generosity above, below, around us, fulfils a thou- 
 sand beneficent designs, reflects the light, conveys 
 sound, raises vapours, and sustains the life of all an- 
 imal and vegetable nature. The wide expanse of 
 waters, which seems, at first glance, a mere waste of 
 surface on the globe, furnishes by copious evap- 
 oration the necessary recruit to those pure springe 
 and navigable rivers, which, at once, refresh and ac- 
 comodate the living creatures on the earth. Indeed, 
 wherever nature appears to have been prodigal of her 
 
123 
 
 wealth, we find she has only been gathering stores 
 for some future secret wants ; and those countries, 
 which exhibit, at first view, a superabundance of fer- 
 tility, are destined, we find, to furnish articles in ex- 
 change for others, and thus a system of mutual com- 
 pensation is provided, as population increases and 
 the intercourses of society are multiplied and ex- 
 tended. If, then, in the arrangement of an omnipo- 
 tent providence, where the fear of want cannot be 
 known, such an economical distribution is every 
 where observed, shall we, in our little spheres, in our 
 precarious and contracted operations, be ashamed to 
 imitate the prudence of the God of nature ? 
 
 3. A third reason, which I shall offer for the prac- 
 tice of frugality, is this, that, in proportion to the me * 
 diocrity of its place in the scale of virtues, the more 
 frequent are the opportunities for its practice. It is 
 a virtue within every man's reach, neither confined to 
 particular classes of men, or periods of life, nor de- 
 manding any singular circumstances, or favourable 
 situations, before it can be practised. It may be ob- 
 served by the day labourer, who earns his bread from 
 hour to hour, and not less by the hereditary proprietor 
 of unreckoned millions ; by the man who is not known 
 beyond the light of his own fireside, and the man who 
 is busy in the traffick of the world ; by the head of a 
 family, and the head of an empire ; by the poor man, 
 who lives upon his regular pittance, and by him, who 
 has the lives and treasures of thousands at the dispo« 
 sal of his generosity. It may be practised silently 
 
124 
 
 and secretly, where it cannot be disdained ; or in pub- 
 lick, and without disguise, where the example may be 
 of consequence. The habit, though not congenial 
 with the dispositions of the young, may be formed be- 
 fore the value of property is understood ; and it may 
 be preserved without difficulty in age, when time has 
 increased our original attachments to human posses- 
 sions. As it is a virtue, which neither excites much 
 attention, nor challenges loud commendation, it may 
 be cultivated without exposure, without fear, without 
 embarrassment, without reproach. Few men have 
 opportunities of great gain ; but to save with discre- 
 tion, is within every one's power. Few can make 
 themselves distinguished by splendid profuseness ; but 
 all, in a country like this, may keep themselves from 
 want by silent and blameless economy. In fine, it is 
 a virtue, which may be practised in all times, coun- 
 tries, ranks, ages, relations, and capacities ; and this, 
 perhaps, is the very circumstance which has made 
 some men despise it, who, though ashamed to practise 
 a humble virtue, have not been afraid of great and 
 splendid crimes. 
 
 4. A fourth reason for economy is to be found in 
 the mournful effects of prodigality ; for the prodigal, 
 in the full career of his profligate generosity, is fast 
 approaching a state of dependence. At this word 
 dependence we all revolt, and we ought to revolt. It 
 is this, which constitutes the worst evil of poverty. 
 Poverty not only makes us destitute, and abridges the 
 number of our pleasures, but its greatest hardship is, 
 
125 
 
 that it places us in the power of those whom wealth 
 has set above us ; and, while it exposes us to severe 
 and unexpected trials, it too often reconciles the mind 
 to abject compliances and humiliating artifices, at 
 which the spirit of virtue would once have indignant- 
 ly revolted. To this wretched condition how sud- 
 denly may the prodigal be reduced ! Ages of toil and 
 prudence may be employed in the acquisition of a 
 fortune, which the cast of a die may dissipate in an 
 instant ; as the showers of rain, which descend in a 
 moment by their own gravity to the earth, have been 
 slowly and successively raised, particle by particle, 
 from a wide expanse of waters. The profuse man, 
 who is possessed with the pitiable vanity of making 
 a show, which he linds it difficult to maintain, expe- 
 riences all the miseries of dependence long before he 
 is reduced to circumstances of real and absolute want. 
 He is continually employed in contrivances to raise 
 mistaken admiration, and he gains nothing by pro- 
 fusion but the contempt of those, who are not weak 
 enough to envy him. Even in the days of his most 
 abundant means, he is, in a thousand ways, the prey 
 of the multitude of creatures, that are necessary to his 
 ostentation. He must seem to care nothing about ex- 
 pense, while he knows that he cannot long support 
 his mode of life, in which every new instance of pro- 
 fusion leads only to another more extravagant, and in 
 which he resembles a descending meteor, which 
 grows more brilliant and dazzling just before it bursts. 
 He is condemned, also, to see a crowd of imitators 
 
126 
 
 treading close upon his heels and aping his prodigal- 
 ities. He is miserable with the thought, that he 
 is engaged in a career in which he cannot relax with- 
 out mortification, for, if he should fail, the whole 
 crowd of his retainers and imitators, as soon as his 
 inability is suspected, will be changed into his despis- 
 ers, his calumniators, or, what he more fears, perhaps, 
 his proud superiours in the arts of expense. He 
 bears about with him the painful conviction, that those 
 who flattered him when his purse was full, those mis- 
 erable instigators of his follies, who were willing to 
 run witti him into the same excess of riot, will begin 
 to avoid him in his mediocrity, or to insult him in his 
 poverty. 
 
 It is also the fate of prodigality, when it does not 
 destroy, to be continually defeating itself. As the 
 same gains will not always satisfy a rapacious spirit 
 of avarice, so the same expenses will but for a little 
 while content the profuse. What was at first only 
 convenient, becomes at last necessary ; what was once 
 superfluous, becomes convenient ; what was formerly 
 acknowledged to be vain and ostentatious, becomes, at 
 last, a part of the habits, and therefore indispensable. 
 Thus the well known curse of avarice, that it is never 
 satisfied with what it has accumulated, is transferred 
 to prodigality ; and it is ultimately found as painful 
 for the prodigal to retrench, as for the miser to ex^ 
 pend. 
 
 5. Another reason, which may be offered for a pru-, 
 dent management of wealth, is its excessive uneer- 
 
127 
 
 tainty. How often is this consideration neglected ! 
 Instead of saving, as we ought, something from 
 the waves of peril and change, men are always cal- 
 culating upon anticipated profits. We flatter our- 
 selves, that to-morrow shall be as this day, and yet 
 more abundant. We are influenced by examples of 
 sudden success, instead of being warned by examples 
 of sudden downfal. We think, that, where others 
 have succeeded, we cannot fail ; and, however limit- 
 ed our means, there is unfortunately no limit to our 
 hopes. The insecurity of what we actually possess 
 would be enough, as one might think, to keep us from 
 waste ; but, instead of this, men spend upon expec- 
 tation ; and he that is prodigal of what he only ex- 
 pects, will hardly feel the uncertainty of what he actu- 
 ally holds. To such men I would repeat the serious 
 admonition of St. James : Go to now, ye that say, to- 
 day or to-morrow we will go into such a city, and buy, 
 and sell, and get gain, whereas ye know not what shall 
 be on the morrow ; for what is even your life ? Is it 
 not a vapour, which appeareth for a little time, and 
 then vanisheth away ? Whereas ye ought to say, if 
 the Lord will, we shall live, and do this or that. But 
 ye have lived in pleasure on the earth ; ye have 
 nourished your hearts, as in a day of slaughter. Be- 
 hold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruits 
 of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he 
 receive the early and the latter rain. Be ye also pa- 
 tient, and trust not in uncertain riches. 
 
128 
 
 6. The last reason, which I shall offer, for the prac- 
 tice of frugality, is one which I wish you to feel, par- 
 ticularly on the present occasion. It is found in the 
 purposes, for which wealth has been bestow ed upon 
 you by God, purposes, which prodigality utterly de- 
 feats. Do you ask, what are these purposes? We 
 answer, that no man is born for himself alone, or for 
 the short period in which he lives. You are related 
 to the age which has preceded, and to the posterity 
 which is to succeed you. If your present wealth is 
 hereditary, those who bequeathed it lay their com- 
 mands on you their heirs. Your ancestors cry to you 
 from their tombs, that you have their riches in keep- 
 ing ; and beseech you to expend, with wise liberality, 
 what they collected with toil. Is your wealth the pro- 
 duct of your own exertions and of your own oppor- 
 tunities, the next generation puts in its claims, and 
 avows its expectations. It tells you to look into 
 futurity, and see descendants impoverished by your 
 imprudences, entering into life bearing the burden 
 and reproach of your prodigality, and perhaps driven 
 to crimes and despair by the want you have entailed 
 upon them. Your contemporaries, also, rise up around 
 you, and inquire by what right you waste that portion 
 of the wealth of the world, which has been assigned 
 you by the tacit conventions and guaranteed by the 
 laws of society. We have a claim upon you, they 
 cry, for all the good which your possessions may be 
 made to produce, and you have not the right to place 
 them out of your control by such rapid dissipation, 
 
129 
 
 or to reduce yourself to want which Ave must relieve, 
 and then plead your incapacity to be useful. 
 
 Do you ask, why I have chosen this subject for 
 such an occasion. I can only answer by saying, be 
 frugal, that you may be charitable. Nothing ex- 
 hausts the spirit of charity, as well as the sources of 
 bounty, so surely as selfish and indiscriminate prodi- 
 gality ; and no man is so unwilling to give, as he who 
 is accustomed to spend profusely upon himself. His 
 wealth, which would have made many comfortable, is 
 often expended upon one, without increasing the 
 name, but merely the show of enjoyment. The young 
 and vain are tempted by our ambitious extravagances 
 to expenses, which they cannot support, while the 
 riches of the community are wasted away, ,and the 
 cries of the poor are unregarded. 
 
 By prodigality the encroachments of luxury are 
 silently extended through all the classes of the com- 
 munity. The discontentment of your inferiours is 
 excited by demonstrations of splendour, which they 
 cannot imitate ; and the spendthrift, when he finds 
 that his revenues will no longer suppoi't his poor at- 
 tempts at extravagance, is driven to crimes, at which 
 lie would once have revolted, and a hard-heartedness, 
 of which he would once have been ashamed. He is 
 forced by very shame to petty frauds, to frequent 
 breaches of promise, to injurious oppression, and va- 
 rious means of supply, which deprave all the finest 
 sentiments of benevolence and virtue. 
 
 Be frugal, then, that you may be charitable. In 
 these days of increasing luxury, and of increasing 
 17 
 
130 
 
 want, how shall our beneficence keep pace with 
 the demands of charity, unless we learn to retrench 
 for the sake of beneficence? It is not my object, in 
 this discourse, to produce in you, at this time, any 
 extraordinary degree of munificence, but to recom- 
 mend to you a virtue, which if you can be persuad- 
 ed to practise, I shall feel secure of your future 
 bounty. I shall fear no diminution in your chari- 
 ties, and the poor, for whom I am called to plead this 
 evening, will bless me much more, than if I could 
 now empty your purses in one profuse contribution. 
 They value the man, who, in all his expenditures, 
 has a regard to their perpetual claims ; they prize 
 that constant and well -principled bounty, which is 
 nourished by frugality, much more than they esteem 
 the occasional charity of the spendthrift, who is 
 moved by some accidental feelings of compassion, 
 but who forgets them as soon as his purse is emptied, 
 -and, at the next call of charity, has nothing to give. 
 
 To conclude, I have said, be frugal, that you 
 may be charitable. Let me add, that charity is the 
 truest frugality. As God lives, no man ever has lost, 
 or can lose, by well-directed bounty. There is no 
 waste in charity. Cast thy bread upon the waters, 
 and thou shalt find it again. He that soweth spar- 
 ingly shall reap also sparingly, and he that soweth 
 bountifully shall reap also bountifully. Abound, there- 
 fore, in the work of the Lord, inasmuch as ye know 
 your labour shall not be in vain in the Lord. 
 
SERMON VIII. 
 
 HEB. xi. 1. 
 
 NOW FAITH IS THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR, 
 THE EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN. 
 
 AMONG the terms of theology, which have given 
 rise to much useless controversy, and many differen- 
 ces of explanation, the word faith is not the least con- 
 siderable. As, in different passages, it is used in 
 different connexions, according to the object of the 
 writer, and the subject of his reasoning, it is not sur- 
 prising, that it should not always admit of an uni- 
 form interpretation, and that no particular definition of 
 it should be found completely to explain its meaning 
 in every passage in which it is used in the New 
 Testament. The sense, however, in which it is em- 
 ployed in the celebrated chapter from which our 
 text is taken, is one of the most extensive, and per- 
 haps the most natural and intelligible of any ; and this 
 meaning of the word we propose, in the following 
 discourses, to illustrate, 
 
Faith, says the apostle, is the substance of things 
 hoped for, and an evidence, or rather a conviction, of 
 things not seen. Faith, therefore, is a principle, which 
 naturally results from the constitution of the human 
 mind ; and the general import of the word is well un- 
 derstood, though it may not be well defined, by the most 
 ordinary understanding, because it is of necessity exer- 
 cised by all. It is not opposed to reason, which is 
 its only just foundation, nor, except in a peculiar, 
 theological sense, to works ; but, properly, philo- 
 sophically, and universally, it is opposed to knowl- 
 edge. This principle is precisely the same, when 
 exercised on other truths, as on those of religion. 
 There is no peculiar strangeness in the faith of a 
 christian, no especial mysteriousness in the nature of 
 religious faith in general. The same constitution of 
 the human mind, which enables us to believe, upon 
 sufficient testimony, that there was such a person as 
 Alexander, will not allow us to doubt, that there was 
 such a teacher as Jesus. It is the same principle, 
 which leads us to believe in the conquests of the one 
 and the miracles of the other. With respect, also, 
 to future events, the act of faith is of a similar nature, 
 whether the event belong to this world, or to another. 
 The same principle, which would lead us to look 
 confidently for an eclipse, predicted by a man of sci- 
 ence, will not suffer us to doubt the authorized mes- 
 senger of God, who declares, that the day is coming, 
 when all they that are in their graves shall hear the 
 
133 
 
 voice of the son of man, and shall come forth. Reli- 
 gious faith is especially employed about every thing 
 which relates to the will, the providence, and the 
 character of God ; and the faith of a christian is dis- 
 tinguished, from all other kinds of religious faith, 
 only by its superiour extent, purity and influence. It 
 embraces doctrines, of which, if true, it is infinitely 
 dangerous for us to be ignorant ; and it is supported 
 on evidence, which gives it a stability, and inspires 
 it with an interest, which cannot properly belong to 
 any other description of belief. 
 
 In the following discourses we propose to enume- 
 rate some of the objects, to explain the reasonable- 
 ness, and to urge the importance of faith. These 
 are the three divisions of our subject. 
 
 We might, with the greatest ease, and perhaps with 
 some profit, fill this discourse with remarks upon the 
 numerous and different instances of faith, which the 
 apostle has collected in this chapter. You would 
 discover, from a particular examination of each in- 
 stance here recorded, that the leading idea in this 
 much disputed word, is reliance upon the authority, 
 or confidence in the testimony of another. You 
 would find, that the objects, which faith embraces, 
 are more or less numerous, according to the pre- 
 vious cultivation and present circumstances of the 
 believer, and according to the plans of Providence 
 with respect to him. The faith of Abel, or of Noah 
 was not less real or valuable, than is that of the great- 
 est saint, who lives under the dispensation of the 
 
134 
 
 gospel, though the faith of the christian embraces a 
 much greater variety of objects, and is suited to a 
 much more enlarged comprehension. In general, 
 with respect to God, it embraces whatever he has 
 been pleased to communicate of himself in the age 
 in which the believer happens to live. 
 
 If I should attempt to enumerate to you some of 
 the more important truths, which you now receive by 
 the aid of this all- operating principle, I should first 
 carry your imaginations back to that memorable point 
 of time, when God said, Let there be light, and there 
 was light ; and I would ask you, upon what do you 
 rest the assurance you feel, that this charming scene 
 of nature is the product of the hand of God ? Wert 
 thou present, when the foundations of the earth were 
 fastened ? Wert thou in the joyous circle, when the 
 morning stars sang together, and all the new-born 
 sons of God shouted for joy ? Knowest thou this, be- 
 cause thou wast then born, or because the number of 
 thy days is great? No, my friends. By faith, says the 
 apostle, we understand, that the worlds were framed 
 by the word of God ; so that the things which are 
 seen were not made of any thing which now appears. 
 Though the surest deductions of reason confirm the 
 opinion, that this universe is the product of a great 
 and intelligent author, yet it was not reasoning which 
 discovered this truth. It was to the Jewish nation — 
 it is still to those, who are not able to comprehend 
 the demonstration, by which it is sometimes support- 
 ed — and, universally, I may add, to the early capaci- 
 
135 
 
 ty, it must ever be an article of faith, received upon 
 authority. 
 
 By faith we dwell upon those events, which are 
 far beyond the reach of our sensible experience. In 
 profane history we receive such facts with unhesitat- 
 ing confidence, and reason from them without suspi- 
 cion. Why, then, should we not exercise the same 
 confidence, when we contemplate events in the history 
 of God's especial dealings, events, which have also 
 the additional support of prophecy and miracle ? By 
 religious faith we are introduced into the counsels of 
 omniscience, and see the hand of almighty power 
 guiding, with unvaried wisdom, the wonderful vicissi- 
 tudes of the world. Faith transports us back to 
 that event, which, in the history of the revolutions of 
 our globe, stands next in dignity to the wondrous 
 work of creation. We see the fountains of the great 
 deep broken up, and the waters bursting the bounds, 
 within which the hand of omnipotence had hitherto 
 circumscribed them, and rising to overtake the re- 
 treating wickedness of the antediluvian age. We 
 see the wide waste of waters successively submerg- 
 ing the shores, the trees, the towers, the eminences 
 to which the affrighted inhabitants had climbed, and* 
 at length, the original and everlasting mountains of 
 the globe, until all the features of this ball of earth 
 are no longer to be discerned in the one vast expanse 
 of fluid. The world, just now so gay with vegeta- 
 tion, so fruitful in life, and so tumultuous with plea- 
 sure and corruption, disappears with its astonished 
 
136 
 
 inhabitants ; and nought is left, of all this scene of 
 things, but God and his faithful servants. Noah and 
 his family are alone preserved of all the intelligent 
 creatures of his power, and they float securely over 
 the ruins and desolation of a drowning world. Faith 
 opens to us the door of the ark, and we enter, and 
 look out upon the consternation, which surrounds us. 
 Men, beasts, birds, and all living beings on the 
 earth successively disappear, while within, this man 
 of piety serenely collects around him his beloved 
 family, and waits, without alarm, for the accomplish- 
 ment of the purposes of heaven, buoyed up by the 
 elastick energy of his faith in the promises of his 
 maker. 
 
 By faith we follow the dispensations of Heaven 
 towards the descendants of Noah. We see Abra- 
 ham, that venerable father of the faithful, leaving his 
 native land. Not knowing whither to direct his aged 
 steps, he is led by the unseen hand of his ever kind 
 and ever faithful God. From this gray-headed and 
 feeble patriarch, " already as good as dead," behold 
 generations innumerable issuing forth to people the 
 newly restored earth, and multiplying as the stars of 
 heaven. Isaac is born, and already his father antici- 
 pates the fulfilment of the magnificent promise he had 
 received from God ; but, in the midst of his expecta- 
 tions, he is commanded to sacrifice this solitary de- 
 scendant. He is bound to the altar, the knife is tak- 
 en, and the father's hand is uplifted to slay him. God 
 interposes, and he lives again; and with him revive 
 
137 
 
 generations yet to come ; and future nations, starting 
 into life, are again blessed in his seed. 
 
 By faith Ave follow the rapidly increasing posteri- 
 ty of Jacob through the interesting narrative of their 
 family history. What occurrences, what changes in 
 the drama of Joseph's life, all proclaiming the wis- 
 dom of heaven ! What calamities, what sorrows, 
 what reverses of fortune, what joys, what unexpect- 
 ed disclosures, and what a touching catastrophe ! 
 Here are the descendants of Joseph and his brethren, 
 who, after the death of their protector, are depressed 
 into the lowest condition of Egyptian slaves. Yet this 
 is the germ of a nation, whom God has chosen to be 
 the depositaries of the sublimest truths, which can 
 interest mankind, and whom he has also chosen to 
 transmit to future ages the knowledge of his wonders 
 and providence. By faith we are interested in the 
 history of this extraordinary race. We trace their 
 improvements and their declensions, their dangers 
 and their security, their revolt and their return. By 
 faith we see them rising, under Solomon, into conse- 
 quence and power. Jerusalem becomes the metropo- 
 lis of the east, Solomon the most splendid monarch 
 of his age, and every individual Jew feels something 
 of the importance, which naturally belongs to a citi- 
 zen of the most favoured nation of the earth. A few 
 years pass over, and this proud people are diminish- 
 ed to a little band of exiles, who are driven, down- 
 east and humbled, into a foreign realm. The vain 
 Hebrew, who once shone in the glittering court of 
 18 
 
138 
 
 Solomon's successors, and worshipped in the gor- 
 geous temple at Jerusalem, is sitting under the wil- 
 lows, a poor captive, by the streams of Babylon, and 
 singing the Lord's song in a strange land, accompanied 
 by the notes of his melancholy harp. But they are 
 not to become extinct. The promise of God stand- 
 eth sure. They are yet reserved for great distinc- 
 tions. Prophecy has pointed steadily, though ob- 
 scurely, to a w onderful personage, who is to appear 
 among them, and set up a kingdom, which shall 
 never be destroyed. They return to their native 
 land, guided by the same providence which dispersed 
 them ; and through years of revolution, and subsequent 
 subjection, present to the eye of faith the wondrous 
 spectacle of a great people, once so faithless, so fickle, 
 so obstinate as they had been, now waiting patiently, 
 with a kind of miraculous expectation, which had 
 seized every breast in Judea, for the appearance of 
 a predicted deliverer. 
 
 Faith now transports us to the little town of Beth- 
 lehem, which is to give birth to the Messiah. We 
 see the bright host of angels illuminating the fields 
 around this favoured village, and, amid the stillness 
 of the night, we hear them praising God, and saying, 
 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, and 
 good will towards men, for unto you is born this day, 
 in the city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the 
 Lord. Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away 
 the sins of the world ! 
 
 It is faith, which discloses to us the supernatural 
 character, and teaches us the marvellous history of 
 
13U 
 
 Jesus. It leads us through the miraculous tissue of 
 his short and suffering life on earth. It places us at 
 the foot of his cross, and we see this life of the world, 
 this joy of nations, the hope of Israel, and the light 
 of unborn and unnumbered generations, expiring in 
 the pangs of an accursed crucifixion. We follow the 
 body to the tomb. Faith shows us the faithful wo- 
 men, coming with their spices and ointments to em- 
 balm the precious remains of their friend. There 
 is Mary, and Martha, and Mary Magdalene, weep- 
 ing at the sepulchre. They enter and look, but Jesus 
 is not there. They call to us, christians, Come, see 
 the place where the Lord lay. He is not there, but 
 he has risen. We follow them, with impatience, to 
 the plains of Bethany. There Jesus meets them, 
 and behold, while he is spreading forth his arms and 
 blessing them, a bright cloud receives him out of 
 their sight. But why stand ye gazing up into hea- 
 ven? This same Jesus, who is taken up from 
 you into heaven, shall so come in like manner, as ye 
 have seen him go up into heaven. 
 
 Faith shows us the infant church struggling with 
 persecution, interests us in all its changes, its depres- 
 sions and its power, its declension and its reforma- 
 tion, till we see at length, from the handful of disci- 
 ples, who stood gazing in astonishment at their 
 master ascending into heaven, there is sprung an in- 
 numerable multitude of christians, of all people, and 
 nations, and languages ; and the religion, which once 
 found shelter in the breasts of only a few unlettered 
 Jews, is now the religion of the civilized world. 
 
140 
 
 These are some of the past events in the dispensa- 
 tions of God's providence, to which faith transports 
 us back through the long vista of a thousand years. 
 How great and interesting are they, when compared 
 with the ordinary occurrences of history ! But the 
 invisible things of the passing moment are presented 
 to us, by faith, in a clear and affecting light. We 
 learn, habitually, to see God, the father of all, sit- 
 ting undisturbed at the head of his works, where 
 nothing escapes his notice, or surprises his precaution. 
 The hairs of our heads, we believe, are numbered by 
 his omniscience ; and not a sparrow falls to the ground, 
 but he discovers it ; not a lily spreads its solitary 
 beauties to the sun, but he clothes it in its colours ; 
 not a blade of grass withers unperceived on the 
 field. 
 
 What though, in our times, empires are daily 
 blotted out of being, and the constitution of society 
 seems labouring with convulsions ; though the long 
 established boundaries of nations are changing with 
 the changes of the moon, and the records of human 
 transactions present nothing but unexpected eleva- 
 tions and depressions, triumphs and defeats ; though 
 the astonishing march of events baffles all your cal- 
 culations, and sets at nought your sagacity ; now, 
 now is the moment, when faith will bear you away to 
 the secret place of the Most High, and cover you 
 with the shadow of the Almighty. She assures us, 
 there is one being, to whom all this mysterious and 
 f omplicated system of vicissitudes is plain, and who, 
 
141 
 
 by the simple motions of his will, guides the con- 
 flicting movements of matter and mind steadily to the 
 conclusions he desires; and who comprehends the 
 grand catastrophes of national and imperial contests 
 with the same facility that he discerns the natural 
 termination of an individual's life. To the counsels 
 of such a being as this faith admits us ; and where 
 she cannot make us comprehend, she gives us con- 
 fidence. We trust, and we are safe ; for though we 
 see no further than to assure us, that God's views 
 are unobscured by distance, and his throne unshak- 
 en by revolutions, it is enough. 
 
 But the future realities, which faith discloses, are 
 yet more interesting, more inspiriting, more awaken- 
 ing and awful. Some of them contain consolations, 
 which ages of sorrow would not be able to exhaust, 
 and others bring with them terrors, which ages of 
 security in vice could never entirely efface. 
 
 Faith discloses to our view the future condition of 
 society, and cherishes the delightful hope, that the 
 time is approaching, when the mild influences of the 
 gospel of Jesus shall subdue the passions of men, 
 soften the rudeness of the uncivilized, assuage the re- 
 sentments of the powerful, break the rod of the op- 
 pressor, and lift the lowly from the dust ; when the 
 lamb shall lie down by the side of the lion, and a 
 little child shall lead them together ; when knowl- 
 edge shall enlighten, virtue ennoble, prosperity cease 
 to corrupt, and peace to enervate the human race. 
 
 Faith transports us, also, beyond the successive gen- 
 erations, which now people this portion of the world, 
 
142 
 
 to the day, when the caverns of the earth are break- 
 ing up, and the tombs are pouring forth their inhab- 
 itants, when «the sea renders up the dead that are in 
 her vast repositories, and the races of men, who have 
 slept for ages in forgetfulness, awake to appear be- 
 fore God. Faith places us in the midst of this vast 
 assembly of the reanimated. Small and great are 
 there. The books are opened, and the world are 
 judged, and pass off on each hand towards the region 
 of their final destination. Beyond, we see an innu- 
 merable company of angels, and the spirits of the 
 just made perfect, and Jesus the mediator of the 
 new covenant ; and, throned in light inaccessible, we 
 dare even to lift our thoughts to the seat of Jehovah. 
 To the eye of faith hell, also, is open, and destruc- 
 tion hath no covering. But further faith fears to 
 carry us; and we find, too soon for our impatient 
 spirits, that the provinces of faith and imagination 
 are distinct, and that it is too great temerity to ven- 
 ture to confound them. 
 
 Thus, my friends, I have attempted to enumerate 
 some of the most remarkable facts, which faith pre- 
 sents to our conceptions. You see, it is the province 
 of this principle of our minds to impress us with the 
 reality of things invisible, whether in past scenes, in 
 present transactions, or in the fathomless abyss of 
 futurity. It is truly the substance of things hoped 
 for, the evidence of things not seen. 
 
 If the human mind had been constructed without 
 a principle like this, it would have been always em- 
 
143 
 
 ployed about tbe mere objects of the senses, and tbe 
 present consciousness of its own existence. Tbe hu- 
 man faculties could never have been improved, and 
 the capacity of intelligence would have been forever 
 shrunk up within boundaries as narrow as those, 
 which limit the brutal creation. Let us bless God, 
 then, that he has, to the capabilities of the human 
 mind, added all the advantages of religious faith, so 
 that we can live as if we saw things which are in- 
 visible, that we can reap delight from the contempla- 
 tion of his character, triumph in the past displays of 
 his wisdom, trust unreservedly in the present opera- 
 tions of his hand, and enjoy the delights of religious 
 anticipation. By this principle eternity links itself 
 to time, and there is no chasm in our existence. Hea- 
 ven joins itself to earth ; and God, the grandest ex- 
 istence, about which our faculties can employ them- 
 selves, is no longer the subject of our bewildered 
 reasoning, or the unknown object of our fears, but 
 the hope, the trust, the joy, the salvation of his faith- 
 ful people. 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 HEB. xi. I. 
 
 NOW FAITH IS THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR, THE 
 EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN. 
 
 THE next point we are to consider, according 
 to our proposed division of the subject, is the rea- 
 sonableness of religious faith. 
 
 It is a common artifice of those, who wish to de- 
 preciate the value of this essential principle of a 
 christian's life, to represent faith as something op- 
 posed to reason. So far is this from being true, that 
 faith is, in fact, the most reasonable thing in the world ; 
 and, wherever religion is not concerned, the universal 
 practice of mankind evinces, that such a principle is 
 indispensable to the most common exercise of the un- 
 derstanding, and to the daily conduct of life. Faith 
 is reasonable, because it is the involuntary homage 
 which the mind pays to the preponderance of evi- 
 dence. Faith, that is not founded on testimony, is no 
 longer faith. 
 
 You, for example, believe that you have been su- 
 pernaturally furnished with the sentiments you enter- 
 
145 
 
 tain, but if you cannot explain to others the evidence 
 on which you rest this assurance, be not surprised, if 
 they continue incredulous. You may have been in- 
 structed in dreams, or been favoured with happy 
 visions of a disordered fancy, which have impressed 
 you with many interesting, and even rational convic- 
 tions, beyond the reach of ordinary minds ; but as 
 you offer no external testimony in support of your 
 imagined consciousness, you must not expect to im- 
 part your confidence, however just it may be, to those 
 who have not been favoured with like illuminations, 
 and perhaps you will not avoid the imputation of en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 You may imagine also, that, by the special grace 
 of God, a living principle of faith has been at some, 
 former time communicated to your mind, previously 
 to which, all the evidence and reasoning in the world 
 was ineffectual to your conversion. This may be ; 
 but it is not the faith of which we are discoursing, 
 and which it is our province to recommend and cor- 
 roborate. As such faith does not originate in the 
 evidence of testimony, we could not increase it by 
 the usual increase of probability. Far be it from us 
 to deny, that you may cherish some of the most 
 valuable truths in religion, and even feel their sancti- 
 fying influence upon your temper, without being able 
 to exhibit any proper evidence on which you receive 
 them. A historian, provided with a few data, might, 
 in some obscure portion of his annals, imagine and 
 construct a narrative not very remote from the truth 
 19 
 
146 
 
 of facts, but as this is not the usual way of writing 
 history, so it would not be the most effectual method 
 of enlightening the reader, nor of obtaining confi- 
 dence and credit. 
 
 As it is sitjjicient evidence only, on which a ration- 
 al faith can be supported, so if the whole of this evi- 
 dence is intelligibly presented to a sound under- 
 standing, it will not fail to command belief. An eye, 
 not affected by disease, easily distinguishes colours ; 
 and we unavoidably believe the existence of the ob- 
 jects within the sphere of its vision. Now the laws 
 of moral probability are just as sure as the laws of 
 vision. That the same exhibition of facts, or the 
 same process of reasoning, does not produce equal 
 conviction on different minds, is not more surprising 
 than that ^he same glasses will not make objects 
 equally distinct to eyes differently affected. But to 
 conclude, from this variety of effect, that the objects 
 presented do not exist, or that the laws of vision are ill- 
 founded and absurd, would be no more unreasonable 
 than to assume the folly of religious faith, or to doubt 
 the rational conviction of a pious and impartial in- 
 quirer, merely because the whole world are not be- 
 lievers. All the glasses in the universe will not 
 make objects discernible by an eye over which a film 
 has grown ; and all the evidence in the world will 
 sometimes fail to subdue the prejudices of the cor- 
 rupt, or to arrest the attention of the heedless. Who 
 sees not, that on subjects of politicks, of literature, of 
 common speculation, and even of common prudence, 
 
117 
 
 some men are feebly affected by what appears to us 
 palpable proof. Facts are nothing in the march of 
 party spirit. Probability is less than nothing in the 
 encounter with passion and prejudice. Surely, then, 
 it is not extraordinary, that the truths of religion are 
 rejected by one man with contempt, while they are 
 embraced by another with enthusiasm. 
 
 We cannot wonder, that the evidences, on which 
 our christian faith is built, do not produce universal 
 conviction, when we remember, that this is a religion, 
 which contradicts many of the selfish propensities of 
 the heart, and is at war with all the lusts to which 
 we are habitually enslaved. It is a religion, Avhich 
 condemns many of our habits, and requires us to 
 moderate our growing attachment to a world we can- 
 not bear to leave ; a religion, which often opposes our 
 passions, which shows us the folly of our fondest ex- 
 pectations, which alarms our sleeping fears, under- 
 values the objects of our estimation, requires the sur- 
 render of our prejudices, and makes it necessary for 
 us to be in readiness to yield up even our comforts 
 and our life. Astonishing would it be, indeed, if a 
 system like this should command universal belief, if 
 prejudice should have nothing to object, captiousness 
 nothing to cavil at, and indifference no excuses. As- 
 tonishing, indeed, would it be, if the evidences of such 
 a revelation should be received, with equal facility, 
 by the worldly and the spiritual, the careless and 
 the inquisitive, the proud and the humble, the am- 
 bitious and the unaspiring, the man immersed in 
 
148 
 
 pleasure and dissipation, and the man who has been 
 long disciplined in the school of disappointment and 
 affliction. 
 
 Neither is religious faith unreasonable, because it 
 includes miraculous events, nor because it embraces 
 a series of truths, which no individual reason could 
 have ascertained, or of which it may not, even now, 
 see the necessity. It is on this account, however, 
 that we so often hear faith opposed to reason ; but, on 
 the same principle, faith in any extraordinary occur- 
 rence would be opposed to reason. The only objection 
 to the credibility of miracles is, that they are contrary 
 to general experience ; for to say, that they are con- 
 trary to universal experience ; is to assume the very 
 fact in question. Because they are supernatural, no 
 testimony, it is maintained, can make it reasonable to 
 believe them. This would not be just, even if the 
 miracles which religious faith embraces were separate, 
 insulated facts, which had no connexions with any 
 other interesting truths ; much less when they make 
 part of a grand system, altogether worthy the interpo- 
 sition of God to establish. 
 
 The extraordinary nature of miraculous facts, con- 
 sidered by themselves, is, it is true, a presumption 
 against them, but a presumption, which sufficient testi- 
 mony ought as fairly to remove, it does remove the 
 previous improbability of ordinal / facts, not super- 
 natural. A man, born and living within the tropicks, 
 who had never seen water congealed, would no doubt 
 think it a very strange story, if a traveller from the 
 
149 
 
 north should assure him, that the same substance, 
 which he had always seen liquid, was every year, in 
 other countries, converted into a solid mass capable of 
 sustaining the greatest weights. What could more 
 decisively contradict all the experience of the tropical 
 inhabitant, and even the experience of those with 
 whom he had always been connected? Yet should we 
 not think it very unreasonable, if he should, in this 
 case, persist in discrediting the testimony even of a 
 single man, whose veracity he had no reason to sus- 
 pect, and much more, if he should persist in opposi- 
 tion to the concurrent and continually increasing tes- 
 timony of numbers ? Let this be an illustration of 
 the reasonableness of your faith in miracles. 
 
 As it respects the credibility of revelation, you 
 have this alternative. Will you believe, that the pure 
 system of christian faith, which appeared eighteen 
 hundred years ago, in one of the obscurest regions 
 of the Roman empire, at the moment of the highest 
 mental cultivation and of the lowest moral degeneracy, 
 which superseded at once all the curious fabricks of 
 pagan philosophy, which spread almost instantane- 
 ously through the civilized world in opposition to the 
 prejudices, the pride and the persecution of the times, 
 which has already had the most beneficial influence 
 on society, and been the source of almost all the mel- 
 ioration of the human character, and which is now 
 the chief support of the harmony, the domestick hap- 
 piness, the morals and the intellectual improvement 
 ef the best part of the world— will you believe, I say, 
 
150 
 
 that this system originated in the unaided reflections 
 of twelve Jewish fishermen on the sea of Galilee, with 
 the son of a carpenter at their head ? Or will you ad- 
 mit a supposition, which solves all the wonders of this 
 case, which accounts at once for the perfection of the 
 system, and the miracle of its propagation, — that Je- 
 sus was, as he professed to he, the prophet of God, 
 and that his apostles were, as they declared, empow- 
 ered to perform the miracles, which subdued the in- 
 credulity of the world. I appeal to you, ye depart- 
 ed masters of pagan wisdom, Plato, Socrates, Cice- 
 ro, which of these alternatives is the most rational, 
 the most worthy of a philosophical assent? Your 
 systems have passed away, like the light clouds, 
 which chase one another over the hemisphere ; but 
 the gospel of Jesus Christ, the sun of righteousness, 
 pursues its equal and luminous career, uninterrupted 
 and unobscured. Surely, if a miracle of the New 
 Testament is incredible, what will you say of the 
 enormous faith of a man, who believes in that mon- 
 ster of improbability, which we have described, the 
 simply human origin and progress of Christianity ? 
 
 Neither is religious faith unreasonable, because it 
 brings us acquainted with truths, which our indivi- 
 dual reasonings would not have ascertained, or which 
 far transcend the previous conceptions of our minds. 
 Indeed, it is absurd to suppose, that God has inter- 
 rupted the order of nature to inform us of nothing 
 but what we knew before, or might as well have 
 known w ithout his interference. Besides, if these 
 
151 
 
 truths were attainable to the few who think, by a 
 long process of inquiry, and even to the many, after 
 some slow advances in the intellectual condition of 
 society, still it would be worthy of God to anticipate 
 this gradual discovery, because, from the condition 
 of humanity, truths interesting to thousands, but 
 within the actual reach of few, must, in order to be 
 effectual, be received upon authority. 
 
 But, because you, in your solitary reasonings, have 
 not been able to attain to those conclusions, which 
 others have long since embraced by religious faith, 
 will you, on this account, maintain, that the faith 
 of the other is irrational ? Would it not be presump- 
 tuous in an ignorant man to deny, in opposition to 
 the authority of those instructed observers, whose 
 knowledge he has reason to admit, that Saturn is 
 surrounded with a ring, merely because, with his 
 naked eye, he has in vain tried to discover such an 
 appearance ? Though it is not improbable, that this 
 man, in some future and far remote stage of his ex- 
 istence, may be transported to this distant sphere, and 
 actually observe this circle, which he will not now 
 credit on the testimony of the astronomer, yet can 
 he be justified in continuing incredulous, because he 
 hopes for this enlargement of his powers ? Further, 
 if this man should invariably neglect every opportu- 
 nity, which was presented to him, of looking through 
 a telescope, or should obstinately persist in his in- 
 credulity, after the laws of vision, the operation of 
 glasses, and nature of the planetary system had been 
 
152 
 
 sufficiently explained to him, should we hesitate to 
 pronounce him presumptuous or mad? Should we 
 not leave him to his ignorance and self-sufficiency ; 
 and smile to find such a man undertaking to pour 
 contempt upon the credulous astronomer, who be- 
 lieves in the gross absurdity of a circle round a plan- 
 et, which, this skeptick might safely say, nobody had 
 ever seen? 
 
 Thus we may fairly conclude, that it is one of the 
 highest acts of reason to believe, upon proper authori- 
 ty, many truths, which we cannot directly deduce from 
 our former knowledge, or which we find it difficult to 
 connect with any of our customary conclusions. It is 
 to be expected, that revelation should furnish us with 
 many propositions, of which we had not before con- 
 ceived, for revelation is to the world at large, what 
 education is to the individual. A child must receive 
 a thousand truths upon authority, which may be the 
 subject of future explanation, or which may answer 
 their purpose, even without any explanation. He 
 sees not, it is true, the necessity of learning rules, of 
 which he cannot understand the reason ; but the in- 
 structer well knows, that, in order to make any pro- 
 gress in his studies, he must receive, at first, certain 
 statements implicitly, and wait for higher advances in 
 knowledge, before the reason and importance of this 
 elementary faith can be discovered to his understand- 
 ing. And what are we, my friends, in view of the 
 comprehensive wisdom of God, but children in the 
 earliest stages of being ? What is the great commu- 
 
15$ 
 
 uity of christians, but one of the innumerable schools 
 in the vast plan, which God has instituted for the 
 education of various intelligences? The law of Mo- 
 ses, we are told by the apostle, was but a school- 
 master to teach a single nation the alphabet of relig- 
 ious knowledge; and what is Christianity, but another, 
 though a more advanced elementary system, adapted 
 to the comprehension and improvement of the whole 
 human race ? Faith alone gains us admission to its 
 advantages ; and though there are doctrines in its 
 pages, which at present baffle much of the inquisitive* 
 ness of an active mind, and appear extraordinary to 
 an intellect, proud of its partial discoveries, yet be- 
 ware of rejecting them, lest those very portions of 
 your religion, which now most excruciate your un- 
 derstanding, and exercise your faith, should prove 
 essential to your improvement in the higher courses 
 of spiritual and intellectual instruction. Jesus is not 
 a master, who requires you to believe any thing, of 
 which you see clearly the absurdity ; though his can- 
 did disciples receive much, of which they know not 
 the reason, and of which, at first, they did not see all 
 the applications, the tendencies, and the importance. 
 
 Having thus seen, that faith is a principle, on which 
 w f e act in all the affairs of common prudence, a prin- 
 ciple, w hich lies at the root of every species of edu- 
 cation, scientifick, moral and religious, a principle, 
 without w hich the business of human life could not 
 go on for a single day, we will now venture to assert, 
 that, of every species of incredulity, religious unbe* 
 30 
 
154 
 
 lief is infinitely the most irrational. And why ? Be- 
 cause the stake is so immense. Between the two pro- 
 positions, that the gospel is true, and that it is false, 
 what a fearful chasm ! The unsettled reason hovers 
 over it in dismay. I say, that religious faith is infi- 
 nitely reasonable, because the objects it embraces 
 are of such unparalleled grandeur and consequence. 
 Whenever, in the course of your business, a prospect 
 of extraordinary gain presents itself, you are fairly 
 authorized to make immediate provision to avail 
 yourself of it, upon a degree of probability, which, 
 in common cases, and for common profits, would be 
 called, at least, uncertainty. Here, however, your 
 faith would be wise in verging strongly towards pre- 
 sumption. Again, if you had received a hint of the 
 possible approach of some dreadful evil, would you 
 not think yourself justified in using the utmost care 
 and labour to avoid it, upon a degree of information 
 and assurance, which, in ordinary cases, you would 
 hardly think worthy of your consideration? What 
 think you, then, of the loss of an immortal soul? And 
 what think you of the gain of eternity ? Is it impos- 
 sible, is it incredible, nay, is it improbable ? If it is 
 even supposeable, that there is any thing beyond 
 these objects of our senses — if our faith has led us so 
 far as to conclude, that there is a God, and waits to 
 believe, that this God has interposed to assure us, that 
 the relation of accountableness to him shall never be 
 dissolved, not even by a change, dreadful as death 
 itself,— if it is supposeable, that a world, which is 
 
155 
 
 now invisible, may one day burst upon our vision, 
 and if in that world our ultimate happiness or misery 
 are to be found, surely it is an act of the highest 
 reason, as well as of the most ordinary prudence, to 
 determine, in relation to a world of such inconceiva- 
 ble interest, even upon much less evidence than we 
 usually require in those ordinary transactions, whose 
 consequences terminate in this life. For we have al- 
 ready shown you, that the principle of faith, on 
 which we frame our conduct, with reference to the 
 futurities of this earthly scene, is, in its nature, the 
 same with that on which we would persuade you to 
 act, with respect to the grand futurities of a life to 
 come. If, indeed, your belief or unbelief could, for 
 a moment, affect these sublime truths and these ap- 
 proaching events, it would perhaps be lawful to hes- 
 itate long and ponder deeply ; but, standing as we 
 do, on the brink of eternity, if there is any evidence 
 of facts and doctrines relating to it, it is madness to 
 continue to reject the system, which contains them, 
 merely because they have not the evidence of sense 
 and consciousness, when the very nature of the case 
 admits nothing but probability and faith. 
 
SERMON X. 
 
 HEB. xi. I. 
 
 NOW FAITH IS THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR, THE 
 EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN. 
 
 HAVING considered the objects, and the reason- 
 ableness of religious faith, it now remains to say 
 something of its importance. 
 
 The valne of religious faith principally results 
 from two circumstances — from the fears it excites, 
 and from the consolations it affords. 
 
 In the ordinary conduct of government, and to the 
 well-being of society, some kind of faith is essential. 
 Belief in the superintendence of invisible powers is 
 not peculiar to religion. It is found in every man, 
 who conscientiously submits to the government under 
 which he lives ; for how few of the subjects of any 
 extensive empire have ever seen their rulers ? Their 
 authority, their edicts, their measures, nay, their very 
 existence, are almost exclusively objects of faith. 
 Suppose the assassin were to fear nothing but the in- 
 strument of punishment, or the thief were permitted 
 
157 
 
 to demand a strict demonstration of the authority of 
 the officer who arrested him, think you society would 
 long sustain the consequences of so great incredulity? 
 Every man would become his own avenger, and we 
 should revert to the barbarous independence of uni- 
 versal democracy. If, too, the sober part only of the 
 community should require, that every law should be 
 promulgated in their hearing, or that their rulers 
 should constantly live under their ocular inspec- 
 tion, it is easy to foresee, that the aifairs of human 
 society would fall into the utmost confusion. We 
 must, therefore, in the ordinary state of society, live, 
 as seeing those that are invisible. 
 
 The fear, which faith awakens, is the foundation 
 of the most necessary prudence. It is faith, which 
 warns us of the invisible and approaching misfor- 
 tunes, to which we are daily exposed ; it is faith, 
 which keeps up a continual, and sometimes painful 
 interest in the dangers, which threaten the communi- 
 ty. Without this we should rush as inconsiderately 
 into the abode of foreign pestilence, as we now walk 
 the streets of our own city ; and be as unprepared for 
 an approaching war, as for an impending earthquake. 
 If we were to wait, till we could satisfy our own per- 
 sonal experience, in regard to some of the most com- 
 mon evils of life, we should find, that our ruin was 
 accomplished, ere the remedy was provided. The life 
 of children is a continual exercise of faith. The pru- 
 dence of parents is employed in foreseeing dangers, 
 which the short-sightedness of the child must believe 
 
158 
 
 upon authority. Without filial confidence, which is 
 only another name for faith, not one of the genera- 
 tions of men could hardly have reached the maturity 
 of manhood ; each successive race would profit noth- 
 ing from the experience of its predecessors ; and even 
 if it were possible to continue the human species 
 without a principle of faith, the world would have 
 remained, to the present day, in a state of infantile 
 ignorance, exposure and imbecility. What then ! is 
 it of so much importance, that the years of minority 
 should be so carefully provided with this principle 
 to secure it against the evils of present inexperience ; 
 and is it of none, that the full-grown understanding 
 should be admonished of the alarming disclosures, 
 Avhich another world will make of a retributive pow- 
 er? Is it of no importance, that the conscience of 
 the wicked should be awakened, before his senses tell 
 him, that he is in anguish ? Shall the narrow policy 
 of civil government, and the feebleness of temporal 
 punishments, be left to maintain, unsupported, the 
 order of society ? Is it of so much consequence, that, 
 while he lives here, man should be aware of his mor- 
 tality, and be provided against death, the inevitable 
 and universal lot of mortal creatures ; and of none, 
 that he should suspect his immortality, and extend 
 his views to the tribunal of his Judge ? Shall man 
 tremble so much at the thought of dying ; and know 
 nothing of the dread of punishment ? Is it of no im- 
 portance for the selfish man to know, that, by the in- 
 terested pleasures in which he is absorbed, he is 
 
surely defeating his own aims, however successful 
 they may have been ? Shall the indolent, the luxu- 
 rious, the dead in sensuality, the avaricious, the 
 hard-hearted, go on accumulating wrath, and hard- 
 ening their consciences by unbelief? Because we 
 cannot be transported to the regions of future suf- 
 fering, and witness the intensity of the torment, 
 shall we rush, with all our sins upon our head, 
 into that community of wo, and learn first by ex- 
 perience what we would not receive upon credit ? 
 Thank God ! that such is the want, which individu- 
 als and society feel of a principle like this, that the 
 imagination supplies it, where the reason cannot at- 
 tain to undoubting conviction. Legislators have al- 
 ways invented something, like what revelation dis- 
 closes ; and the. barbarous faith of the early ages has 
 supplied, in almost every country, something, which 
 has served the purposes of providence, till the culti- 
 vated mind w as ready for the fulness of God's com- 
 munications. 
 
 In the second place, the value of faith may be es- 
 timated from the consolations it affords. 
 
 Who would look back upon the history of the 
 world with the eye of incredulity, after having once 
 read it with the eye of faith ? To the man of faith 
 it is the story of God's operations. To the unbe- 
 liever it is only the record of the strange sports of a 
 race of agents, as uncontrolled, as they are unaccount- 
 able. To the man of faith every portion of history 
 is part of a vast plan, conceived, ages ago, in the 
 
160 
 
 mind of omnipotence, which has been fitted precise* 
 ly to the period it was intended to occupy. The 
 whole series of events forms a magnificent and 
 symmetrical fabrick to the eye of pious contempla- 
 tion ; and though the dome be in the clouds, and the 
 top, from its loftiness, be indiscernible to mortal vis- 
 ion, yet the foundations are so deep and solid, that 
 we are. sure they are intended to support something 
 permanent and grand. To the skeptick all the events 
 of all the ages of the world are but a scattered 
 crowd of useless and indigested materials. In his 
 mind all is darkness, all is incomprehensible. The 
 light of prophecy illuminates not to him the obscurity 
 of ancient annals. He sees in them neither design 
 nor operation, neither tendencies nor conclusions. 
 To him the wonderful knowledge of one people is 
 jnst as interesting, as the desperate ignorance of an- 
 other. In the deliverance, which God has sometimes 
 wrought for the oppressed, he sees nothing but the 
 fact ; and in the oppression and decline of haughty 
 empires, nothing but the common accidents of national 
 fortune. Going about to account for events, accord- 
 ing to what he calls general laws, he never for a mo- 
 ment considers, that all laws, whether physical, po- 
 litical, or moral, imply a legislator, and are contriv- 
 ed to serve some purpose. Because he cannot always, 
 by his short-sighted vision, discover the tendencies 
 of the mighty events, of which this earth has been 
 the theatre, he looks on the drama of existence 
 around him as proceeding without a plan. Is that 
 
1(51 
 
 principle, then, of no importance, which raises man 
 above what his eyes see, or his ears hear, or his touch 
 feels, at present, and shows him the vast chain of 
 human events, fastened eternally to the throne of 
 God, and returning, after embracing the universe, 
 again to link itself to the footstool of omnipotence ? 
 
 Would you know the value of this principle of 
 faith to the bereaved ? Go, and follow a corpse to the 
 grave. See the body deposited there, and hear the 
 earth thrown in upon all that remains of your friend. 
 Iieturn now, if you will, and brood over the lesson, 
 which your senses have given you, and derive from it 
 what consolation you can. You have learned nothing 
 but an unconsoling fact. No voice of comfort issues 
 from the tomb. All is still there, and blank and life- 
 less, and has been so for ages. You see nothing but 
 bodies dissolving and successively mingling with i he 
 clods, which cover them, the grass growing over the 
 spot, and the trees waving in sullen majesty over this 
 region of eternal silence. And what is there more ? 
 Nothing — Come, faith, and people these deserts ! 
 Come, and reanimate these regions of forgetfulness ! 
 Mothers ! take again your children to your arms, for 
 they are living. Sons ! your aged parents are coming 
 forth in the vigour of regenerated years. Friends I 
 behold, your dearest connexions are waiting to embrace 
 you. The tombs are burst. Generations, long sines 
 lost in slumbers, are awaking. They are coming from 
 the east and the west, from the north and from the 
 south, to constitute the community of the blessed. 
 
162 
 
 But it is not in the loss of friends alone, that faith 
 furnishes consolations, which are inestimable. With 
 a man of faith not an affliction is lost, not a change is 
 unimproved. He studies even his own history with 
 pleasure, and finds it full of instruction. The 
 dark passages of his life are illuminated with hope ; 
 and he sees, that, although he has passed through 
 many dreary defiles, yet they have opened at last in- 
 to brighter regions of existence. He recalls, with a 
 species of w ondering gratitude, periods of his life, 
 Avhen all its events seemed to conspire against him. 
 Hemmed in by straitened circumstances, wearied 
 with repeated blows of unexpected misfortune, and 
 exhausted with the painful anticipation of more, he re- 
 collects years, when the ordinary love of life could 
 not have retained him in the w orld. Many a time he 
 might have wished to lay down his being in disgust, had 
 not something more than the senses provide us with 
 kept up the elasticity of his mind. He yet lives, and 
 has found, that light is sown for the righteous, and 
 gladness for the upright in heart. The man of faith 
 discovers some gracious purpose in every combination 
 of circumstances. Wherever he finds himself, he 
 knows that he has a destination — he has, therefore, a 
 duty. Every event has, in his eye, a tendency and an 
 aim. Nothing is accidental, nothing without a pur- 
 pose, nothing unattended with benevolent consequen- 
 ces. Every thing on earth is probationary, nothing 
 ultimate. He is poor — perhaps his plans have been 
 defeated — he finds it difficult to provide for the ex- 
 
163 
 
 igencies of life — sickness is permitted to invade the 
 quiet of his household — long confinement imprisons 
 his activity, and cuts short the exertions, on which 
 so many depend — something apparently unlucky 
 mars his best plans — new failures and embarassments 
 among his friends present themselves, and throw addi- 
 tional obstructions in his way — the world look on, 
 and say, all these things are against him. Some wait 
 coolly for the hour, when he shall sink under the com- 
 plicated embarrassments of his cruel fortune. Oth- 
 ers, of a kinder spirit, regard him with compassion, 
 and wonder how he can sustain such a variety of 
 wo. A few there are, a very few I fear, who can 
 understand something of the serenity of his mind, 
 and comprehend something of the nature of his for- 
 titude. There are those, whose sympathetick piety 
 can read and interpret the characters of resignation on 
 h?s brow. There are those, in fine, who have felt 
 the influence of faith. 
 
 In this influence there is nothing mysterious, noth- 
 ing romantick, nothing of which the highest reason 
 may be ashamed. It shows the christian his God, in 
 all the mild majesty of his parental character. It 
 shows you God, disposing in still and benevolent 
 - wisdom the events of every individual's life, press- 
 ing the pious spirit with the weight of calamity to 
 increase the elasticity of the mind, producing char- 
 acters of unexpected worth by unexpected misfor- 
 tune, invigorating certain virtues by peculiar proba- 
 
tions, thus breaking the fetters which bind us to tem- 
 poral things, and 
 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 
 In infinite progression. 
 
 When the sun of the believer's hopes, according to 
 common calculations, is set, to the eye of faith it 
 is still visible. When much of the rest of the world 
 is in darkness, the high ground of faith is illuminated 
 with the brightness of religious consolation. 
 
 Come, now, my incredulous friends, and follow me 
 to the bed of the dying believer. Would you &ee, in 
 what peace a christian can die ? Watch the last 
 gleams of thought, which stream from his dying eyes. 
 Do you see any thing like apprehension ? Th« world, 
 it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of even- 
 ing collect around his senses. A dark mist thkkens 
 and rests upon the objects, which have hitherto engag- 
 ed his observation. The countenances of his frienfe 
 become more and more indistinct. The sweet ex- 
 pressions of love and friendship are no longer intel- 
 ligible. His ear wakes no more at the well-known 
 voice of his children, and the soothing accents of 
 tender affection die away, unheard, upon his decay- 
 ing senses. To him the spectacle of human life is 
 drawing to its close, and the curtain is descending, 
 which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. 
 He is no longer interested in all that is done under 
 the sun. ! that I could now open to you the 
 recesses of his soul $ that I could reveal to you thti 
 
165 
 
 light, which darts into the chambers of his under 
 standing. He approaches the world, which he has 
 so long seen in faith. The imagination now collects 
 its diminished strength, and the eye of faith opens 
 wide. Friends ! do not stand, thus fixed in sorrow, 
 around this bed of death. Why are you so still and 
 silent ? Fear not to move — you cannot disturb the 
 last visions, which entrance this holy spirit. Your 
 lamentations break not in upon the songs of seraphs, 
 which enwrap his hearing in extacy. Crowd, if you 
 choose, around his couch — he heeds vou not — al- 
 ready he sees the spirits of the just advancing to- 
 gether to receive a kindred soul. Press him not 
 with importunities ; urge him not with alleviations. 
 Think you he wants now these tones of mortal voices 
 — these material, these gross consolations ? No ! 
 He is going to add another to the myriads of the just, 
 that are every moment crowding into the portals of 
 heaven ! He is entering on a nobler life. He leaves 
 you — he leaves you, w r eeping children of mortality, 
 to grope about a little longer among the miseries and 
 sensualities of a worldly life. Already he cries to 
 you from the regions of bliss. Will you not join 
 him there ? Will you not taste the sublime joys of 
 faith ? There are your predecessors in virtue 5 there, 
 too, are places left for your contemporaries. There 
 are seats for you in the assembly of the just made 
 perfect, in the innumerable company of angels, where 
 is Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant, and (xod, 
 the judge of all. 
 
SERMON XL 
 
 2 PETER iii. 15, 16. 
 
 EVEN AS OUR BELOVED BROTHER PAUL, ALSO, ACCORDING TO 
 THE WISDOM GIVEN UNTO HIM, HATH WRITTEN UNTO YOU, 
 AS ALSO IN ALL HIS EPISTLES, SPEAKING IN THEM OF THESE 
 THINGS, IN WHICH ARE SOME THINGS HARD TO BE UNDER- 
 STOOD, WHICH THEY THAT ARE UNLEARNED AND UNSTABLE 
 WREST, AS THEY DO ALSO THE OTHER SCRIPTURES, UNTO THEIR 
 OWN DESTRUCTION. 
 
 THIS passage is a remarkable testimony of one 
 apostle to the character and writings of another. It 
 proves, that, at the time Peter wrote, some epistles of 
 Paul existed ; and intimates, that they were written 
 according to a kind of wisdom, which he had super - 
 naturally received. It proves, also, that they were 
 considered of so much authority, as to be dignified 
 with the name of scriptures, which is a title equiva- 
 lent to that of sacred writing. This passage declares, 
 also, that, from some cause, either in the writer or 
 the subject, there were some things in these epistles 
 hard to be understood, and likely to be perverted. 
 
167 
 
 In order to understand the unconnected writings of 
 any person, written at a remote period, and in a for- 
 eign language, the character of the writer, the opini- 
 ons that prevailed in his time, his object in writing, 
 and every circumstance peculiar to his situation, must 
 be taken into consideration, before we can be sure of 
 having reached the whole of his meaning. This is 
 more especially necessary in reading the epistles of 
 Paul, from circumstances, which shall be presently 
 mentioned. It is my present design to give you, in 
 the first place, the history and character of this apos- 
 tle, and then to consider the causes of that obscurity 
 in his writings, of which Peter complains. 
 
 His history, after his conversion, is more detailed 
 than that of any other apostle, and this, too, by the 
 pen of his companion, Luke, an excellent narrator. 
 This part of Paul's life, which is so minutely re- 
 corded in the Acts, we shall not include in our pre- 
 sent survey, as it may be so easily read, and in so 
 orderly a narrative. Those portions of his life, which 
 tend most to illustrate his character, are his conduct 
 before his conversion, and the consequences of that 
 remarkable event We shall intersperse the narra- 
 tive with occasional remarks. 
 
 In the history of Paul we have two different men 
 to describe, the persecutor and the apostle. Nothing 
 can be imagined more complete, than the change of 
 views in this apostle, yet he preserves, through the 
 whole of his life, what may be called the original 
 stamina of his character. He was born at Tarsus, 
 
168 
 
 a city of Cilieia, a place by no means obscure, but 
 rather distinguished for the pure and flourishing con- 
 dition of Greek literature, among its citizens. Paul's 
 parents were Jews, who had probably obtained, by 
 the favour of Augustus, the freedom of the city of 
 Rome. Hence Paul, though a Jew, of the tribe of 
 Benjamin, declares, that he was born a Roman citizen. 
 His father was a Pharisee, the most rigid of the Jew- 
 ish sects ; and he seems to have taken care, that his 
 son should be educated in all the severity of the or- 
 der, and furnished with that kind of learning, which 
 then abounded among the Jews, consisting in a know- 
 ledge of the traditions of the law, and a thousand 
 false and superstitious notions, which it was then 
 thought the perfection of science to understand, and 
 of which we have some specimens remaining in the 
 Jewish writings of that age. Every thing in Paul's 
 education was calculated to foster a strong prejudice 
 against Jesus and Christianity, for if there was any 
 system on earth, to which Christ's religion was parti- 
 cularly opposed, it was the pharisaism of that period. 
 He was placed under the instruction of Gamaliel, a 
 celebrated Jewish doctor, from whom Paul might have 
 learned moderation, at least as far as his temper would 
 have admitted moderation in any thing ; but, as soon 
 as the persecution of the christians commenced, we 
 find him among the foremost of those, who were en- 
 gaged in exterminating the followers of Jesus. His 
 early prejudices in favour of his own sect, the pride 
 of his learning, the consciousness of talents, his re- 
 
109 
 
 Vercnce for the rabbis, whom he called his masters, 
 and especially a mistaken zeal for God, actuated this 
 young scholar ; and he comes from the feet of Gama- 
 liel to assist at the stoning of Stephen, and is after- 
 wards busily engaged in the arrest, trial and punish- 
 ment of christians, wherever he could find them. The 
 ground of opposition to the christians, in, this early 
 age, was, that they maintained Jesus to be the Mes- 
 siah, a person, who, in the opinion of every Jew, was 
 yet dead, after suffering the fate of a malefactor. It 
 was regarded as a species of blasphemy, to main- 
 tain the claims of such a person to such a character ; 
 and Paul, no doubt, thought himself acting an hon- 
 ourable, or at least a conscientious part, in seizing 
 and punishing, wherever he could find them, those 
 who dared to profess such an offensive belief. His 
 zeal for every thing, connected with the honour of his 
 sect and nation, and with the glory of God, transport- 
 ed him to these extremes of fanaticism. There is 
 nothing in Paul's character before his conversion, 
 which can lead us to suppose, that he was either 
 habitually cruel, selfish, artful, ambitious, or corrupt. 
 There is nothing, which impeaches his integrity, or 
 which ought to render us suspicious of his moral char- 
 acter. He was only actuated by a species of mistaken 
 zeal, which has been common enough in every age. 
 There is no sufiicient reason for supposing, that he had 
 ever seen our Lord, or his miracles ; nor that he was ac- 
 quainted with the apostles, or their preaching, before 
 he engaged in this violent career. If, before this time, 
 22 
 
170 
 
 lie had been at the school of Gamaliel, from the re- 
 tired life of the Jewish scholar, there is very little 
 reason to suppose, that he could have known much of 
 the new religion. He had come from the schools full 
 of Jewish learning and Jewish pride. When he en- 
 tered into publick life, he had taken up the common 
 reports and prejudices respecting Jesus and his fol- 
 lowers ; and, without much inquiry into the subject, 
 he thought he should signalize himself and his order, 
 and gratify the Pharisees, by the persecution of the 
 christians. 
 
 But God, whose purposes are far beyond our ken, 
 and whose means are infinitely various, had marked 
 out this young man for the most eminent apostle of 
 the faith, which he was now intent upon exterminat- 
 ing. If we suppose Paul's character such as I have 
 represented it to be, uncorrupt, disinterested, and void 
 of malice, his heart warmed by a zeal for w hat he 
 imagined to be God's truth, and his head heated by 
 religious prejudices, there wanted nothing but to 
 show to this young man, by the irresistible evidence 
 of his senses, that this very Jesus, whom he regarded 
 as a crucified, detestable malefactor, was really alive 
 in power, and risen from the dead, to turn the whole 
 current of his conduct, sentiments and character. 
 This mercy God granted him, and at a time, too, when 
 his mind was yet open to conviction, and his heart 
 not yet hardened by the pride of system, or by a long 
 life of persecuting habits. As he was going down to 
 -Damascus, with a commission from the rulers of his 
 
171 
 
 nation, to seize and bring to Jerusalem all whom he 
 could find bearing the name of christians, Jesus ap- 
 pears to him. In a moment truth bursts upon his 
 mind, and he sinks to the earth in all the humility 
 and terrour of irresistible conviction. His senses are 
 overpowered, his purpose fails, his situation appears 
 to him, as it would to any honest and religious man, 
 upon the discovery of such a fact, and oppresses him 
 with inconceivable remorse. Trembling and aston- 
 ished, he says, Lord what wilt thou have me to do ? 
 In an instant his views are all changed ; and, from 
 this hour, nothing can exceed his sense of his for- 
 mer unworthiness, and his ardour in the cause of 
 that Jesus, whom he before thought to be dead, 
 and whose disciples he considered it an honour 
 to exterminate. This miracle alone was wanting 
 to convert a man of Paul's age and temperament, 
 a man open to conviction, eager in embracing any 
 new sentiment, which he thought to be truth, and 
 who now obtained, by God's mercy, that conviction 
 which he needed. From this hour, the darling object 
 of his life was to repair, if possible, the injuries, which 
 he had committed against Jesus and his cause. The 
 memory of his former conduct, and his sense of God's 
 mercy, never deserted him ; but he sacredly devotes a 
 long and laborious life to propagate that faith, which 
 he had been destroying. Well might he extol the 
 unsearchable riches of God's mercy. Last of all, 
 says he, Jesus was seen by me, also, as by one born 
 out of due time ; for I am the least of the apostles > 
 
173 
 
 and am not worthy to be called an apostle, because I 
 persecuted the church of God. 
 
 I cannot now pursue the reflections, which this re. 
 markable case suggests. You are sensible, that it is 
 an argument for the trutli of our religion, which is not 
 to be resisted. It is proper to remind you, however, 
 that it was an indispensable requisite of an apostle, 
 that he should have seen our Saviour in person, after 
 his resurrection, and have received his commission 
 immediately from him, This appears to be the dis- 
 tinguishing qualification of the apostolical office. 
 Paul, now possessing it, takes the place in the num- 
 ber of the twelve, which was left vacant by the death 
 of Judas. The manner, then, of Paul's conversion, 
 by the personal appearance of our Saviour, thus 
 appears peculiarly proper, and even necessary. A 
 thousand other means might have been used, merely 
 to convert him, but this appears to have been chosen 
 with a view to that office, for which God especially 
 designed him, the apostleship of the Gentiles. It has 
 been suggested, and, perhaps, with some appearance 
 of truth, that, when the eleven judged it necessary to 
 supply the place of Judas, and chose Matthias by 
 lot, they did not act by the direction of the Holy 
 Spirit, which was not yet given, but merely by dic- 
 tates of human prudence, which, on that occasion, 
 seems to have carried them too far. No man, or body 
 of men, could, by their designation, confer an office 
 of such authority as this, which was to bind the con- 
 sciences of others. It was necessary, that the candi- 
 
173 
 
 date should receive his commission and supernatural 
 powers from Jesus himself. Tims our Lord seems 
 to have superseded the election of Matthias, and, with 
 a view to the conversion of the Gentiles, to have ap- 
 pointed Paul, the person, perhaps, of all others in Je- 
 rusalem, best qualified by his learning, resolution and 
 the circumstances of his former life, for this arduous 
 employment. 
 
 Paul proceeds to Damascus ; but enters it, how dif- 
 ferent a man!- — humble, penitent, teachable, hardly 
 daring to lift up his eyes to heaven. Here he is kind- 
 ly received by Ananias, a disciple of Jesus, who re- 
 stores to him his sight, which he had lost by the 
 brightness of the vision of Jesus, and baptizes him 
 into the profession of Christianity. He does not re- 
 turn to Jerusalem, where he would -have been in the 
 utmost danger from the resentment of his employers ; 
 but retires into Arabia, where he probably was em- 
 ployed in gaining a more comprehensive knowledge 
 of the christian faith, by successive revelations, and 
 by a more diligent study of the Jewish scriptures, 
 with reference to the proofs of the Messiahship of 
 Jesus. He afterwards returns ; and I need not re- 
 count to you the number of his services, the dangers 
 he encountered, the success he obtained, or the death 
 to which he at last submitted in the cause of Christ. 
 The Acts, written by his companion Luke, and his own 
 epistles, give us an exact and interesting detail of his 
 life ; and surely no man, after reading his history and 
 his letters; but must exclaim, this was a man born for 
 
474 
 
 great purposes ! The conversion and history of Paui 
 are not to be accounted for but by the interposition 
 of God. 
 
 In summing up the traits of Paul's character, you 
 will observe, how singularly he was qualified for that 
 office, to which he was especially destined, the apos- 
 tleship oT the Gentiles throughout the Roman empire. 
 He was the only one of the apostles, who appears to 
 have had what may be called a liberal education, or, 
 at least, who had any tincture of the literature and 
 philosophy of the Greeks. But his mind, naturally 
 powerful, was not only furnished with the Jewish 
 learning of the age, but discovers, also, an intimate 
 acquaintance with the genius and science of the Gen- 
 tiles. He appears, also, more than any other of the 
 apostles, to be fond of argumentation, and powerfully 
 eloquent ; two qualities, which could not fail to arrest 
 the attention of those to whom he was sent. The 
 mission, which was given him, demanded not only a 
 strength of genius like his, but an ardour, which no 
 discouragement should quench, a resolution, which no 
 dangers should overthrow, a spirit of laborious perse- 
 verance, and indefatigable activity, which should 
 keep him almost perpetually in motion, and carry 
 him over an immense tract of country, and in addition 
 to this a spirit of disinterestedness, which should never 
 appear to be mingled with considerations of personal 
 convenience or indulgence. With these qualities he 
 united a prudence, which has seldom been equalled, 
 $ prudence absolutely necessary to a teacher, who had 
 
175 
 
 so many conflicting interests to unite, so many differ- 
 ent tempers to conciliate, so many churches to collect, 
 advise and regulate, so many unforeseen difficulties 
 to provide for, so many artifices to escape or to de- 
 feat. The warmth of his private affections were also 
 necessary to secure to him personal friends, whose 
 hospitality he needed in the course of his travels; 
 and the publicity of his former character, as a perse- 
 cutor, was of importance, to give every possible weight 
 to his testimony respecting the great fact, which caused 
 his conversion. If there ever was a man calculated, 
 at the same time, to manage the opposite prejudices of 
 Jews and Gentiles, if there was ever a man made 
 for a difficult service, in the most difficult of times, 
 it was Paul. Every thing in Jewish tradition, scrip- 
 ture history, and Gentile philosophy, was at his com- 
 mand. He was perfectly acquainted with the state 
 and genius of his own nation, at the same time that 
 he discovered a quick and thorough comprehension 
 gf the characters of individuals. In short, he was a 
 man, of whom any nation, or any cause might have 
 been proud. But what was his opinion of himself? 
 To me, who am the least of all saints, is this grace of 
 apostleship given, to me, who am not worthy to be 
 called one of the apostles, because I persecuted the 
 church. This was the man, to whom the inhabitants 
 of Lystra were about to offer sacrifices, as to a God. 
 
 I will close this division of my subject with two 
 reflections. 
 
176 
 
 1. In the first place, notwithstanding the extreme 
 ardour of this apostle's imagination, nothing, whicli 
 he has left us, discovers any thing of fanatical delu- 
 sion. So far from possessing that pride, and spiritual 
 self-sufficiency, which are almost invariably the charac- 
 teristicks of fanaticks, he speaks of the communica- 
 tions, which had been made to him, in the most unassum- 
 ing terms, and even with manifest reluctance. He is in- 
 duced only by the vaunting of one of his Corinthian 
 opponents to say any thing of the visions, with which 
 he had been favoured, and he dwells only on that 
 miraculous part of his conversion, on which every 
 thing in his preaching depended. It is yet more re- 
 markable, that he does not appeal for the proof of his 
 apostolical authority to any visions, trances, or even 
 divine communications, which must be believed only 
 on his own testimony^ J) ut to the actual and sensible 
 miracles, which he had wrought, and of which any 
 impartial person could judge as well as himself. 
 Has this been the mode of modern enthusiasts ? Your 
 own reading and observation will answer for me. 
 
 Though he was a man of such a spiritual and de- 
 votional taste, yet his head seems never to be in- 
 flamed with any impracticable notions of holiness. 
 His morality is perfectly sound, rational, and practi- 
 cable, without any of the austerities, to which, from 
 his education among the Pharisees, we should natu- 
 rally have supposed him inclined. His determina- 
 tions about doubts of conscience discover the most 
 
177 
 
 sensible and discriminating liberality. His recom- 
 mendations of prudence, and, indeed, all his admoni- 
 tions respecting little matters, given to his supersti- 
 tious countrymen, and adapted to the state of the 
 churches, discover a mind infinitely removed from 
 any thing like extravagance. When, too, was it ever 
 known, that a fanatick would take the pains to make 
 and point out such careful and honest distinctions, 
 as Paul has done, between the operations of his 
 own mind and the suggestions of inspiration? Here 
 I cannot resist transcribing some remarks of Lord 
 Lyttleton, on the preference, which St. Paul gives to 
 sincere rectitude of principle, above every other re- 
 ligious accomplishment. After quoting the passage in 
 the thirteenth of Corinthians, where Paul prefers char- 
 ity to every gift and miraculous quality, he adds : " Is 
 this the language of enthusiasm ? Did ever enthusi- 
 ast prefer that universal benevolence, which compre- 
 hends all moral virtues, and which, as appears by the 
 following verses, is meant by charity here — did ever 
 enthusiast, I say, prefer that benevolence to faith 
 and to miracles, to those religious opinions, which he 
 had embraced, aud to those supernatural graces and 
 gifts, which he imagined he had acquired, nay, even 
 to the merit of martyrdom ? Is it not the genius of 
 enthusiasm to set moral virtues infinitely below the 
 merit of faith ; and of all moral virtues to value that 
 least, which is most particularly enforced by St. Paul, 
 a spirit of candour, moderation and peace? Certain- 
 ly, neither the temper, nor the opinions of a man, sub- 
 23 
 
178 
 
 ject to fanatical delusions, are to be found in this 
 passage." 
 
 2. The second reflection, which I make, is this. 
 How important must that cause be, which such a man 
 as Paul could maintain with such amazing exertions, 
 such unwearied zeal, through a long life of such dis- 
 couragements, privations, persecutions and indigni- 
 ties, even to the hour of his martyrdom. It was not the 
 mere assertion of a fact, in w hich Paul w as so engaged. 
 It was not merely to make the world believe, that he 
 had seen Jesus, who had been crucified. It was not 
 the belief of the single, unconnected circumstance of 
 the resurrection of a dead person, which he sacrificed 
 every tiling to propagate. Where is the man, who, 
 to establish a mere fact of any kind, would undergo 
 the loss of all that men value in life ? No, my friends, 
 it was the consequences of this fact, which crowded 
 upon his mind as soon as he knew, that Jesus was the 
 Messiah, whom God raised from the dead, consequen- 
 ces, which unfolded themselves far beyond the com- 
 prehension of mortals. A sphere of usefulness open- 
 ed itself to him, worthy of a minister of God. He 
 saw the happiness of the world suspended on the 
 reception of Christianity. He found, that the dearest 
 interests of the souls of men were entrusted to him. 
 Loving, as he did, his own nation, the whole extent 
 of their guilt in the crucifixion of Jesus overwhelm- 
 ed his thoughts ; and he appeals to God for the an- 
 guish of his mind, when he contemplates the conse- 
 quences of their unbelief. He saw, too, a scheme of 
 
178 
 
 redemption, in which the eternal life of a w orld was 
 involved. I It was salvation, which he preached to 
 the Jew first, and also to the Gentile ; and it was 
 death, eternal death, which he saw awaiting those, 
 who received not his testimony. Was not this a 
 cause sufficient to awake all the powers of hody, of 
 mind, of acting, or of suffering, which he possessed ? 
 And, when he saw, too, the rewards, which, as Jesus 
 lived, he would certainly bestow on his adherents, the 
 privations, which he himself endured, shrunk into insig- 
 nificance. Nothing appeared painful, nothing danger- 
 ous, nothing worthy for a moment to be mentioned, as 
 a loss, in comparison of that glory, which awaited 
 him hereafter. And can any man, who really be- 
 lieves the gospel of Jesus, consider it a subject, which 
 admits of indifference? If it is true, it is to every 
 thing else in the world, as much more important as 
 heaven is high above earth, eternity above the present 
 instant, God above man. It is a cause, which cannot 
 be sincerely embraced with insensibility. It is enough 
 to inflame the imagination of the stupid, and warm 
 the heart of the most frigid selfishness. It is the 
 cause of human happiness forever and ever. In this 
 view, Paul appears the most rational of men. It is 
 the consequences of that fact, the resurrection of 
 Jesus, which save him from the imputation of mad- 
 ness. He was the martyr to a cause, in which you, 
 and I, and every rational creature, is interested. If 
 Paul was not mistaken, who would not cry out wit 1 ! 
 him, I am persuaded, that the light afflictions of the 
 
180 
 
 present moment arc not worthy to be compared with 
 the glory, that shall be revealed. For neither death, 
 nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor 
 things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor 
 depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to sepa- 
 rate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus 
 our Lord. 
 
 The remarks, which have now been offered, will, 
 I hope, furnish you with some general ideas of the 
 character of Paul. If, however, you have carefully 
 read his epistles, you will have a much more correct 
 and lively idea of the man, than by only reading 
 his history in the Acts ; for there you have the narra- 
 tive of another, but, in his epistles, he develops Hie 
 leading features of his mind, without reserve, and with 
 his own pen. But, from some cause or other, some of 
 these epistles have always been considered more ob- 
 scure than any other part of the New Testament, 
 and, though many people read them with great piety, 
 and find every thing easy to be understood, accord- 
 ing to their own system, such persons, though they 
 may be much edified by their reading, seldom wait 
 to consider, whether their own sense of a passage is 
 really the meaning of St. Paul. Hence it happens, 
 that those men, who do not think much about religion, 
 or who are not able or disposed to employ much 
 time in understanding the scriptures, either utterly 
 neglect the reading of this part of the volume, or 
 turn away in disgust from the book itself, and con- 
 
181 
 
 elude to take their faith, as they can gather it, from 
 common report. 
 
 The difficulties, however, which exist in Paul's 
 epistles, can arise only from our want of sufficient in- 
 formation as to the state of the times, or from some- 
 thing which is peculiar to his mode of composition. 
 This, at least, is probable, that they do not result 
 from a peculiar obscurity in his ideas, or from any 
 peculiar system of philosophy or religion, which he 
 had adopted. His discourses in the book of Acts, 
 before Felix, and Agrippa, and the Gentile audiences, 
 are perfectly intelligible. From what, then, does this 
 difference arise ? Surely only from the difference of 
 our previous information as to the circumstances of 
 the writer, and the subject of his discourse. 
 
 In the following remarks, I shall proceed, as was 
 proposed, to state, and, if possible, to illustrate the 
 sources of the obscurity, which particularly attends 
 the apostolical parts of the New Testament. If these 
 remarks should awaken in you an inclination to ex- 
 amine the scriptures with more care, and read them 
 with more impartiality, my purpose will be answered. 
 
 1. The first source of obscurity is, that they are 
 private letters, addressed to particular societies, or 
 individuals, upon particular occasions. It is impos- 
 sible, completely to understand a composition of this 
 epistolary kind, without knowing the occasion, on 
 which it was written, the peculiar circumstances of 
 the writer, and of those to whom it was addressed ; 
 and still further, without being acquainted with a 
 
183 
 
 thousand little incidents well known to the parties, to 
 which there must be perpetual reference in a familiar 
 correspondence. If, in looking over the papers of 
 some deceased friend, you were to take up, by 
 chance, a letter addressed to him by some correspon- 
 dent abroad ; or, to make a supposition more like the 
 present case, if you were to sit down to read one 
 of the letters of Cicero, without intimately know- 
 ing his history, and that of his correspondent, I will 
 venture to say, that you would hardly make sense 
 or meaning of many passages, and perhaps be ut- 
 terly at a loss as to the whole subject of the commu- 
 nication. Just so it is with the letters of Paul. From 
 the very nature of this kind of composition, it cannot 
 be so intelligible, as an elementary discourse on any 
 given subject, or a regular narrative of any parti- 
 cular events. Hence I will venture to lay it down as a 
 maxim, that the epistles of Paul cannot be thorough- 
 ly understood, without knowing something of the his- 
 tory of the times, the character of the writer, the 
 prevailing prejudices of the age, and the particular 
 purpose, which the writer meant to effect. In the 
 epistles of Paul, he is sometimes answering some 
 question, which has been proposed to him, but with- 
 out repeating the question ; sometimes he refers to 
 particular opponents, who are not mentioned by 
 name ; sometimes he lays down propositions, truo 
 only as applied to the circumstances of his corres- 
 pondent ; he is sometimes making concessions, drop- 
 ping hints* suggesting reproofs, and referring to events, 
 
183 
 
 all which were perfectly understood by those to 
 whom he wrote, but which, at this distance of time, 
 necessarily appear unintelligible to a careless and 
 uninformed reader. This is not an imperfection in 
 the revelation, because every thing, absolutely neces- 
 sary to our religious improvement, is too plain to be 
 mistaken ; nor is it a reproach to the character of 
 epistolary w riting. 
 
 2. Another cause of the obscurity of Paul's epis- 
 tles is, the peculiar genius of the man. His imagina- 
 tion was easily inflamed with the subject, on w hich he 
 was writing. The motions of his mind were exceed- 
 ingly rapid, his thoughts crowded one upon another, 
 and, in the heat of composition, he is carried aw ay 
 from the subjeet he is treating, by some collateral dis- 
 cussion, so that an inattentive reader will not easily 
 discern, where he resumes the thread of his discourse. 
 He sometimes leaves his subject, and breaks out into 
 the most devout and rapturous admiration of the mer- 
 cy and wisdom of God in the gospel of his Son. 
 He discovers an ardour of gratitude and joy, which 
 a man must have something of his spirit, in order per- 
 fectly to understand. He frequently changes the per- 
 son, in which he speaks, sometimes using the singu- 
 lar, and then, unexpectedly, the plural ; sometimes 
 he adopts, without previous warning, the person and 
 arguments of a Jew r , and sometimes of a Gentile, and 
 reasons upon their suppositions, without meaning to 
 adopt them as his own, or to vouch for their truth. 
 His sentences are often encumbered with long paren- 
 
184 
 
 theses ; and nothing can be more inartificial than his* 
 mode of writing. He appears to have disregarded, 
 by design, the rules of the orators and rhetoricians 
 of his age, and to have trusted to the importance of 
 his subject, and the energy of his address, rather 
 than to any eloquence of style, or artifice of com- 
 position. These difficulties are by no means insuper- 
 able. They are rather calculated to stimulate every 
 man, who is really interested in the knowledge of 
 Christianity, to study them with more assiduity, im- 
 partiality, and prayer for the assistance of God's spirit 
 of wisdom and improvement. Of this, at least, I am 
 sure, that it is one of the rewards, with which God 
 favours the sincere inquirers for his will, that they 
 gain every day some new insight into his records, 
 that they read them with more real satisfaction, and 
 rejoice continually in new discoveries, however tri- 
 fling they may appear, discoveries relating to the doc- 
 trine of eternal life. 
 
 3. But the education and peculiar circumstances 
 of Paul contribute, also, to the obscurity of his epis- 
 tles. Paul was a man, whose head was filled with 
 the Jewish learning of his age ; and he, no doubt, 
 writes often like one, whose early notions were form- 
 ed in the school of Gamaliel. Hence he uses many 
 words in a signification, which it is now extremely 
 difficult to settle. The word, justification, is a re- 
 markable instance of this. It is doubtful, in some 
 instances, whether he means by it a benefit relating 
 only to this life, or extending to our eternal condi- 
 
185 
 
 tion ; whether he means only a present privilege, 
 which every man obtained, who made a profession of 
 Christianity, or a pardon from God, reaching backward 
 to every preceding offence, and forward to our future 
 acceptance in the world to come. The term, law, is 
 another of similar ambiguity ; and it is only by care- 
 ful attention, that we can determine, in particular pas- 
 sages, whether the apostle means by it the whole 
 Jewish dispensation, or the ceremonial part of it, or 
 that moral law, which is equally obligatory on every 
 rational creature. The terms, faith, death, and many 
 others, might be enumerated, which are undoubtedly 
 used in various acceptations, more or less modified 
 by the peculiar notions of the age, and therefore 
 more or less different from the meaning we assign to 
 them in modern times. There was one controversy, 
 however, in the apostolical age, in which Paul was 
 especially interested, which we must keep in mind 
 during the perusal of his writings, or we shall never 
 attain to a just understanding of his epistles, espe- 
 cially of those to the Romans and Gralatians. It was 
 this. The Jews, you well know, were, at first, the 
 only converts to Christianity. They embraced it with 
 all their native prejudices in favour of the perpetuity 
 of their economy, and bigoted in the presumption, that 
 they were the peculiar people of God. In their opin- 
 ion, all the rest of the world was out of the pale of 
 salvation. They received Christianity merely as a 
 supplement to their own religion \ and it was long be- 
 24 
 
186 
 
 fore it was considered by thein in any other light, than 
 as a modification of Judaism. Hence, retaining, as 
 they did, these Jewish notions, they had no other idea 
 than that the converts to Christianity, among the hea- 
 then, must submit to circumcision, and, in fact, be- 
 come Jews in every sense of the word, in order to 
 be entitled to the favour of God, or any of the final 
 benefits of the gospel. Hence, too, we find, that they 
 were not only extremely surprised, but indignant at 
 the apostle's intercourse with the Gentiles, and at his 
 communication of the gospel to the pagan world. Let 
 it now be considered, that, in all the places where the 
 apostles preached and collected churches, in Rome, 
 Corinth, Ephesus and Galatia, the earliest believers, 
 and frequently the majority of the converts, were 
 rigid Jews, accustomed, from their infancy, to regard 
 the Gentiles as excluded from the favour of God, and 
 reciprocally regarded, by the Gentiles, as a supersti- 
 tious and hateful race. Of course, as soon as a Gen- 
 tile convert appeared among them, they considered 
 him a Jew, and expected him to submit to all their 
 impositions, observances, worship and peculiarities. 
 This question, then, was the great controversy be- 
 tween Paul, the apostle of the Gentiles, and the 
 churches, which he had planted : Does the reception 
 of Christianity imply the reception of Judaism? 
 You will instantly perceive, that it must have been 
 a source of inextinguishable animosities, discords, 
 schisms, complaints, and explanations. To establish 
 this great truth against his bigoted countrymen, the 
 
187 
 
 possibility of salvation out of the pale of Judaism, 
 and to settle in mutual amity, and by mutual accom- 
 modation, his yet unformed, and unconsolidated 
 churches, was the great object of the apostle Paul. 
 With what fidelity he maintains the generous spirit 
 of the christian dispensation, his epistles every where 
 discover. It Avas his continual purpose to fix it in 
 the minds of his spiritual church, that now, under 
 the gospel, men are, every where, justified by faith, 
 without the deeds of the law. The condition of hu- 
 man salvation was not the observance of any external 
 rites, like the Mosaick, not the belonging to any na- 
 tional church, like the Jewish, not the submission to 
 circumcision and the burthensome obligations it en- 
 tailed, and not even a course of unsinning obedience, 
 which was at all times impossible, but faith, and faith 
 alone, or a principle of sincere, though imperfect obe- 
 dience, a principle, beginning in belief, discovering 
 itself in love, and proved and fortified by persevering 
 obedience. It was his perpetual object to show the 
 Jews, that Christ had redeemed them and the whole 
 world from the curse of the law — -which no man 
 could perfectly fulfil, and which denounced death on 
 those who broke it — and had placed them in the lib- 
 erty of the sons of God. It was his glorious resist- 
 ance to these Jewish impositions, which brought upon 
 him the hostility of his nation, and involved him in 
 perpetual controversy, and exposed him to perpetual 
 suffering. In supporting the great doctrine of justifi- 
 
188 
 
 cation by faWi, he continually reasons with them from 
 their own history, their own prejudices, and their na- 
 tional principles, when uneorrupted. He shows, that 
 Abraham himself, the father of their nation, on their 
 descent from whom they so much valued themselves, 
 obtained the favour of God in the same way, in which 
 the Gentiles were to obtain it ; and that a sincere 
 principle of holiness, and not the terms of any writ- 
 ten law, faith, and not legal perfection, were the con- 
 ditions of salvation, from the beginning of the world. 
 It is only by keeping in mind this controversy, and 
 the state of the churches to which Paul wrote, made 
 up of Jews and Gentiles, that we can understand 
 the reasonings of the apostle. 
 
 4. The fourth and last source of mistakes and ob- 
 scurities in the epistles, is to be found in a maxim of 
 interpretation, which has too much prevailed, without 
 authority, and without reason : " that we must ex- 
 pect to find, in the present circumstances of Christiani- 
 ty, a meaning for, or something answering to, every 
 appellation and expression, which occurs in scripture; 
 or, in other words, the applying to the personal con- 
 dition of christians, at this day, those titles, phrases, 
 propositions and arguments, which belong solely to 
 the situation of Christianity, at its first institution." 
 The instances, which might be brought in illustration 
 of this, nre numerous, but I shall confine myself 
 wo; and in the remarks, which I shall 
 shall avail myself of the language and ait- 
 
189 
 
 thority of Paley, a popular and unanswerable advo- 
 cate for the truth of the gospel.* 
 
 If, my christian friends, by what I have said in 
 this discourse, I have excited a stronger desire in you 
 to read and study these oracles, which alone reveal the 
 method of salvation by Jesus Christ ; if I have given 
 you any new conceptions of the worth of that religion, 
 which such a man as Paul was labouring to sup- 
 port ; if I have been able to remove any prejudices 
 against any portion of his writings, my purpose has 
 been answered. May God open your hearts to un- 
 derstand his scriptures ! The more you read, the 
 more you will love them. Compared with the knowl- 
 edge, which they contain, every other subject of hu- 
 man inquiry is vanity and emptiness. Politicks, phi- 
 losophy, poetry, and all the pursuits of the human 
 mind, are, to this, the chattering and plays of chil- 
 dren. Here search for the doctrine of salvation. 
 Sanctify us, O God, by thy truth : thy word is truth. 
 
 * Here followed, in the original, several extracts from Paley's " Caution 
 recommended in the use and application of scripture language," a sermon, 
 which has been republished at Cambridge, and may also be found in Paley's 
 Works, vol. IV: p. 29. Boston edition. 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 JER. xiii. 23. 
 
 CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE LEOPARD HIS 
 SPOTS? THEN MAY YE ALSO DO GOOD, THAT ARE ACCUSTOMED 
 TO DO EVIL. 
 
 THERE is no proverb more common, or better 
 understood than this, that habit is a second nature. 
 It is an observation, which the slightest knowledge of 
 the human mind enables us to make, and which the 
 shortest life is long enough to verify. Habit is a law 
 of our condition, of vast and indispensable advantage ; 
 but, like all other general laws, operates sometimes 
 favourably, and sometimes unfavourably, to the hap- 
 piness of men. Without it, there would be nothing 
 established and permanent in the human character; 
 and with it, much is rendered permanent, which we 
 should rejoice to remove. Without it, all our virtue 
 would consist of casual, and unconnected acts, on 
 whose repetition we could never calculate ; with it, 
 
191 
 
 our vices become firmly associated, mutually depend- 
 ent, and hard to be subdued. Without it, our best 
 dispositions would be nothing more than transitory 
 feelings, our friendships and our loves fickle and 
 momentary passions ; with it, our lusts become invet- 
 e, and the nascent propensities of a sensual and 
 
 E i ish heart become, at length, its undisputed tyrants. 
 Without it, first aversions would be unconquerable, 
 grief would continue violent and excessive, and man 
 could never be reconciled to any unwelcome change 
 of circumstances, however unavoidable ; but with it, 
 the sharpness of remorse, too, is easily blunted, the 
 horrour, which attends the first perpetration of a 
 crime, is soon dissipated, and the effectual reforma- 
 tion of a vicious character often proves a desperate 
 expectation. Without it, in fine, the characters of 
 men would be indescribable, unstable and incapable 
 of improvement ; education would be vain ; example, 
 fruitless ; and discipline, ineffectual cruelty ; but with 
 it, also, prejudices are rooted, and vice becomes invet- 
 erate, before the mind is sufficiently strong to examine 
 the one or reject the other 5 and early impressions, 
 together with painful and perpetual vigilance, are 
 necessary to the security of virtue. Indeed, on this 
 
 dversal law, that habit renders stable, what was 
 before fluctuating ; pleasant, what was before painful ; 
 ig ? what was before weak ; easy, what was be- 
 difficult; and morally certain, what was before 
 1 1, depends the character of man here, and, 
 intly, his condition hereafter. 
 
192 
 
 If it were not in some measure inconsistent with 
 ihe dignity of publick religious instruction, I could 
 refer you to a multitude of familiar illustrations of the 
 power of habit. But it is enough, that we have all 
 observed, in general, that, what is at first disagreea- 
 ble to any of our senses, becomes less unpleasant by 
 repetition, so that we may be, at length, reconciled, as 
 it is termed, to what was, at first, our aversion. On 
 the contrary, impressions, in themselves originally 
 pleasant, become, when often repeated, so necessary 
 to our happiness, that, though every successive act of 
 indulgence affords less absolute pleasure than the 
 preceding, the general propensity is continually gain- 
 ing strength ; and, while the perception of pleasure, 
 in every particular instance, is lessening, desire, on the 
 whole, increases, and the pain of deprivation becomes 
 greater and greater. 
 
 It is our intention, at present, to consider this law 
 of our nature in its influence on the moral character. 
 We shall, first, say something of the ease, with which 
 evil habits are formed; secondly, of those circum- 
 stances, which make it so difficult to subdue them ; 
 and, lastly, dwell on the consequences, which follow 
 from our view of the subject. 
 
 1. To form a vicious habit, is one of the easiest 
 processes in nature. Man comes into a world, where 
 sin is, in many of its various forms, originally plea- 
 sant, and where evil propensities may be gratified at 
 small expense. The necessary indulgence of appe- 
 tite, and the first use of the senses would make us 
 
193 
 
 all sensual and selfish from our birth, if the kind pro- 
 vision, which heaven has made of suffering, of in- 
 struction and of various discipline, did not sometimes 
 break the propensities, which we bring with us from 
 the cradle. Nothing is required, but to leave man to 
 what is called the state of nature, to make him the 
 slave of habitual sensuality. 
 
 But even after the mind is, in some degree, forti- 
 fied by education, and reason has acquired a degree of 
 force, the ease, with which a bad habit can be ac- 
 quired, is not less to be lamented. If, indeed, the 
 conscience were to struggle with sin, in fair, open, 
 and direct contest, it would not so often and so rea- 
 dily yield. But sin enters, not by breach or esca- 
 lade, but by cunning or treachery. It presents itself, 
 not as sin, but as innocence, when your watchfulness 
 is hushed to sleep, or the eye of reason diverted. 
 Vice gains its power by insinuation. It winds gently 
 round the soul, without being felt, till its twines be- 
 come so numerous, that the sinner, like the wretched 
 Laocoon, writhes in vain to extricate himself, and his 
 faculties are crushed, at length, in the folds of the 
 serpent. 
 
 If the first entrance of vice is so easy, every suc- 
 cessive act, which is to form the habit, is easier than 
 the last. The taste of pleasure provokes the appe- 
 tite. If conscience receive no aid, when the tempta- 
 tion returns, the victory will be easier, and the triumph 
 more complete. If no evil consequences immediate- 
 ly follow, if the sentence of reproach, of infamy, or 
 25 
 
194* 
 
 gf natural punishment, be not speedily executed, con- 
 science, thus unsupported, is not heard or not credited. 
 If, however, reproach should follow, or infamy be 
 apprehended, the culprit may either be driven to the 
 society of the shameless, or attempt some new vice 
 to conceal, or varnish, or vindicate the former. 
 
 This leads to observe further, that no evil habit can 
 long exist alone. Yice is prolifick. It is no solitary 
 invader. Admit one of its train, and it immediately 
 introduces, with an irresistible air of insinuation, the 
 multitude of its fellows, who promise you liberty, 
 but whose service is corruption, and whose wages is 
 death. Enter not, then, into the path of the wicked, 
 and go not in the way of evil men. Avoid it, pass 
 not by it, turn from it, and pass away. 
 
 2. The effects of sinful indulgence, which make 
 its relinquishment so difficult, are, that it perverts the 
 moral discernment, benumbs the sensibility of con- 
 science, destroys the sentiment of shame, and separates 
 the sinner from the means and opportunities of con- 
 version. The moral discernment is perverted. Where 
 sin is practised, it must be excused. Passion is 
 called in to make the apology ; sophistry supplies 
 the heads of the defence. Stern moral precepts are 
 entangled by equivocations, subtile exceptions, and 
 ingenious perplexities. 
 
 Again, by sinful indulgence, the sensibility of 
 conscience is deadened. As the taste can be recon- 
 ciled to the most nauseous and unpleasant impres- 
 sions, the eye familiarized to a deformed object, the 
 
195 
 
 ear, to the most grating and discordant noises, and the 
 feeling, to the most rough and irritating garment, so the 
 moral tact becomes insensible to the loathsomeness of 
 vice. It is, perhaps, true, that, in the regular, smooth 
 tenour of the life of a well-principled man, a single 
 transgression or inconsiderate step may, sometimes, 
 prove the means of awakening the vigour of con- 
 science, and increasing, for a time, its sensibility. But 
 it is not so with the young and immature. If in them 
 passion, desire, or appetite be fed and gratified, while 
 conscience is unenlightened and unfortified, the moral 
 sense will always be imperfect, a neglected part of the 
 mental constitution, and, like a contracted, shrunken 
 limb, will be without feeling and without use. How 
 many of those, who enter daily upon the intercourse of 
 life, do we see destitute of any delicacy of moral feel- 
 ing ? Their senses, in the language of the apostle, have 
 never been exercised by use to discern between good 
 and evil. They call evil, good ; and good, evil. They 
 shudder, perhaps, at murder, perceive the guilt of 
 robbery, and of the grosser offences against the peace 
 and order of society ; but of the nicer distinctions of 
 virtue and vice, of interestedness and disinterested- 
 ness, of honour and disgrace, of holiness and impu- 
 rity, they have few and imperfeet notions. Hence 
 they fall an easy prey to any indirect temptation. 
 Conscience, blunt and unexercised, cannot discern 
 the tendency of a first step. Taking no alarm, it 
 offers no resistance. If, then, the conscience of the 
 young can become thus dull, merely by neglect, how 
 
196 
 
 impenetrable and callous may it prove by repeated 
 acts of deliberate iniquity, and a long course of pro- 
 fligacy and crime? In such a state, termed by divines 
 a judicial hardness of heart, all the usual means of 
 reformation are ineffectual. The gentle dews of in- 
 struction distil in vain on the close and clayey soil of 
 a hardened heart. It imbibes nothing, it retains 
 nothing, it produces nothing. The curse of God 
 seems to rest upon it, and man relinquishes it to 
 perpetual sterility, Ephraim is joined to idols, let 
 him alone. 
 
 Another effect of habitual transgression is, to 
 banish the sentiment of shame. Do not accuse me 
 of repetition ; for the sense of shame is not the same 
 with the sense of right and wrong. The first refers 
 to the opinion of man ; the other, to that of God. 
 These principles are often found in very unequal 
 proportions in men of real estimation. In some men, 
 a regard to the world's opinion is ever alive, while 
 conscience is uninformed, or unexercised; in others, 
 a sense of the guilt of an action, and of the abhor- 
 rence of heaven, seems to absorb the shame of it. 
 Now it is the tendency of habit, to make a man re- 
 gardless of observation, and, at length, of censure. He 
 soon imagines, that others see nothing offensive in 
 what no longer offends himself. After the commission 
 of a sin, justly concluding, that repentance will not 
 restore him to the same station in the world's esteem, 
 which lie held before his lapse, he draws another 
 consequence, that, by a repetition of his offence, he 
 
197 
 
 has less of credit to lose than at first. Besides, a vi- 
 cious man easily gathers round him a circle of his 
 own. Though iniquity may not be unpunished, when 
 hand joins in hand, yet is it often unabashed. It is 
 not solitary crimes, which deceive the moral discern- 
 ment, and obscure the perception of disgrace. It is the 
 society of numbers, which gives hardihood to iniquity, 
 when the sophistry of the united ingenuity of others 
 comes in aid of our own, and when, in the presence of 
 the shameless and unblushing, the young offender is 
 ashamed to blush. It is painful, ah cruelly painful, to 
 see the colour, which used to rush into the cheek of in- 
 genuous youth at the suspicion of fraud, at the mention 
 of indecency, or the sight of corruption, gradually retir- 
 ing, and giving place to the bold stare of riotous vice, 
 or to the oppressive stupidity of habitual drunkenness. 
 
 The last effect of vicious habits, by which the re- 
 formation of the sinner is rendered almost desperate, 
 is, to separate him from the means of grace. He, who 
 indulges himself in any passion, lust, or custom, which 
 openly or secretly offends against the laws of God or 
 man, will find an insuperable reluctance to those pla- 
 ces, persons, or principles, by which he is necessarily 
 condemned. Can he, whose life is a perpetual in- 
 sult to the authority of God, a well known scandal to 
 the name of christian, enter, with any pleasure, a tem- 
 ple, consecrated to devotion, sanctified by prayer, hal- 
 lowed by pure affections, where the oracles of God 
 are announced, where you seem to approach nearer 
 to the seat of Deity, and where the who 1 © process of 
 
198 
 
 instruction and of worship crosses his propensities, 
 and alarms his conscience? Will he dare, without 
 doubting, to lift up his hands in prayer, who must 
 exhibit them to the view of his fellow-worshippers, 
 soiled with corruption and fraudulent gains, or, per- 
 haps, stained with blood? Will he, who is burning 
 with lust, or indulging in habitual excesses of refined 
 voluptuousness, open at home that holy volume, where 
 the utmost purity and chastity of affection is inculcat- 
 ed, if he can turn easily to pages written on purpose 
 to debauch the imagination and sophisticate the judg- 
 ment ? Can it be expected, too, that he, who daily and 
 nightly rushes into dissipation, to relieve a tedium, 
 which uniformly recurs, whenever he is alone for a 
 few hours, should voluntarily indulge in serious medi- 
 tation, or dare to commune with his own heart? One 
 means of recovery yet remains, the reproof and ex- 
 ample of the good. But who will long bear the pre- 
 sence of another, whose very looks reprove him, 
 whose words harrow up his conscience, and whose 
 whole life is a severe, though silent admonition ? 
 
 We cannot dwell long on the consideration of that 
 dreadful condition of the habitual sinner, when, in 
 the language of scripture, he is given up to hopeless- 
 ness, hardness of heart, blindness of eyes, deafness of 
 ears, or, in other words, to absolute moral insensibil- 
 ity. The thought is too painful. This is sometimes 
 considered in the light of a punishment ; and to vin- 
 dicate the justice of such a dereliction by heaven, 
 would neither be difficult, nor without its use. It is 
 
199 
 
 often said, that, as long as life lasts, hope remains. 
 We are encouraged to believe, that the grave is the 
 only place, where 
 
 " Hope never comes, 
 " That comes to all." 
 But every man's observation will furnish him with 
 instances of characters, whose reformation from long 
 habits of iniquity seems as morally impossible, whose 
 consciences appear to be as impenetrable to the common 
 methods of grace, as if they w r ere really sunk in the 
 sleep of death, and the clods had hardened and the 
 weeds matted over their graves. Nothing in the general 
 nature of God's moral government would lead us to 
 conclude, that he is obliged to continue his methods 
 of discipline beyond a certain limit ; and who shall 
 say, that this limit must coincide with the termination 
 of life ? The day of grace may be shorter, than the 
 day of nature. "Why should they be stricken 
 any more, for they will only revolt more and more." 
 
 Thus have we attempted to explain the nature and 
 effects of vicious habits. We have seen, that, by repe- 
 tition, whatever of reluctance existed at first, is gradu- 
 ally removed, and whatever of desire existed, is increas- 
 ed, though the degree of pleasure, in each particular 
 gratification, diminishes. These laws are common to all 
 habits, as well as to those of vice. But, in addition 
 to this, all sin is peculiarly deceitful and insinuating, 
 prolifick and progressive. One vice associates multi- 
 tudes with itself. The peculiar inveteracy of sinful 
 habits, and the difficulty of reformation are increased, 
 
200 
 
 as we have also seen by the following attendant ef- 
 fects, the corruption of moral discernment, the dull- 
 ness of moral feeling, the loss of the sense of shame, 
 and an exclusion from the customary means of reli- 
 gious improvement. When the Ethiopian, then, shall 
 whiten his skin, or the leopard wash out his spots, 
 then may they also do good, who are accustomed to 
 do evil. 
 
 3. There is nothing in the moral constitution of 
 man, from which such interesting consequences fol- 
 low, as from the nature of vicious habits, if it be such 
 as we have represented it. If, also, it should be found, 
 that there is no period in the life of man so early, that 
 these habits may not be generated or confirmed, into 
 what consequence does childhood, nay infancy, 
 rise? Here, in the babes at the breast, may we 
 see the generation, which shall succeed us. Here 
 is the embryo character of the next age. The first re- 
 flection, then, which we shall at present deduce from 
 this subject, is, that if the child is trained up in the 
 way he should go, when he is old, he will not depart 
 from it. 
 
 O, that I could open to you the little breasts of your 
 offspring, and show you the gradual and certain pro- 
 cess, which is carried on from the moment of birth ! 
 There might you see dispositions forming, passions 
 generating, prejudices starting into life, and all the 
 future character bound up in the narrow compass of 
 an infant's mind. Do you ask, when education should 
 commence ? Believe me, it has begun. It began with 
 
201 
 
 die first idea they received — the insensible education 
 of circumstances and example. While you arc wait- 
 ing for their understandings to gain strength, vice, 
 folly, and pleasure have not waited your dilatory 
 motions. While you are looking out for masters and 
 mistresses, the young immortals are under the tuition 
 of innumerable instructers. Passion has been excit- 
 ing, and idleness relaxing them, appetite tempting, 
 and pleasure rewarding them, and example, example 
 has long since entered them into her motley school. 
 Already have they learned much, which will never be 
 forgotten : the alphabet of vice is easily remembered. 
 Wait, then, no longer, ere your instructions commence. 
 The ground is already softened, the season has al- 
 ready far advanced, and, while you are either sleep- 
 ing, or making arrangements, or waiting for greater 
 maturity, thistles are sown in secret, tares are spring- 
 ing up in the night. 
 
 It is impossible to assign a time in the infant's 
 life, in which something may not be done for its fu- 
 ture disposition. If it have any original perversities 
 of temper, do not wait till this perversity is made in- 
 flexible by habit. You would not delay to straiten 
 a crooked limb, to correct an awkward position, to 
 counteract a stuttering articulation, till the limbs 
 were full grown, the gait fixed, and the organs 
 conformed to an indistinct mode of utterance. If, 
 however, the greater part of what are called original 
 propensities be, in fact, acquired ; if envy, malice, ir- 
 ritability, selfishness, and pride be, for the most part, 
 26 
 
£02 
 
 mental habits; which, like opinions and practices, are 
 rooted by repetition ; if the colour of the soul be not 
 original and engrained, but, like the varieties of com- 
 plexion, dependent on the operation of external cir- 
 cumstances, Iioav inexcusable is the delay of instruc- 
 tion, of persuasion, of impression, and of direction, of 
 which the youngest hearts are most tenderly suscep- 
 tible ? Especially, remember, that their habits are 
 soonest caught by example. These little vines, 
 which wind round your trunk, and depend upon you 
 for support, will extend themselves upon your 
 branches, following out the direction, and conform- 
 ing to the irregularities of the limbs, which they en- 
 twine. And what is the first example, which fixes 
 their attention? Is it not your own? Are not you the 
 first props, to which these tendrils attach themselv es ? 
 And is it not time to ask yourselves, whether you will 
 consent, that they should follow you throughout the 
 w hole of your character ? Is it not time to examine, 
 whether there be not in you some vicious habit, 
 which, notwithstanding your caution, frequently pre- 
 sents itself to their greedy observation, thus recom- 
 mended by all the weight of parental authority ? 
 
 But, though the doctrine of the early operation of 
 habit be full of admonitions, which the affectionate 
 parent can hardly hear without the liveliest anxiety, 
 it presents consequences, also, full of consolation and 
 pleasure. God hath set the evil and the good, one 
 over against the other : and all his general laws are 
 adapted to produce effects ultimately beneficial. If 
 
203 
 
 the love of sensual pleasure become inveterate by in- 
 dulgence, the pure love of truth and goodness, also, 
 may, by early instillation and careful example, be- 
 come so natural and constant, that a violation of in- 
 tegrity, an offence against gratitude, a breach of pu- 
 rity, or of reverence toward God, may prove as 
 painful as a wound. You know, how common are 
 the promises of scripture to early piety. Now these 
 promises are not arbitrary and partial annexations of 
 reward to a quality, which is not really of more in- 
 trinsick worth atone period, than at another; but they 
 express the security and perfection in virtue, which 
 that character may attain, which is early hallowed in 
 the service of God. Those, who seek God early, 
 shall easily find him. Begin, then, now that they 
 have no steps to retrace. Their hearts are now all 
 alive to gratitude, their minds full of curiosity, ready 
 to drink in instruction ; selfishness has not yet monop- 
 olized all the avenues to their affections ; you have no 
 hard associations to break, no deep-rooted prejudices 
 to clear away. Their only prejudice is one that will 
 assist your endeavours, that is, an unsuspecting reli- 
 ance on your knowledge, wisdom, love and power. 
 Associate, then, in their minds, the idea of God with 
 the recollection of yourselves ; and remember, that, if 
 they have found you excessively indulgent, or habit- 
 ually negligent, or unreasonably severe, or manifest- 
 ly partial, or notoriously indifferent to their moral 
 progress, you are not to wonder, if they transfer to- 
 
£04 
 
 the universal parent the character, which they have 
 found to belong to their fathers after the flesh. 
 
 The second reflection, suggested by this survey of 
 the moral constitution and condition of man, is, the 
 folly and danger of delaying repentance. Look back, 
 I entreat you, on your past lives, and number, if you 
 can, the resolutions you have broken. And why is it, 
 that we see so little of reformation, after a certain 
 period, after the employments aud mode of life are 
 established ? It is, because the time of repentance is 
 perpetually procrastinated ; because, when conscience, 
 like an odious creditor, begins to expostulate with 
 you, you find some excuse for dismissing her claims ; 
 you say, at every application, go thy way for this time, 
 when I have a more convenient season, I will call for 
 thee. She retires unsatisfied ; the debt accumulates, 
 and your resources are daily diminishing, till the 
 hour of death arrives, and completes the bankruptcy 
 of the soul. 
 
 It has been most acutely and justly observed, that 
 all resolutions to repent, at a future time, are neces- 
 sarily insincere, and must be a mere deception ; be- 
 cause they imply a preference of a man's present 
 habits and conduct ; they imply, that he is really un- 
 willing to change them, and that nothing but neces- 
 sity would lead him to make any attempt of the kind. 
 But let us suppose the expected leisure for repent- 
 ance to have arrived; the avaricious or fraudulent 
 dealer to have attained that competency, which is to 
 
305 
 
 i 
 
 secure him from want ; the profligate and debauched 
 to have passed the slippery season of youth, and to 
 be established in life ; the gamester, by one success- 
 ful throw, to have recovered his desperate finances ; 
 the dissipated and luxurious to have secured a peace- 
 ful retreat for the remainder of his days — to each of 
 these the long anticipated hour of amendment, the 
 opportune leisure for religion has, at length, arriv- 
 ed; but where, alas, is the disposition, where the 
 necessary strength of resolution ! How rare, and, I 
 had almost said, how miraculous, is the instance of a 
 change ! 
 
 The danger of delay, even if we suppose this un- 
 certain leisure and inclination to be secured, is incon- 
 ceivably heightened, when we consider, further, the 
 nature of repentance. It is a settled change of the 
 disposition from vice to virtue, discovered in the gra- 
 dual improvement of the life. It is not a fleeting 
 wish, a vapoury sigh, a lengthened groan. Neither 
 is it a twinge of remorse, a flutter of fear, nor any 
 temporary and partial resolution. The habits of a 
 sinner have been long in forming. They have ac- 
 quired a strength, which is not to be broken by a 
 blow. The labour of a day will not build up a vir- 
 tuous habit on the ruins of an old and vicious char- 
 acter. You, then, who have deferred, from year to 
 year, the relinquishment of a vice ; you, if such there 
 be, who, while the wrinkles are gathering in your 
 foreheads, are still dissatisfied with yourselves, re- 
 member, that amendment is a slow and laborious pro- 
 
;20(5 
 
 ces*. Can you be too assiduous, too fearful, when 
 you consider, how short the opportunity, and how 
 much is required, to complete the work of reforma- 
 tion, and to establish the dominion of virtue ? 
 
 It is impossible to dismiss this subject, without 
 considering a common topick, the inefficacy of a 
 death-bed repentance. It is to be feared, that chari- 
 ly, which hopeth and bclieveth all things, has some- 
 times discovered more of generous credulity, than of 
 well-founded hope, when it has laid great stress, and 
 built much consolation, on the casual expressions and 
 faint sighs of dying men. Far be it from us to ex- 
 cite suspicion, or recall anxiety in the breast of sur- 
 viving friendship, or to throw a new shade of terrour 
 over the valley of death ; but better, far bettei*, were 
 it for a thousand breasts to be pierced with tempo- 
 rary anguish, and a new horrour be added to the 
 dreary passage of the grave, than that one soul be 
 lost to heaven by the delusive expectation of effec- 
 tual repentance in a dying hour. For, as we have 
 repeatedly asked, what is effectual repentance ? Can 
 it be supposed, that, where the vigour of life has been 
 spent in the establishment of vicious propensities, 
 where all the vivacity of youth, all the soberness of 
 manhood, and all the leisure of old age, have been 
 given to the service of sin, where vice has been 
 growing with the growth, and strengthening with the 
 strength, where it has spread out with the limbs o£ 
 the stripling, and become rigid with the fibres of the 
 aged, can it, I say, be supposed, that the labours of 
 
207 
 
 such a life are to be overthrown by one last exertion 
 of a mind, impaired with disease, by the convulsive, 
 exercise of an affrighted spirit, and by the inarticu- 
 late and feeble sounds of an expiring breath? Re- 
 pentance consists not in one or more acts of contri- 
 tion; it is a permanent change of the disposition. 
 Those dispositions and habits of mind, which you 
 bring to your dying bed, you will carry with you to 
 another w orld. These habits are the dying dress of 
 the soul. They are the grave- cloaths, in which it 
 must come forth, at the last, to meet the sentence of 
 an impartial judge. If they were filthy, they will be 
 filthy still. The washing of baptismal water will not. 
 at that hour, cleanse the spots of the soul. The con- 
 fession of sins, which have never been removed, will 
 not furnish the conscience with an answ er towards 
 God. The reception of the elements will not then 
 infuse a principle of spiritual life, any more than un- 
 consecrated bread and wine will infuse health into 
 the limbs, on which the cold damps of death have al- 
 ready collected. Say not, that you have discarded 
 such superstitious expectations. You have not dis- 
 carded them, while you defer any thing to that hour, 
 while you venture to rely on any thing but the mercy 
 of God toward a heart, holy, sincere and sanctified, 
 a heart, which loves Heaven for its purity, and God 
 for his goodness. If, in this solemn hour, the soul of 
 an habitual and inveterate offender be prepared for 
 the residence of pure and spotless spirits, it can be 
 only by a sovereign and miraculous interposition of 
 
omnipotence. His power we pretend not to limit. 
 He can wash the sooty Ethiop white, and cause the 
 spots on the leopard's skin to disappear. We pre- 
 sume not to fathom the counsels of his will ; but this 
 we will venture to assert, that if, at the last hour of 
 the sinner's life, the power of God ever interposes to 
 snatch him from his ruin, such interposition ay ill 
 never be disclosed to the curiosity of man. For, if 
 it should once be believed, that the rewards of hea- 
 ven can be obtained by such an instantaneous and 
 miraculous change at the last hour of life, all our 
 ideas of moral probation, and of the connexion be- 
 tween character here and condition hereafter, are 
 loose, unstable, and groundless, the nature and the 
 laws of God's moral government are made, at once, 
 inexplicable, our exhortations are useless, our expe- 
 rience false, and the whole apparatus of gospel means 
 and motives becomes a cumbrous and unnecessary 
 provision. 
 
 What, then, is the great conclusion, which we 
 should deduce from all that we have said of the na- 
 ture of habit, and the difficulty of repentance ? It is 
 this. Behold', now is the accepted time, now is the 
 day of salvation. If you are young, you cannot be- 
 gin too soon; if you are old, you may begin too late. 
 Age, says the proverb, strips us of every thing, even 
 of resolution. Tomorrow we shall be older; to- 
 morrow, indeed, death may fix his seal forever on our 
 characters. It is a seal, which can never be broken, 
 till the voice of the Son of man shall burst the tombs, 
 
209 
 
 which enclose us. If, then, we leave this place, sen- 
 sible of a propensity, which ought to be restrained, 
 of a lust, which ought to be exterminated, of a habit, 
 which ought to be broken, and rashly defer the hour 
 of amendment, consider, I beseech you, it may, per- 
 haps, be merciful in God to refuse us another oppor- 
 tunity. It may be a gracious method of preventing 
 an abuse, which will only aggravate the retribution, 
 which awaits the impenitent. Make haste, then, and 
 delay not to keep the commandments of God ; of that 
 God, who has no pleasure in the death of the wick- 
 ed, but that the wicked turn from his way, and live. 
 
 *7 
 
SERMON XIII. 
 
 MATTHEW x. 32. 
 
 WHOSOEVER SHALL CONFESS ME BEFORE MEN, HIM WILL I 
 ALSO CONFESS BEFORE MY FATHER, WHICH IS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 NO man can read the discourses of our Saviour 
 with his disciples, without observing, how frequently 
 he insists upon the necessity of courage and fortitude 
 in his followers. Never was a leader less studious 
 to conceal the difficulties and dangers of the service, 
 in which his adherents were to engage ; and never 
 was the fidelity of disciples more severely proved, 
 than was the fidelity of the first converts at the com- 
 mencement of our religion. With only twelve con- 
 stant companions Jesus began his preaching. Their 
 dispositions, as various as their employments and ca- 
 pacities, were all to be trained up for a perilous ser- 
 vice. There was Matthew, called unexpectedly from 
 the profits of a lucrative trade ; Peter, ardent, confi- 
 dent, ambitious, but inconstant ; John, affectionate, 
 
211 
 
 gentle, amiable, but unenterprising; Thomas, slow 
 to believe, quick to doubt, and curious to examine ; 
 .In das, dark, designing, covetous and treacherous ; 
 with several others, who joined themselves to Jesus, 
 full of indefinite hopes, and solicitous to share in the 
 emoluments and dignities, which they daily expected 
 their master would dispense. Such were the minds, 
 w hich our Saviour was to prepare for disappointment, 
 and discipline to courage and endurance. To the 
 worldly among them he talked, sometimes of the un- 
 certainty, and sometimes of the worthlessness of pres- 
 ent possessions ; here placing before them pictures of 
 poverty, and there recommending to them treasures in 
 heaven. To the ambitious he discoursed of humility, 
 of contentment, and laborious servitude, studiously 
 undervaluing the easy dignities and powerful stations, 
 to which they aspired. To the wavering and doubt- 
 ful he proposed frequent experiments of their confi- 
 dence, and insisted on the excellence of faith. To 
 the gentle and feeble-minded he talked of impedi- 
 ments, hardships, disgrace, persecutions, and death. 
 To the treacherous he entrusted the purse, which 
 contained the stock of the little company, that the 
 traitor might see, how little the success of the gospel 
 and the support of its followers depended on money, 
 which thieves like him could pilfer, and on fidelity like 
 his, which lasted as long only, as it was serviceable 
 to the purposes of his avarice. Such was the tenour 
 of the conversations, by which our Saviour was con- 
 tinually preparing the minds of his disciples for the 
 
severities, which they were soon to suffer ; and, with- 
 out doubt, much of the disinterestedness, the patience, 
 and the intrepidity of the apostles, after the ascension 
 of their master, is to be ascribed to the lessons, with 
 w hich he had fortified their minds, while he remained 
 with them on earth. 
 
 Now, my christian friends, when we observe, how 
 essential it was then made to the character of a chris- 
 tian, that he should possess a spirit, which could sus- 
 tain indignities, support disgrace, relinquish comfort, 
 endure torture, and triumph over death ; when we 
 see, how frequently our Saviour insisted on indepen- 
 dence and magnanimity in his followers, and studi- 
 ously instructed and disciplined their minds for the 
 extraordinary sufferings, which awaited them, it is 
 surely worthy of consideration, whether we have, in 
 any sense, exercised a spirit, similar to that which 
 animated the primitive disciples. It is surely of 
 some consequence to inquire, in what manner we, 
 who repose in religious security, we, whom no perse- 
 cutions assail, no difficulties molest, and no terrours 
 alarm, may now exhibit something of the undaunted- 
 ness of proselytes, something of the patience of the 
 saints. Surely, the path of christian profession, which 
 was once spread with thorns, is not now covered 
 only with flowers. Surely, the descendants of those 
 men, who once made the most magnanimous surren 
 der of comfort and of life, cannot follow the same 
 master to heaven, without meeting an impediment, 
 and without making a sacrifice. To confess Christ 
 
213 
 
 now before men, cannot be utterly dissimilar to the 
 confession of Christ in the age of the apostles. Let 
 us endeavour, then, to ascertain, how we may now 
 confess Christ before men, so that he may confess us 
 hereafter before his Father, who is in heaven. 
 
 L He, who now confesses Christ before men, must 
 not be unwilling to avow the sentiments, which he en- 
 tertains of his character. To believe in Christ, is not 
 simply to believe, that such a person once existed. 
 This you may believe of Julius Caesar, or of Pilate. 
 Neither is it enough to talk of him as a good man, or 
 a wise teacher, to praise his example, to descant 
 upon his precepts, to admire his sufferings, and 
 to declaim about the excellence of his character. 
 In this way, as every moralist flourishes about 
 Socrates, every skeptick may harangue about Christ. 
 To confess Jesus, is to confess him in the charac- 
 ter, which you believe he supported, and in the au- 
 thority, which you believe he claimed. It is to ac- 
 knowledge him, as the Son of Grod, the image of Dei- 
 ty, the representative of the Father's authority, the 
 constituted teacher, legislator, redeemer, and judge of 
 the world. In Jesus of Nazareth were exhibited, 
 in an unparalled degree, the powers and charac- 
 ters of Jehovah. " This is my beloved Son," was 
 the attestation of heaven, " in whom I am well pleas- 
 ed : hear ye him." " Whom," says our Saviour to 
 the apostles, " whom do men say that I am ?" " And 
 they answered, some say, John the Baptist ; others 
 say, Elias \ others, Jeremias, or that one of the old 
 
214 
 
 prophets is risen again." " But," continues our Sa- 
 viour, " whom say ye that I am ?" " Peter answered, 
 thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God." You, 
 then, who profess to adopt the name of christians, re- 
 collect, that the relation, in which you stand to Christ, 
 is unlike any other, into which you can enter. His 
 doctrines, where you have clearly discovered them, 
 are not controvertible, like the tenets of a philosopher ; 
 nor are his recommendations to be discussed, as if they 
 were the counsels of a fallible adviser. If you are 
 satisfied, that his authority is divine, your opinions are 
 to be submitted to his instructions ; if you have taken 
 his hand, you must suffer yourselves to be led by his 
 wisdom. You believe in God, believe also in Jesus. 
 From the authority of men, it is lawful to appeal to 
 that of God ; from the authority of Christ there is no 
 appeal, for whoever receiveth him, receiveth God 
 that sent him. 
 
 2. To confess Christ before men, it is not enough, 
 that we are willing to avow our implicit belief in his 
 authority ; we must, secondly, discover in our lives, 
 that we are not ashamed of any peculiar restraints, 
 sacrifices, privations, or labours, which this confes- 
 sion imposes. We profess to take Jesus of Naz- 
 areth for our guide to everlasting life. It is natural* 
 ly expected of disciples, that they exhibit a charac- 
 ter, like that of their master. Ye call me master 
 and Lord, says our Saviour ; and ye say well, for 
 so I am. If I, then, your Lord and master, have 
 given you an example, ye should do as I have done 
 
215 
 
 to you. Who would expect to find the followers of 
 Diogenes, the cynick, clothed in purple, sleeping 
 upon down, or rioting in luxury ; or the disciples of 
 Epicurus, walking barefoot, practising abstemious- 
 ness, or living in superstitious or habitual devotion ? 
 Allow me, then, to say, that you do not confess Christ 
 before men, if you lay no restraints upon your de- 
 sires, out of deference to his laws, if you abridge none 
 of your indulgences, in conformity to the spirit of 
 his religion. It is in vain for you to profess your 
 belief in the gospel of Christ, if, whenever the spirit 
 of Christianity and the spirit of the times interfere, 
 you manifestly bow to the opinion of the world. 
 Does that man confess Christ before the world, who 
 lives precisely as he might have done, if Jesus had 
 never been born, never established a religion, never 
 suffered upon the cross, and were never again to ap- 
 pear, as the final judge of character, and dispenser 
 of retribution? Does he confess Christ before men, 
 whose life exhibits nothing, which would lead an ob- 
 server to conclude, that he acknowledged any other 
 master than his inclination, and any authority but 
 that of publick opinion ? If you are afraid of being 
 called superstitious, because you practise the offices 
 of devotion, pusillanimous, because you endeavour 
 to be meek and forgiving, morose, because you do 
 not plunge headlong into the amusements of the age, 
 avaricious, because you are not clothed in purple, 
 and do not fare sumptuously every day, or rigid, be- 
 cause you are not willing to be dissolute ; with all 
 
216 
 
 these fears, and hesitations, and accommodations, it 
 is absurd for you to bear about the idle appellation 
 of a believer in the gospel. Reject the profession of 
 your faith at once, and avoid these unworthy incon- 
 sistencies. What should we have thought of the 
 sincerity of PauFs conversion to Christianity, if, 
 while he resided at the polished metropolis of Greece, 
 and called himself a christian, he had been seen 
 bowing down in the streets to the statue of Jupiter, 
 or complaisantly accommodating his creed to the 
 skeptical Epicureans, whenever he found himself in 
 their company, or joining in a laugh against his Lord 
 and master, with some of the witty inhabitants of 
 Athens ? What, if we had been told, that he eager- 
 ly sought admittance to every festival and show in 
 honour of their gods, and placed himself at meat at 
 every idoFs table ? What, if he had been seen join- 
 ing in the lewd dances of the Bacchanalia, hurrying 
 to the Olympick games, or seeking for amusement 
 with the profligate youth of the city ? What, if he 
 had spent all his time in asking after news, with 
 the idle and inquisitive strollers in the forum ; and 
 when that insolent citizen inquired, What will this 
 babbler say, what if Paul had resented his imperti- 
 nence, like a man of spirit, and, to save his wounded 
 honour, had manfully gone out to single combat? If 
 such had been his course of life, think you, he could 
 have made that defence before the Areopagus, which 
 the historian has recorded ? Alas, my friends, the 
 name of christian has come to us by birth, and by 
 
217 
 
 inheritance ; but not so descend the spirit and the 
 power of our religion. 
 
 3. To confess Christ before men, is, thirdly, to 
 adopt those methods, and embrace those opportuni- 
 ties of acknowledging him, which the present state of 
 his religion renders practicable and proper. The 
 only open and formal manner of professing ourselves 
 christians, which is, at the present day, at once unos- 
 tentatious and publick, is, by observing those rites, 
 which are peculiar to Christianity — baptism and the 
 Lord's supper. It is not enough to denominate us 
 christians, that we publickly assemble with christians 
 in houses of worship. The doors of our sanctuaries 
 are open to the infidel, as well as to the believer ; 
 to the Jew, and to the Pagan ; to the Mahometan 
 from the shores of the Mediterranean, and to the sav- 
 age from the banks of the Missouri. Attendance 
 upon the weekly exercises of the temple affords no 
 unquestionable proof of our belief in Christianity, 
 and no distinguishing pledge of our attachment to its 
 cause. You, who now fill these seats, do not in- 
 tend, by your presence here, to declare to the world, 
 that you are christians. 
 
 It is, however, to be presumed, that those, who, 
 either for themselves or for their children, have re- 
 cognized the ordinance of baptism, are sensible, that 
 by this act they voluntarily submit to a rite, which is, 
 in fact, initiatory to the profession of Christianity. 
 They acknowledge the authority of Christ, they en- 
 rol themselves in the number of his pupils. They 
 28 
 
218 
 
 virtually admit, that all liis requirements are obliga- 
 tory ; and declare to the world, that they are willing 
 to submit to his commands, as far as they are dis- 
 covered. Can any one, then, satisfactorily inform us, 
 why the other rite, which is peculiarly significant of 
 our discipleship, and especially expressive of fideli- 
 ty and attachment, is so generally neglected ? Have 
 you ever seriously considered, that the latter is a nat- 
 ural consequence of the former, if the former was not 
 hypocritically observed ; and that, in the earliest 
 ages of the church, the observance of each of the or- 
 dinances was inseparably connected ? Have you ever 
 considered, that, by studiously regarding the one, 
 and inconsiderately neglecting the other, you exhibit 
 an inexplicable inconsistency in your professions of 
 attachment ? 
 
 Bear with me, my friends, while I indulge myself 
 in freely examining some of the motives, which, pro- 
 bably, restrain you. Difficulties, as well as fears, 
 sometimes vanish on a near inspection ; and to dis- 
 entangle what is perplexed, close and careful ob- 
 servation is commonly more necessary, than either 
 resolution or strength. 
 
 1. Allow me, however, in the first place, to doubt, 
 whether you have yet seriously considered, or sensi- 
 bly understood the obligation, which your belief in 
 the authority of Jesus so clearly imposes. Perhaps 
 you have regarded as mere words of course the invi- 
 tations, which are repeatedly addressed to you from 
 the pulpit, and addressed to your gratitude and love^ 
 
219 
 
 as well as to your sense of duty. Have you not too 
 easily contented yourselves hitherto with your week- 
 ly attendance on the customary services of the sanc- 
 tuary ; services, which you have found may be peri- 
 odically observed without any interruption of your 
 time, and which it would not, perhaps, require more 
 resolution to discontinue, than to repeat? Perhaps 
 you are too indolent, or too secure to reflect on the 
 duty we are considering ; or you imagine yourselves 
 too busy to devote a portion of your time and thoughts 
 to a commemoration of your Saviour's death. But 
 the plea of occupation is futile. You have bought 
 a piece of ground, and you must needs go and see it. 
 And what of this ? Is every project and business to 
 be accomplished, before you can have leisure to listen 
 to the recommendations of such a friend as Jesus ? 
 You have bought five yoke of oxen, and you must go 
 to prove them. Cannot this be effected without re- 
 jecting the invitations of the gospel ? And you have 
 married a wife, and therefore you cannot come. But 
 why can you not bring with you to the table, your 
 consort, your children, your dependants ? The tables 
 of the Lord are not yet crowded. Here are no strug- 
 gles for admittance $ here are no contests for accom- 
 modation. 
 
 2. Give me leave to ask you, how long you have 
 been deferring your attention to this duty, and how 
 much longer you imagine you shall be employed in 
 collecting resolution ? Nothing is more certainly ne- 
 glected^ than what we are always intending to do. 
 
220 
 
 When will that more convenient time arrive ? Is that 
 bright hour, which is to bring you opportunity, incli- 
 nation, or resolution, now on its passage ? Ah, my 
 friends, I know of no moment but the present. I 
 have known opportunities, but they are past, and I 
 strive in vain to recall them. The virgins, who slept, 
 imagined, that they should have sufficient time to go 
 and buy oil and trim their lamps ; but, while they 
 were gone, those who were ready went in to the nup- 
 tial feast, and when their companions returned, the 
 door was shut. 
 
 3. Perhaps you excuse yourselves, on account of 
 the solemnity of the ordinance. But, my friends, be- 
 cause it is solemn, is it therefore the less important ? 
 Because it is solemn, may it therefore be more se- 
 curely neglected ? Besides, what has taught you to 
 make so great a distinction between this and the 
 other duties of religion ? Surely not the example of 
 our Saviour. In his presence was the rite instituted, 
 and then it was affectionate, social and cheerful. 
 No terrours were thrown around the meeting, no 
 doubts disturbed the happy fraternity, no mystery 
 brooded over the eucharistical feast. Surely, your's 
 was not the sentiment of the primitive disciples, for 
 they celebrated this ordinance at every opportunity, 
 and whenever they found themselves together. Sure- 
 ly, your's was not the opinion of the Corinthian con- 
 verts, for so little were they appalled with the aw- 
 ful solemnity of the rite, that they soon converted it 
 into a riotous festival. Surely, your's was not the 
 
221 
 
 opinion of the apostle, or he would have proceeded 
 farther in his reproof, than merely to have blamed 
 their disorder and excess. It is true, the ceremony 
 is serious, and so, also, is every act of homage, be- 
 cause it is performed in the presence, and directed to 
 the eye of Jehovah. Nothing can be more religious- 
 ly solemn than prayer ; and there is nothing in the 
 exercises at the communion more sacred in reality, 
 than the customary addresses to the throne of God. 
 
 4. You excuse yourselves, perhaps, because you 
 imagine you are not yet prepared for an ordinance so 
 holy. This, 1 know, is the most customary, and, let 
 me add, the most fallacious apology. If you are unpre- 
 pared for this, believe me, you are unprepared for the 
 worship of the sanctuary, in which we have now been 
 uniting ; you are unprepared to enter your closet, and 
 offer up your secret devotions ; you are unprepared 
 to present your children at the baptismal font ; and, 
 what is more than all, you are unprepared to leave 
 this busy world, and enter on those unknown scenes, 
 which, even while you are hesitating, may burst upon 
 your vision. Can you, in such a state of things, say 
 carelessly and coolly, that you are unfit to come to the 
 communion, especially when the ordinance is per- 
 petuated for the very purpose of promoting your spir- 
 itual preparation for the communion of Jesus and the 
 saints in heaven ? 
 
 But where do you gather the opinion, that a precise 
 degree of preparation, which 1 know not how you are 
 to ascertain, is necessary to the communicant ? You 
 
surely do not collect it from the circumstances, in 
 which the supper was instituted. To the twelve dis- 
 ciples, who were the first communicants, the ceremony- 
 was utterly unexpected. It was suddenly instituted 
 in the midst of a common meal ; and the apostles had 
 no time to deliberate about those necessary qualifica- 
 tions, on which succeeding ages have so unadvisedly 
 and unhappily insisted. If our dispositions and hab- 
 its are such, as to disqualify us to join with mortals, 
 like ourselves, in commemorating the death of our 
 common benefactor, alarming indeed is our condition. 
 My friends, it is time to pause : it is time to look 
 about us. If we cannot, without guilt or hypocrisy, 
 celebrate the memory of Jesus, when departed, think 
 you that such disaffection will be admitted to his 
 presence ? 
 
 Perhaps you flatter yourselves, that there is less 
 danger in utterly neglecting this duty, than in under- 
 taking to perform it, without having ascertained the 
 worthiness of your preparation. But, my friends, the 
 obligation of the duty is certain ; the degree of pre- 
 paration is not. If your intention to perform the will 
 of your master is sincere, you are not to delay, till 
 every difficulty vanishes, and every scruple is satis- 
 fied, especially in a case like this, where, if you 
 leave the words of scripture, your only criterion will 
 be some inexplicable and, perhaps, delusive feeling, 
 which may come and depart in a day. If you have 
 no serious desire and no real intention to conform to 
 this request, it is idle to talk about degrees of prepa- 
 
223 
 
 ration. This state of your inclinations is your sin, 
 and not your excuse. 
 
 Lastly, I am disposed to believe, that many ab- 
 stain from the communion, from a suspicion, that it 
 will impose upon them some new obligations, which 
 they fear they shall be unable to fulfil. This excuse 
 sometimes results from a tenderness of conscience, 
 which deserves to be fortified and enlightened, rather 
 than indulged. If you believe in the authority of 
 Christ, and profess, though not formally and publick- 
 ly, to receive his religion, your obligations continue 
 the same, whether you come to the communion, or 
 whether you forbear. The mere commemoration of 
 the death of Christ, cannot impose any new duties, 
 or alter the extent of christian obligations. The ob- 
 servance of one command can neither enlarge, nor 
 contract the circle of the others. It is true, in con- 
 sequence of an open profession, the eyes of the world 
 will be turned more directly upon you ; and, together 
 with the necessity of greater circumspection, you will 
 feel, also, the influence of new motives and aids to 
 obedience. But, as you cannot be too holy, why 
 should you shun an additional inducement to purity 
 and watchfulness. The bonds, which bind you to 
 your religion, cannot be too numerous, or too strong ; 
 and it becomes you seriously to consider, whether 
 you do not more essentially injure the interests of the 
 ' gospel by openly neglecting one of its positive com- 
 mands, than you would by making a profession, w hich 
 you might, sometimes, indeed, be tempted to dishon- 
 
nm 
 
 our, but which God may give you the grace to adorn. 
 This timidity is at least a weakness ; be careful, that 
 it does not grow into a crime. 
 
 The time will not permit us to proceed further. 
 These are only hints, which might be copiously il- 
 lustrated, and thrown into a more argumentative form. 
 
 May God grant, that we, who, from a sense of ob- 
 ligation, I hope, assemble round this table, may be 
 more and more constrained by the love of Christ, 
 since he died for all, that they which live should 
 henceforth not live unto themselves, but unto him, 
 who died for them, and rose again. 
 
SERMON XIV. 
 
 LUKE viii. 18. 
 
 TAKE HEED HOW YE HEAR. 
 
 IT appears, at first view, astonishing, that so lit- 
 tle effect should be perceptibly produced in society 
 by a long established system of publick instruction on 
 topicks the most important to mankind. It would 
 seem incredible to one, who, for the first time, was 
 made acquainted with our institutions of religion, 
 that such a provision for weekly worship, teaching, 
 admonition and consolation, should long exist without 
 a more sensible and eminent effect on the minds and 
 manners of the community. He would conclude^ 
 that, without some serious incompetency in the teach- 
 er, or blame in his audience, the facts and precepts 
 contained in the gospel, which relate to the everlast- 
 ing well-being of mankind, could not be heard without 
 greater effect. That the inefficiency of publick in. 
 struction is, in some degree, to be attributed to the 
 incompetency, infirmities, or mistakes of preachers, I 
 am not disposed to deny. Let us take it for granted 
 29 
 
226 
 
 in the outset, for to discuss it at length, would be un- 
 profitable to you, and false humility in the preacher. 
 
 From these remarks, however, let it not be infer- 
 red, that we are disposed to deny the utility of 
 preaching. There is, undoubtedly, a secret and per- 
 manent influence flowing from our publick institutions 
 of religion, which can be thoroughly understood and 
 fairly estimated only if God, in his displeasure, 
 should call us to witness the consequences of the 
 complete abolition of them. 
 
 The efficacy of preaching appears more inconsid- 
 erable, than it really is, from this circumstance, that, of 
 those who regularly attend upon it, few are guilty of 
 habitual enormities and open vices. The sins, against 
 which we find it most necessary to preach, are those 
 hidden biasses of the heart, that worldly spirit, that 
 habitual selfishness, and that religious torpor, which 
 are not, if I may so speak, limbs, which may be cut 
 oil*, but slow diseases, which are to be cured, and cured 
 not by a single application, but by a long course of 
 moral regimen and exercise. Hence, to pursue the allu- 
 sion, the influence of the christian ministry is not to 
 be seen in the leaping of the lame, the recovery of 
 sight to the blind, the raising of the dead, or in the 
 conversion of thousands from one religion and course 
 of life to another, as in a day of Pentecost ; but rather 
 in strengthening the weak organs, in guarding the 
 careless against infection, and in gradually improv- 
 ing, as far as may be, the tone of the religious sys- 
 tem, and the health of the religious community. 
 
227 
 
 These general remarks may serve to show, that 
 publick instruction among us is not so inefficacious 
 as it might at first appear to be, and that, if no 
 other good effects could be stated to flow from it, yet 
 the evil secretly prevented, and the melioration se- 
 cretly induced, are more than a recompense for the 
 labours of those, who are engaged in supporting these 
 institutions. The object of the present discourse, 
 however, is not so much to account for the inadequate 
 effects of preaching on the great mass of mankind, as to 
 lead the attention of those, who are habitually hearers 
 of the word, and profess a respect for religion and its 
 institutions, to consider some important prevalent er- 
 rours, prejudices, and sins, which impede, and often 
 destroy, the beneficial influence of religion on their 
 hearts and minds. 
 
 1. You will agree with me, no doubt, in the first 
 place, that, till the attention is gained, the labours of 
 the preacher arc vain. Some of the impediments to 
 this attention and confidence are to be found in the 
 prejudices, in which we allow ourselves toward indi- 
 viduals. We will hardly consent to learn our duty, 
 except from a particular mouth. We suspect one 
 man of heresy ; and, of course, all that he delivers has 
 a tinge of this leprosy, aad therefore effectually pre- 
 vents all contact with our mind. Another is avoided 
 as too damnatory, or too metaphysical, too clamourous, 
 or too severe. We suffer ourselves to waver with 
 popular changes 5 to lose our confidence in one fa- 
 
vourite, when he is no longer the first ; or to turn 
 away from another, because we are familiar with his 
 manner, and he no longer offers novelties. 
 
 When we first inquire into the reputation of a 
 preacher, or measure the precise limits of his creed, 
 before we venture to trust ourselves with him, or 
 when we come with minds prepared to hear with cap- 
 tiousness, or not to hear through aversion, it is not 
 wonderful, that so much of the natural influence of in- 
 struction should be wasted. It is true, that prejudices 
 and partialities are not to be avoided ; and, perhaps, 
 when they are unattended with correspondent aver- 
 sions, are more salutary than injurious, on the whole. 
 Yet, when we find that the preaching of some men 
 appears to us barren and unfruitful, it is surely worth 
 while to inquire, where the fault exists ; and to decide, 
 which is most easy, natural, and just, that we should 
 accommodate ourselves to the preacher's method of 
 teaching, or that the preacher should be expected to 
 suit the peculiar tastes and previous notions and ca- 
 pacities of hundreds of minds. 
 
 The different reception of the same preachers, in 
 different assemblies, is finely illustrated in the history 
 of Paul. Upon his arrival at Athens, the Epicu- 
 reans and Stoicks were all prepared to expose the 
 new apostle to derision, and went round inquiring, 
 what will this babbler say ? At Lystra, on the contra- 
 ry, the city was all enthusiasm and admiration ; the 
 gods, say they, have come down to us in the likeness 
 of men. The sentiment of the apostle, in his reply, 
 
289 
 
 is admirable. Wc arc men of like passions with 
 you ; but we are also ministers of the most High God, 
 who show unto you the way of salvation, and our 
 duty and your's is equally simple, and serious, inde- 
 pendent of the passions and partialities of men. 
 
 S. The effect of preaching depends much, in the 
 second place, on the disposition, which we are in the 
 habit of bringing with us to publick w orship. For 
 what purpose^ my friends, are you assembled here ? 
 Not surely to set an example to others. If this were 
 the only reason of your meeting, for what purpose, 
 let me ask, are those others assembled? There must 
 be some ground for this custom, beside example, oth- 
 erwise those, whose example is of no value, would 
 have no reason to assign for their w orship. No, my 
 friends, I trust, that every one is sensible, that the 
 same God, w ho made, and preserves, and governs us 
 all, demands of you the same homage, which he de- 
 mands of others 5 and that what you receive in common 
 deserves to be acknowledged in common. Your obli- 
 gations are not altered, except as they are increased, 
 by the difference of your circumstances, or your inu 
 provements. The instructions here given are not nice- 
 ly adjusted to any particular stations or characters, but 
 are of consecpience to us all as moral, accountable and 
 immortal creatures. They relate to the awful and pa- 
 rental character of that great Being, in whose power is 
 the disposal of our whole existence, whether in this 
 w orld or the next ; they relate to the pardon of sin, in 
 which, as offenders, we are all interested \ they relate to 
 
that unexplored world, whither we are all tending, a 
 world, which may burst upon us in a moment, whether 
 we have made any provision for its scenes or not. 
 The mind, which is not previously composed to the 
 duties of this place, cannot easily engage in the ex- 
 ercises of the sanctuary. Those, who do not come to 
 pay a solemn homage, canuot enter into the spirit of 
 the service, or bring away any thing of value. It 
 may be, that their curiosity is appeased ; but *their 
 hearts are unaffected. It may be, that their attention 
 is supported for the time ; but every thing is forgotten, 
 when the service is closed. It may be, that their 
 conscience is discharged of a burden ; but they are 
 relieved rather than improved. It may be, that they 
 do not always, or often, regret the time, which they 
 have spent ; but they look not hack upon it with the 
 satisfaction, which those will always feel, who, con- 
 scious of the privilege and means they have enjoyed, 
 have learned something more of God, or of them- 
 selves, of their duty, or their destination. 
 
 3. In the third place, much of the inefficacy of 
 preaching is to be traced to that ignorance and de- 
 fect of preliminary knowledge, which exist among 
 many of our hearers, who yet would be unwilling to 
 be denied the name of christians. 
 
 It is natural for the preacher to forget, that those, 
 whom he addresses, are not so familiar as himself 
 with the truths which he declares, with the arguments 
 which he adduces, with the allusions which he makes, 
 or the scriptures, on which he founds his discourses. 
 
221 
 
 Hence, what appears familiar and intelligible to him, 
 is abstruse to his auditors. When he imagines, that he 
 has completed a fair demonstration of some religious 
 truths, he may find his labour lost, and his deductions 
 unintelligible. It happens, that some link in the chain 
 of thought, which existed in his own mind, and ren- 
 dered all its parts so mutually dependent and firmly 
 supported, is entirely unknown to his hearers ; and his 
 discourse leaves a very indistinct impression. It may 
 be, that lie has raised an animated exhortation from 
 some great truths, which he supposed every one allow- 
 ed, and to which he concluded no one was a stranger ; 
 and yet be miserably disappointed to find, that, in 
 consequence of the distance between his own mind and 
 the minds of his hearers, all that he has said is like 
 water, which, instead of having reached the ground, 
 is evaporated in the air, and by which no soil is ferti- 
 lized, no growth of goodness quickened. You reply, 
 perhaps, that this is the fault of the preacher ; you will 
 say, that he ought not to assume premises, which he 
 has not proved, or presuppose information, which he 
 has not given, or scatter his seeds in ground, which he 
 has never cleared. But, my friends, is it impertinent 
 to ask, are you to depend for all your religious knowl- 
 edge on the occasional, and unsystematical addresses 
 of your ministers? With the scriptures in your hands, 
 with so many volumes of religious and moral instruc- 
 tion within your reach, on subjects, in which you are 
 surely not less interested than ourselves, are we to 
 presume, that you are yet unfurnished with the rudi- 
 
mcnts of Christianity ? At this age of the world, when, 
 as the apostle says, you ought to be teachers, must 
 you be taught the iirst principles of the oracles of 
 God? And, at this period, are you such as have need 
 of milk, and not of strong meat? He, that would at- 
 tend a course of lectures on any branch of education, 
 or topick of literature, takes care to prepare himself 
 with previous principles. Are we alone to be forever 
 laying the foundation of repentance from dead works 
 and faith in God, explaining rudiments, and begin- 
 ning at the very cradle of theology ; or have we not 
 rather a right to demand of you, as preliminaries, a 
 rational belief of revelation, and a considerable fa- 
 miliarity with its records ? 
 
 4. A fourth cause of the inconsiderable effect of 
 preaching, is the want of reflection upon what we hear. 
 Discourses, even among those, who have no doubt of 
 the main truths of their religion, are too often heard 
 as if they were insulated and complete performances, 
 intended to answer no purpose beyond the infor- 
 mation given at the moment. We go to be enter- 
 tained at our ease. If the speaker fails to effect this 
 grand object, we consider ourselves disappointed, and 
 return vacant and uninterested to the occupations of 
 life. Thus, many of these holy days truly pass 
 away, like a tale that is told ; or, if the success of the 
 preacher is more, we still charge not our memories 
 w ith the subject, and conceive, that our interest in it 
 is at an end, when the discourse is concluded. But, 
 my hearers, does the object of preaching terminate 
 
233 
 
 like that of a drama, in the pleasure afforded at the 
 moment ? It is not intended as a relaxation of an 
 hour, in which curiosity is to be kept alive, and which 
 leaves no practical impression. The real purpose of 
 a discourse cannot be answered without your coope- 
 ration. The practical improvement is to be made in 
 your chambers, in your families, and in your private 
 meditations. Called upon, as we are, from week to 
 week, to produce something, which shall arrest atten- 
 tion, miserable indeed would be our condition, if we 
 were regarded merely as the purveyors for the appetites 
 of the publick. We can treat few subjects profound- 
 ly ; fewer still, systematically. We can only give you 
 hints, which you must pursue at your leisure ; and 
 open to you principles, which you must follow through 
 their consequences. It is to no purpose, that we 
 awaken a transitory attention on this day, if it de- 
 clines, as the sun goes down. It is to no purpose to 
 insist upon truths, if you receive them only upon our 
 authority, or if men content themselves with an assent 
 without reason, or with a captious rejection without 
 investigation. Till our principles are made your's 
 by inquiry, by meditation, and by a serious applica- 
 tion of them to the conduct of life, we shall always 
 be accused of looseness in our reasonings, of inconse- 
 quence in our reflections, of presumption in our lan- 
 guage, of abstruseness or excessive refinement in our 
 speculations, of ignorance of human nature, and of 
 want of adaptation to the circumstances of society. 
 The scriptures will continue to be regarded rather as 
 30 
 
234 
 
 furnishing us with a text, than as the very ground 
 and matter of instruction ; and men will revolt at a 
 thousand incongruities, absurdities, and strange modes 
 of speech in our discourses from these holy records, 
 which, if they were properly studied and understood, 
 would appear to be far beyond the burlesque of the 
 witling, and the ignorant derision of the man of 
 pleasure. 
 
 In the last place, as the ineffieacy of doctrinal in- 
 struction results from want of reflection on what we 
 hear, so the effect of practical discourses is lost, un- 
 less every hearer makes a personal application of 
 them to the correction of his own heart, and the re- 
 gulation of his own conduct. The spirit of God will 
 not force persuasion or conviction on the mind, which 
 shuts itself up against the truth. There is no mirac- 
 ulous efficacy accompanying the words of any preach- 
 er, which will convert an auditor against his choice. 
 Without the exercise of our own thoughts, we may 
 hear discourses innumerable, and advance not a step 
 nearer heaven. The sick man is not to be healed by 
 the perpetual visits of the physician, or by the en- 
 couragements and recommendations of friends. He 
 may lie forever on his bed, and waste his life in fruit- 
 less wishes and ineffectual prayers. Till he applies 
 the prescriptions, which are left, and exercises himself 
 in the regimen and habits, which are enjoined him, 
 he may doze away a sickly existence, without recov- 
 ery or strength. 
 
235 
 
 It would be amusing, if it were not so humiliating, 
 to hear the observations of some men, when they have 
 just listened to a discourse full of pointed applica- 
 tions. They complacently imagine, that one man 
 must have felt this passage, and another have been 
 struck by so direct a reference. Many retire expres- 
 sing the conviction, that such exhortations, as those 
 they have been hearing, cannot fail of doing good, 
 and wonder at the insensibility of mankind, or at the 
 courage of the preacher. But let us only imagine, 
 that every one of our hearers were employed in mak- 
 ing applications for the rest, and what a curious scene 
 of absurdity would be presented ; and what a strange 
 contrivance to be unprofitable would be the art of 
 preaching ! Every one would be employed in show- 
 ing how another ought to be affected, and yet no one 
 could be improved ; for, with all this grave concern 
 for the good of others, each would neglect the only 
 being, whom he has it always in his power to correct. 
 
 Though the addresses from the pulpit are necessa- 
 rily general, yet they ought not to be heard without 
 personal application. The faithful hearer never 
 comes up to the sanctuary to please himself with 
 general declamation against the ungodly. He is 
 not employed in seeking to evade reproof, nor 
 does he take care always to allow as much as pos- 
 sible to the license of the speaker, and the autho- 
 rized tone of the profession. Every description, 
 which gives him an image of himself, is a signal 
 to him for reflection. Every exhioition of ciiris- 
 
tian perfection is to liim an incitement and a re- 
 proach ; every picture of human depravity is to him 
 a suggestion of gratitude for his own past preservation, 
 and an admonition to take heed, lest he fall for the 
 future. 
 
 This list of causes might easily be enlarged ; but 
 I prefer to conclude with some application of this 
 precept : take heed how ye hear. 
 
 1. Would you derive the greatest improvement 
 from publick religious instruction, divest yourselves 
 of unfavourable prejudices against those, who impart it. 
 Who, then, is he that addresses you, that you should 
 come prepared to defeat his purpose ? Is it a self-com- 
 placent herald of his own fame ; a vain propagator 
 of his own opinions ; a conceited exhibiter of his 
 own talents ; a man, who lives only on your breath, 
 and who, if you withdraw your favour, must be con- 
 tent to shrink into insignificance and silence. No ; 
 it is, or it ought to be, a messenger of Jesus Christ, 
 w ho maintains nothing on his own authority ; who 
 comes not to bind you to his interpretation as in- 
 fallible, but to invite your feet into the way of peace, 
 and to repeat to you only what God has already ut- 
 tered. If he had no other authority, than that which 
 his talents give him, and then asked you to rest 
 on his decisions alone, you might, indeed, come pre- 
 pared to refute him, or turn away with contempt. 
 But, if he does not wander beyond his instructions, but 
 refers to the same common standard of the scriptures, 
 he does not deserve your prejudices. But, say you, 
 
237 
 
 he perverts and corrupts the word of God, and preach- 
 es not Christ, but his own imaginations. My friends, 
 J cannot believe, that any man can stand up before 
 you in the name of Jesus Christ, and, without any 
 other inducements than those, which are commonly of- 
 fered by this profession, deliberately prevaricate in 
 this solemn employment, or disguise what he serious- 
 ly believes to be the truth of the gospel. He can 
 have no purpose, which is to be answered by the de- 
 struction of evangelical truth. All his interests on 
 earth are centered in the success of Christianity, and 
 connected with the growth of true piety and virtue in 
 the world. But, you say, he is miserably deficient in 
 his statement of truth ; and his hearers are perishing 
 from his incapacity, or defects. What then ! Does 
 he not refer to the authority of Christ and his scrip- 
 tures as supreme ? Does he not inculcate a temper and 
 £ practice, which, if it were followed, you will ac- 
 knowledge, would make this world the abode of peace, 
 and people heaven with blessed spirits ? Yes ; but he 
 neglects to produce the only adequate motives ; he 
 does not give that representation of the doctrines of 
 Christianity, by which alone it can be rendered effectu- 
 al. But let us not imagine, that God enlightens, and 
 effects his great purpose of restoring mankind to him- 
 self, only by the partial view s, which happen to be 
 familiar to ourselves. If you find, that the preach- 
 er aims at the same object with yourself, and coin- 
 cides with you in the great moral purpose of Christ's 
 appearance, do not compel him to arrive at his conclu- 
 
238 
 
 sions and effect his object in the path, in which you 
 have travelled ; but rather thank God, that there are 
 men of real sincerity and virtue, who can receive 
 Christianity in a form better suited to their ideas of 
 God, and better adapted to their religious improve- 
 ment, than your own. 
 
 Again, would you derive the greatest improve- 
 ment from the publick institutions of worship and in- 
 struction, endeavour always to enter these walls un- 
 der a thorough impression of the nature of the duty, in 
 which you are now engaging. For, my friends, in whose 
 presence are we assembled ? Of a few friends only, 
 who have chosen this mode of passing an easy hour ; 
 of a preacher, a poor mortal like yourselves, who is 
 placed here to furnish something for your curiosity ? 
 Are these the only beings, that belong to this place ? 
 O no ; here we stand before the Majesty of heaven 
 and earth, whose presence fills immensity ; we 
 come to pay our homage to him, who liveth forever 
 and ever, the support of all nature. We stand before 
 a God of purity inexpressible, and of mercy everlast- 
 ing. We come to learn the will of him, on whom 
 our poor life every moment depends ; we come to 
 throw ourselves on his compassion, to confess our 
 sins, to devote ourselves to his service through Jesus 
 Christ, and to learn what he has revealed to us of 
 Himself, of ourselves, and of our destination. This 
 is the threshold of a more glorious temple in the hea- 
 vens ; this is an entrance to the world, in which God 
 discovers himself to the eye of man. In a few years, 
 
239 
 
 these privileges will have passed away ; your prayers 
 will ascend here no more ; no more will the word of 
 God reach your ears from this place ; the follies of 
 your attendance cannot be retrieved ; lost opportunities 
 cannot be recalled, and all that ingratitude and neg- 
 lect, to which these walls have been a witness, will 
 rise up before you, and reproach you with unutterable 
 sorrow. 
 
 Lastly, would you derive a substantial advantage 
 from the instructions of preachers, bring your own 
 studies and reading in aid of them. Do you find 
 yourselves unfurnished with religious ideas ? Con- 
 sider, I beseech you, is there any knowledge so in- 
 teresting to you, as a moral and an immortal creature ? 
 What ! is it of no consequence to you, that God, the 
 supreme disposer of your fate through an eternity to 
 come, has made you a revelation of his will ? Can 
 any thing be imagined more serious than such infor- 
 mation, on which depends the salvation of your souls ? 
 Let me entreat you, then, to make yourselves and 
 your children familiar with these scriptures, not by 
 a blind and inconsiderate perusal of an occasional 
 passage, but by a diligent study of them, as the re- 
 cords of God's will, and of human duty. Repose 
 not implicit reliance on our representations, on the one 
 hand ; nor accuse us, on the other, of departing from 
 the word of God, when we give you an illustration of 
 a passage, which may not coincide with your previous 
 opinions, or even with the first impressions, which the 
 words suggest. For it is not always true in the scrip- 
 
240 
 
 tures, any more than many other works written in a 
 foreign language, and in a mode of thinking so differ- 
 ent from our own, that the first and most natural 
 meaning, whieh the words convey, is certainly the true 
 meaning ; but the history of God's will, as it stands in 
 the scriptures, requires to be diligently and impartially 
 explored, that our faith may not stand on the assump- 
 tions of men, but on the word of God. 
 
 But, especially, let me beseech you not to consider 
 your task as accomplished, when you have finished 
 your attendance here. The most important duty re- 
 mains, to apply what you have heard to your owii 
 character and circumstances, and convert the general 
 language of the preacher into personal admonitions 
 and directions. 
 
 The great work of religious perfection is not to be 
 accomplished by thronging to the sanctuary, and as- 
 sisting at all the exercises and discourses of others ; 
 but by a studious attention to the state of your affec- 
 tions, by a practical application of religion to the 
 business of life, and last, though not least, by fervent 
 and frequent prayers to Almighty God to bless his 
 word, to remove your ignorance, to quicken your un- 
 derstanding, and engage your affections at all times 
 in the great work of your sanctification ; that so, not 
 being forgetful hearers, but doers of the word ; you 
 maybe blessed in your deed. 
 
SERMON XV. 
 
 PHILIP, i. 9. 
 
 AND THIS I PRAY, THAT YOUR LOVE MAY ABOUND YET 
 MORE AND MORE. 
 
 THE natural tendency of publiek sentiment to 
 pass the limits of moderation extends also to religion ; 
 a subject, in which, as all men are interested, almost 
 all men have rushed into some extreme of doctrine or 
 practice. The history of the church, it must be ac- 
 know.dged, abounds with extravagances, which 
 perplex the candid, and are the jest of the profane. 
 Sometimes religion has been made to consist in vio- 
 lent affections ; sometimes, in exteriour performances ; 
 now 7 it is considered an affair of the understanding ; 
 and now, of the animal mechanism. In one age it is 
 busied about what is mysterious ; in another, about 
 what is ecstatick 5 while by many it is always confined 
 to what is barely rational, cold, unaffecting and sim- 
 ple. The character of individual christians is mark- 
 ed with a diversity of expression, corresponding, i# 
 some degree, to this variety of character in periods 
 and in sects. The hearts of some men are tender, 
 31 
 
and their passions fervent ; the temper of others is 
 calm and equable, and wrought with difficulty into 
 ecstasy and rapture. Some are extravagantly fearful 
 of extravagance, and are fortified against the approach 
 of enthusiasm ; while others look with jealousy on ev- 
 ery exercise of reason, content with feeling what they 
 know not how to explain, and care not how to under- 
 stand. In this flux and reflux of prevailing and per- 
 sonal sentiment, it is our duty to attend to the bias of 
 the age, to guard the character of true religion from 
 the reproaches, it may suffer by the excesses of its ar- 
 dent friends, or the lukewarmness of its indifferent 
 professors. We are to see, that the waters of life 
 neither waste away in noisy ebullition, nor remain 
 cold and stagnant, silently evaporating without being 
 moved. 
 
 Among many christian professors there is, perhaps, 
 too much of a disposition to reduce Christianity to a 
 barren system of rational truths. They are apt to 
 make it a mere collection of specifick statutes, like a 
 civil or criminal code, in which the precise amount of 
 obligation, and limit of transgression, may be clearly 
 ascertained. Men of inquisitive and speculative 
 minds are in peculiar danger of preferring the exer- 
 cise of the understanding to that of the heart, and thus 
 of rendering the light of religion little more than a cold 
 corruscation, which imparts no warmth to the region 
 of the affections. But, my friends, when we consider 
 how important a part of our constitution the affections 
 
243 
 
 are, and how much they do in ultimately determin- 
 ing the character of the man, you cannot suppose, that 
 religion is the only subject, from which the exercise 
 of them is to be excluded. When we consider, too, 
 the infinite sublimity of religious truths, the influence 
 they have on human happiness here, and on man's 
 expectations for eternity, surely it cannot be, that he, 
 who is impassioned on every other subject, may be 
 always lukewarm on this, that the affections, which 
 glow in every other sphere, must lose all their warmth, 
 as soon as they touch the region of theology. If it were 
 enough merely to believe, we might believe as well in 
 a malevolent, as a gracious being. If it were enough 
 to know the sanctions, and to admit the obligations of 
 a law, the character of the lawgiver would be of no 
 consideration. If it were enough to keep the com- 
 mandments according to the barren letter of the mor- 
 al code, surely the first commandment would have 
 been more than superfluous, thou shalt love the 
 Lord thy God, with all thy heart, soul, mind, and 
 strength. But it is not sufficient, that the affections be 
 merely admitted into religion. If they are allowed to- 
 enter it at all, they must enter it largely. If God is to be 
 loved, he is to be loved supremely. If Jesus, though 
 absent and invisible, is yet our friend, he demands, on 
 our part, an attachment stronger than death, which 
 many waters cannot quench, nor floods drown. If 
 the soul is worth any thing, it is inestimable ; you 
 cannot love it too dearly. If the interest of any one 
 of us reaches beyond this earthly scene, it spreads 
 
244 
 
 I 
 
 throughout eternal duration. It should move our feel- 
 ings, as well as our thoughts. There cannot be 
 awakened too deep a sensibility for the immortal wel- 
 fare of a being, who is susceptible of innumerable 
 gradations of bliss and wretchedness. I will not 
 shrink, then, from the declaration, that, if you have 
 never felt the pleasures of devotion, I must doubt 
 your piety ; if you have never felt the sense of 
 your unworthiness, I must doubt your humility ; if 
 you have never felt the luxury of doing good, I doubt 
 your generosity ; if you have never felt the in- 
 expressible worth of the christian revelation, if you 
 have never glowed with gratitude to its author, and 
 admiration of his character, you know nothing of 
 Christianity. I must say, if your soul has never soar- 
 ed into the region of immortality, if your expectations 
 have never soared impatient for the free range of 
 heaven, you know religion only as a law, and not as 
 an enjoyment. It is your schoolmaster, and not your 
 confidential friend. You have not leaned upon the 
 bosom of Jesus 5 you have only entered the lecture 
 room of a philosopher. Such was not the disciple, 
 whom Jesus loved. 
 
 The scriptures are written, it is true, in the lan- 
 guage of orientals, and abound in phrases and ex- 
 pressions of such passionate hyperbole, as seem, to 
 the colder and more chastised imaginations of the 
 western world, like the language of exaggerated feel- 
 ing. But, with all this allowance, and it is great, they 
 cannot be made to describe a religion, which exists 
 
2h5 
 
 only in the head. There is not a worthy passion, 
 which silently pervades, or tumultuously agitates the 
 breast of man, that has not been enlisted in the cause 
 of God, and encouraged in the scriptures. Hope, the 
 most animated of the affections, is, in our religion, the 
 swelling spring of ineffable happiness. " Blessed be 
 the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, 
 according to his abundant mercy, has begotten us 
 again into a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus 
 from the dead." The most impatient desires of re- 
 ligious improvement are represented, as a part of the 
 christian character : " Blessed are they, which do hun- 
 ger and thirst after righteousness." " Let him that 
 is athirst come, and I will give unto him the waters 
 of life freely." Joy enters largely into the christian 
 temper, " For the fruit of the spirit is love and joy." 
 Sorrow, deep, piercing, and humiliating, is not exclu- 
 ded. (£ Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall 
 be comforted ;" and " the sacrifices of God are a bro- 
 ken spirit." Gratitude, I need not tell you, is a vital 
 principle of religious obedience ; and compassion is a 
 sentiment so essential to religion, that it has even 
 given a name to the righteous ; and a merciful is equiv- 
 alent to a good man. " I will have mercy and not 
 sacrifice," was the passage so dear to our compassion- 
 ate Saviour. Zeal, too, is not to be rejected for its 
 abuses, if Christ, when he gave himself for us, intend- 
 ed, not only to redeem us from iniquity, but " to purify 
 unto himself a peculiar people, zealous of good 
 works." To these christian affections I need not 
 
246 
 
 add the comprehensive one of love, for it is not only 
 represented as the source, attendant, and result of 
 true religion, but it is, in numerous passages, com- 
 mended as the substance and epitome of duty, the 
 fulfilling of the law, the end of the commandment. 
 From this enumeration you may understand, that re- 
 ligion is not a bare comprehension of truths, not the 
 knowledge and remembrance of facts, not the con- 
 fession of a faith, or the observation of duties formal- 
 ly defined ; but it is a celestial spirit, which mingles 
 with and informs all our duties, in secret, and in pub- 
 lick, which agitates the mass of our intellectual and 
 moral faculties, which discovers itself in fears and 
 hopes, joys and sorrows, gratitude and humiliation, 
 earnestness and all-hallowed love. 
 
 I know there are some, who doubt the possibility, 
 and more, who doubt the propriety of introducing the 
 affections into real religion ; and their objections we 
 propose now to consider. As God must, in every 
 system of faith, be the principal object of religious 
 contemplation, if we can establish, upon rational 
 grounds, the sentiment of love to him, the most im- 
 portant characteristick of the religion of the affec- 
 tions is secured. It is objected, then, that a being, so 
 far removed beyond the limits of human conception, 
 can hardly be the object of confidence and love. We 
 can fear infinite power, we can be astonished at un- 
 searchable wisdom, we can be awed by inapproach- 
 able purity, joined with inconceivable grandeur ; but 
 to love a being, who has nothing in common with 
 
247 
 
 mortality, nothing visible, tangible, or audible about 
 him, is not within the ordinary exercise of man's af- 
 fections. Yet it appears to me, that this single cir- 
 cumstance, that God is not the object of any one of 
 our senses, is abundantly compensated by the consid- 
 eration, that he is never absent from us ; that he com- 
 passeth continually our path and our lying down, and 
 that we cannot remove a step from the sphere of his 
 presence ; that every sigh, which escapes us, reaches 
 his ear, and not an affectionate movement springs up 
 in our hearts, to which he is not intuitively attentive. 
 The faintest glow of gratitude, which lights up the 
 countenance, shines before his eyes ; and the least 
 cloud of godly sorrow, which passes over the brow, 
 Sends its shade to the throne of God, encompassed 
 as it is with " undiminished brightness." Why, 
 however, is the affection of love toward infinite good- 
 ness more unintelligible, than that of fear toward in- 
 finite power ? A power unseen is commonly the more 
 dreadful from its obscurity. Why, too, should not the 
 other perfections of God, as well as his power, be the 
 objects of affections, refined into more sublimity and 
 purity, and wrought into higher force, under the chas- 
 tising influence of an all-pervading awe ? Let it not 
 be inferred from any of these remarks, that God is to 
 be loved, merely because he has been good to us, 
 or because his favour may be profitable to us here- 
 after. Affection is nothing, which rests not in its ob- 
 ject. Love of God, it is true, may be originally gen- 
 erated by acts of personal benefaction ; but he, whe 
 
248 
 
 loves his Creator, merely because he has considered 
 him as the source of all that he has yet enjoy ed, and 
 the security of all that he has yet to expect, loves 
 him not yet for himself alone. If the fig-tree should 
 not blossom, and there should be no fruit on the vine, 
 if the labour of the olive should fail, and the herd be 
 cut off from the stall, such a man loses all the conso- 
 lations of religion, and looks round in disappointment 
 for a resting place for his affections. His (rod beams 
 only In the sunshine ; clouds come over his prospect, 
 and, behold, his sun is set. No, christians, the love, 
 which God demands, is disinterested and supreme. 
 It sways the mingled crowd of the other affections, 
 and presides in the large assembly of the inclinations 
 of the heart. " The christian's love of God," says 
 Wilberforce, " is composed of admiration, of prefer- 
 ence, of hope, of trust, of joy, chastised by a rever- 
 ential awe, wakeful with continued gratitude." 
 
 But why is it, that, in religion alone, things spirit- 
 ual and invisible are to have no command over th& 
 affections ? Is not this theory perpetually disproved 
 by every observation of men's ruling passions ? The 
 metaphysician becomes extravagantly fond of his ob- 
 scure and lofty speculations. The mathematician is 
 in raptures with the beauty of a theorem, of which 
 the world sees nothing but the lines and angles. The 
 artist glows with imaginations of ideal beauty. The 
 man of taste has his fancies and his fondnesses, and 
 discerns and loves a thousand inexpressible delica- 
 cies, impalpable to ordinary minds. And has relig- 
 
249 
 
 ion nothing to elevate the soul, nothing to absorb the 
 thoughts, to summon the passions, to make men feel ? 
 Because God cannot be seen, shall he be therefore 
 excluded from our affections ? Because he is purity 
 and goodness, unmingled with the grossness of hu- 
 man nature, is the grandest object, on which our 
 minds can dwell, to be forever contemplated in dis- 
 tant, uninteresting speculation ? God is not to be lov- 
 ed ! Cold, calculating mortal, go with your theory 
 and your conclusions to the company of the worldly 
 projector ; unfold them to the plodding drudges of 
 avarice ; proclaim them in the haunts of men and wo- 
 men without souls, and in the dens of savage philoso- 
 phy. There they may listen to you. You have noth- 
 ing to do among christians. It is all absurdity U> 
 your ear, that God so loved the world, as to give his 
 only begotten and dearly beloved Son, that those 
 who believe on him should not perish, but have ev- 
 erlasting life. No doubt, in your estimation, Paul 
 was little short of a madman, when he exclaimed, I 
 am sure, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor 
 principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor 
 things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other 
 creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of 
 God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. 
 
 A more plausible objection to the admission of the 
 affections into religion arises from the enthusiasm, 
 to which they are said naturally to tend. Mysticism 
 and fanaticism have ever had their numerous and in- 
 sane admirers. I know, that some men are constitu- 
 32 
 
250 
 
 tionally apt to mistake their sensations for sentiments 
 of the heart, and love to feel, rather than to think : 
 men, to whom the fluctuations of their religions feel- 
 ings arc a kind of mercury to their religious improve- 
 ment. Indeed, it is one of the hardest problems of 
 religion, to define the sphere, or ascertain the extent, 
 of religious affections. Good men, who have seen 
 the heat of fanaticism generating in every soil a 
 thousand noxious weeds, and innumerable mush- 
 rooms of sanctity, which have perished almost as 
 soon as they appeared, have fled, perhaps too pre- 
 cipitately, to what has been called the frigid zone 
 of Christianity, where all is hard and frost-bound, 
 and even the light of the region seems reflected only 
 from snows, from which it plays without any joyous 
 warmth, or fertilizing influence. 
 
 But why should we perpetually resort to the old fal- 
 lacy of reasoning, from the abuse of what is good, to 
 its utter inutility? Is it the affections only, which are 
 liable to this corruption ? Is not every thing valuable in 
 human life exposed to grosser perversion, exactly in 
 proportion to its greater intrinsick worth ? What think 
 you of reasoning ? Has not that sure and celestial in- 
 strument of human instruction, as some would dignify 
 it, been often debased into the most wretched sophistry, 
 exerted in every possible form of fallacious deduc- 
 tion, and turned against the dearest interests and ex- 
 pectations of man ? Suppose you could convert Chris- 
 tianity into a mere system of metaphysicks, do you 
 think it would be more stable, or influential, or excel- 
 
351 
 
 lent ? Indeed, I think the abuses, to which our relig- 
 ion would then be exposed, would not be less deplor- 
 able, than those produced by the abuse of the affec- 
 tions, A sophism may be as fatal to the interests of 
 the soul, as a convulsion or a trauce ; and is sometimes 
 as rapid in its private circulation, as the progress of a 
 sigh or a groan through a fanatical assembly. 
 
 I may appeal to you, that I have never been the 
 advocate of what may be called the madness of sanc- 
 tity ; but, if Christianity is to exist at all, my friends, 
 let it exist with some vitality. Let us not substitute 
 in its place a senseless, motionless statue of marble, 
 however polished or welLproportioned. True, our re- 
 ligion is a religion for philosophers ; but it is a relig- 
 ion also for men, for poor and ignorant men. It provides 
 consolations, and joys, and hopes, as well as truths. 
 You may sit calmly in your closet, and smile at the 
 imagined raptures and holy musings, as you may call 
 them, of your less informed fellow christians. But 
 take care that the time do not come, when you may 
 envy them their feelings ; take care, that your philos- 
 ophy does not chill the last blood, that passes through 
 your heart. You may strive in vain to catch a breath 
 of enthusiasm, to buoy you up in the arms of death. 
 Your religion will not then first descend from the 
 head to the heart. You have disdained the aid of 
 the affections in religion, while your attention was en- 
 grossed in the affairs of the world, and you had 
 enough of occupation to keep you from too much in, 
 terest in the affairs of your soul. When you now 
 
H6% 
 
 find it vain to love the world any longer, when you., 
 find, that you cannot enjoy the fondness of your friends 
 but a few hours, the soul, astonished and alarmed, 
 looks round, as it departs, for an object for its affec- 
 tions. But in vain ! All before it is comfortless. Not 
 a hold has the fond heart of any thing in the immea- 
 surable void, which is deepening around it. God is its 
 judge, but it wants a friend. Jesus was called itf» 
 teacher, but the soul knows not how to embrace the 
 feet of its deliverer. 
 
 But it is still further objected, that the affections 
 are a fallacious test of religious worth ; that we ar& 
 in continual danger of mistaking the fervour of the 
 spirit for genuine love of God, and transitory move- 
 ments of the passions for internal principles of good- 
 ness. It is true, that the passions are an uncertain 
 guide in religion ; and the external and organical ex- 
 pressions of internal feelings are still more illusory. 
 But this is not less true of every other external indi- 
 cation of moral goodness. The only being, whom it 
 is finally important should not be deceived, cannot, 
 for a moment, be deluded by the most consummate 
 hypocrite, human or super-human. As to man, though 
 the assertion may appear extravagant, I hesitate not 
 to say, that we may be as easily deceived in the real 
 character of others, if we judge from their publick 
 and visible actions, as if we judged only from their 
 passionate emotions, or signs of high wrought enthu- 
 siasm. I am not more sure of the real internal worth 
 of the man, all whose conduct is regular and punctil- 
 
253 
 
 ious, without passions and without variations, than I 
 am of the enthusiastick and zealous christian. Un- 
 der the show of regularity, the former may conceal 
 a hard heart and a cunning hand. I am not more 
 sure of the piety of him, who regularly goes up to 
 the sanctuary, and, perhaps, dozes away his hour, or 
 statedly puts up a lifeless prayer at home, than of his, 
 whose zeal keeps him in the continual ardour of re- 
 ligious exercises, in publick and in private. Under 
 all this form of godliness there may be hid much 
 sanctimonious imposition. No, my friends, there is 
 no modification of human conduct, that may not de- 
 ceive us ; and as to self-deception, I know not wheth- 
 er the formal observance of external duty may not, 
 sometimes, delude us into greater errours with re- 
 spect to ourselves, and encourage a more dangerous 
 self-complacency, than the equivocal glow of the feel- 
 ings, and agitation of the nerves. Hence the objec- 
 tion, that the affections, in particular, are a fallacious 
 test of real holiness, is of inconsiderable consequence ; 
 but it is not of inconsiderable consequence to remem- 
 ber, that he may well be suspected, who, on every 
 other subject, is warm and impetuous, but in religion, 
 is indifferent and cold. That man may well be sus- 
 pected, who takes an active interest in every event 
 that transpires, is busy in every project that is un- 
 dertaken, but, in religion only, is idle, inattentive, 
 and incredulous. Such a man is not to plead, that his 
 feelings are not easily excited, or that his constitu- 
 tional temperament is lukewarm ; and one would 
 
254 
 
 think, that, if he were dead to every other sentiment, 
 the immense interest, which he himself has at stake in 
 eternity, and the still greater interest of a whole 
 world of living souls, to whom religion is all impor- 
 tant, would rouse every latent spark of passion in his 
 breast, and suffer him not to rest in the cause of God, 
 till the affections themselves were quenched in the 
 flood of death. 
 
 In what remains of this discourse we shall consider 
 the modifications, to which religious affections are 
 subject from various causes, and some of the means, 
 by which the affections are repressed and destroyed. 
 Though it appears from what has been said, that the 
 exercise of them constitutes a most important part of 
 the religious character, you cannot fail to have ob- 
 served, that, in men of apparently equal seriousness, 
 they discover themselves in very unequal degrees. 
 It is not always fair to conclude, that the highest 
 visible emotion indicates the highest degree of re- 
 ligious sensibility. Perhaps it may be rather con- 
 cluded, that men, in similar circumstances, and under 
 similar preparatory discipline, usually possess a more 
 equal degree of this sensibility, than is commonly im- 
 agined \ and that the difference between them is, 
 that some are cautious and reserved, others unguarded 
 and communicative, in the expression of it. The 
 causes, that modify the exercise of the affections in dif- 
 ferent minds, are extremely numerous, and some of 
 them we proceed to consider. 
 
255 
 
 1. The external exhibition of a man's religious 
 feelings depends much on his original temperament. 
 Some men are cautious and cool. They are ever on 
 their guard against the contagion of passion ; they re- 
 fuse to be wrought upon by eloquence, and are with 
 difficulty awakened by animated representation. Mod- 
 est and retiring in their dispositions, they love to con- 
 ceal the impressions, which they reeeive, and, particu- 
 larly in religion, they dread the eye of eurious obser- 
 vation. There are many men, whose ruling passion 
 and whose favourite bias you will hardly discover, 
 even after an intimate acquaintance. They never 
 thoroughly expose themselves, though there is noth- 
 ing in their hearts, which they should be ashamed to 
 unveil. I doubt not there are thousands, who practise, 
 in secret, exercises of devotion, of which the world 
 suspects nothing, and which, if it did suspect, it might 
 deride. Thousands, from timidity, or from indecision, 
 avoid those means of religious cultivation, which might 
 call forth more of their religion into publick view, than 
 they are willing to display. Would to Grod I could 
 believe this class to be more numerous, than that of 
 those, whose religious feelings are never to be recover- 
 ed from that flood of worldly and selfish pursuits, in 
 which they are forever overwhelmed ! — Others, of san- 
 guine temperament, are easily affected by the language 
 of feeling, and readily catch the tones of passion. They 
 love the sympathetick communion of souls ; and hasten 
 to kindle the torch of religious affection at every light, 
 which they discover in another. These are the first 
 
256 
 
 in every exercise of piety, and rush forward in every 
 project of benevolence. They seem to be destined, 
 in the arrangement of Providence, to serve as leaders 
 of his great purposes. They call forth the less sensi- 
 ble, and move the less active, who, sometimes, at last 
 outstrip their predecessors in the race, though they 
 themselves would never have started first in the course. 
 They can hardly tolerate any other, than an affection- 
 ate and tender mode of religious instruction. They 
 think, they have gained nothing, if they have not been 
 wrought into powerful emotion ; and suspect them- 
 selves of unfruitfulness, if they have not felt the dews 
 of divine grace sensibly descending on them. Thesa 
 men are easily seduced by novelty, and rush in- 
 stinctively towards the most ardent minds. They are 
 often imposed upon by the show of zeal in others ; and 
 are too apt to suspect a want of piety in those, who 
 fall below the actual temperature of their own feelings. 
 In short, when they are truly sincere, they are among 
 the best of christians ; but when disguised, or worldly 
 passions have mingled with their religious affections, 
 they are the most troublesome and dangerous of men. 
 
 2. The religious affections are also considerably 
 modified by the difference of the doctrines embraced. 
 Those, who consider the human race as originally 
 corrupt, as utterly lost in the depravity, which per- 
 vades their nature, are frequently plunged in the most 
 distressing anxiety, and humbled with an oppressive 
 sense of their inherent loathsomeness in the sight of a 
 God of purity and justice. Hence, as soon, as their 
 
257 
 
 minds are directed to other and more cheering truths, 
 as the benignity of Jesus and the fulness of God's 
 grace to the penitent, a light breaks in upon their 
 dark and dreary meditations. The change in their 
 feelings is entire. They exult in raptures of gratitude, 
 and triumph in the greatness of their deliverance. 
 Their previous conceptions of the character of God, 
 as a being of inflexible justice, form an inexpressible 
 contrast to their views of Jesus, who appears a minis- 
 tering angel of comfort, pardon, and grace. Their 
 religious life afterwards is made up of extreme fluctu- 
 ations of feeling, according to the views, which hap- 
 pen to predominate in their minds ; and, if they do 
 not fall into spiritual pride and self-complacency, they 
 preserve, through life, much of the enthusiasm, w hich 
 is inspired by the awfulness of some, and the sweetness 
 of others of their contemplations. Those men, on the 
 contrary, whose system excludes these views of hope- 
 less depravity, and who are fond of dwelling on the 
 benevolence of the divine character, are seldom hurri- 
 ed away by excessive transports, or overwhelmed 
 with the despondency of dread. Their affections are 
 habitually equable, usually reverent, seldom violent, 
 and sometimes cold. Their system, too, as far as it re- 
 spects the character and oflices of Jesus, leads them to 
 transfer more directly to God the Father many of those 
 affections, which other christians bestow almost exclu- 
 sively on the Son. Though they often feel the sublime 
 spirit of devotion, and rise on the wings Gf hope to 
 the abodes of unsullied perfection, yet they do not 
 33 
 
258 
 
 rise from such an abyss of wretchedness, as the oth- 
 ers, and they seldom sink again below the ordinary 
 level of human feelings. 
 
 3. The affections, also, are modified by the meta- 
 physical direction of religious inquirers. Some men 
 seem to find a substitute for the simple exercise of the 
 affections in a most intense application of the under- 
 standing ; and while the unlettered christian seeks, in 
 his frequent, but superficial contemplations, for a few 
 plain and striking truths, the abstruse inquirer is in- 
 volved in deep speculations, and finds an interest in 
 them, which is mistaken for religious affection. i( In- 
 deed, strong reasoning powers and quick feelings do 
 not often unite in the same person. Men of a seien- 
 tifick turn seldom lay their hearts open to impressions. 
 Previously biassed by their love of system, they do, 
 indeed, attend the offices of religion, but they dare not 
 trust themselves with the preacher, and are contin- 
 ually upon the watch to observe, whether every senti- 
 ment agrees with their own particular tenets."* 
 
 We pass over some other modifications of the re- 
 ligious affections, and would now attend to some of 
 the causes, which most effectually repress and ulti- 
 mately extinguish them. We would remark, by the 
 way, that the circumstances hitherto enumerated, 
 though sources of diversity in the manner of exercis- 
 ing religious affections, are by no means inconsistent 
 with them, by no means inconsistent with a supreme 
 love of God, genuine charity to men, deep interest in 
 
 * Mrs. Barbauld's Essay on Devotional Taste. 
 
259 
 
 the world to come, or with any of the secret joys or 
 sorrows of a serious mind. But there are pursuits of 
 life, and habits of mind, which repress, and others, 
 which utterly destroy the religious affections, which 
 freeze the current of the soul's best feelings, and 
 leave us but a name to live, while we are dead. 
 
 Among these last must be reckoned worldly and 
 avaricious pursuits. If any man love the world, the 
 love of the Father is not in him. There is not a 
 maxim in religion more sure in its application. An 
 excessive love of the gains of worldliness obscures all 
 the finest feelings of the heart, and incrusts all the 
 faculties and sentiments worthy of a rational, an im- 
 mortal soul. If a worldly man sometimes thinks of 
 God, as a personal benefactor, he can feel no compla- 
 cency in his character of universal and disinterested 
 good will. He has no place for what is sublime, 
 spiritual, and intellectual. When such a man attends 
 on the publick offices of devotion, he never resigns 
 himself to the impressions of awe and sanctity, which 
 belong to this place, nor does he open his heart to the 
 influences of piety. He is brooding over his disas- 
 ters, his gains, and his speculations. The regular 
 habits of business, or the moral sense remaining in 
 the community, keep such a man within the limits of 
 legal and honourable dealing. Beyond this sphere 
 his conscience never expatiates, it never inquires, and 
 seldom accuses him. With him gain is godliness. 
 His desires do not extend beyond this world's goods, 
 perishable as they are. In his retirement the pros- 
 
2(50 
 
 pects of new acquisitions are the only visions, which 
 float before his eyes. When he composes himself to 
 sleep, the last thought, which visits him, rises from the 
 earth, and drives away the shadowy forms of heavenly 
 things, which w ere gathering round his pillow. And, 
 if he commend himself to God, as soon as the formal 
 duty is done, Mammon springs upon his prey. 
 
 I say, then, the love of gain is encroaching and des- 
 potick ; and the longer it predominates, the more heart- 
 hardening is its influence. It checks every elastick 
 effort, which the soul makes toward heaven. It 
 makes a man unworthy of the very pleasures, he can 
 enjoy 5 and I know not a more dreadful punishment 
 for the mind, in which this principle reigns, than to 
 disclose to its view the joys above, which it cannot 
 reach, to give it a glimpse of satisfactions immortal 
 and uncorrupt, which it cannot relish, and then con- 
 demn it to the perpetual and grovelling labours of 
 avaricious and earthly pursuits. 
 
 Another destroyer of the religious affections, and 
 the last, which we mention, is the love of pleasure. 
 There are two classes of men, that are govern- 
 ed by the love of pleasure ; the gay and fickle, 
 who are ever lost in the rapid succession of amuse- 
 ments, and the sensual, who are forever plung- 
 ed in gross and criminal enjoyments. The time 
 and the passions of the former are all monopo- 
 lized. The ideas of God and of heaven will not har- 
 monize with the gay and busy spectacles, in which 
 they seek for satisfaction. The souls of such men 
 
261 
 
 revolt at the intrusion of religious ideas ; and the ex- 
 pectation of an approaching amusement chases away 
 the recollection of all that is serious. Abstract con- 
 templations and invisible things can have no charms 
 for the mind, which follows continually the ever- 
 changing figures of fashion 5 and such a mind must 
 be debilitated in all its powers, and lose even its ter- 
 restrial affections, by the fickleness and folly of all 
 its exercises. As it would be impossible for an as- 
 tronomer, to make any observation on the remote and 
 celestial luminaries, who should be gazing continual- 
 ly on the clouds, that flit across the sky, and noticing, 
 through his glass, the innumerable successive hues 
 which gild them, so the mind, that is pursuing the end- 
 less varieties of dissipation, knows nothing, thinks 
 nothing, and is interested in nothing, which is pure, 
 intellectual, and heavenly. 
 
 The love of sensual gratification is yet more de- 
 grading. All the passions of those who cherish 
 it seem to be converted into appetites ; all their 
 affections, into lusts. If religious feelings of a spu- 
 rious character unite, as they sometimes do, with 
 carnal passions, a most horrible and depraved com- 
 bination is formed, which brings disgrace upon the 
 holiest affections of the soul. No, christians, the love 
 of pleasure and the love of God are irreconcilable. 
 They are at continual war ; and they never can divide 
 the empire of the same breast. I shudder to think, 
 vain and profligate man, how far you are from the 
 temper of the gospel ! It appals me to imagine the 
 
262 
 
 sufferings, which will be necessary to bring vou even 
 to consideration. And how dreadful may be the dis- 
 cipline, which must bring your heart to enjoy a pure, 
 holy, and spiritual religion, God only knows. Will 
 you, then, continue to love supremely a world, which 
 will desert you? Will you loosely ramble on the 
 brink of perdition for the worthless flowers of plea- 
 sure, which you can gather there ? O sinner, think, 
 I beseech you, how fearful a thing it will be, to stand 
 before a God, w hom you have never loved ; to see a 
 Saviour, whom you have never deigned to honour, 
 and whom, by your conduct, you have treated with 
 every species of neglect and contumely. Remember, 
 senseless and brutal man, heaven is not a place for 
 earthly minds. If your affections have not been pla- 
 ced above, you will not find there a friend to wel- 
 come you ; you will not find a joy, which you can 
 taste, or a thought familiar and dear to your medita- 
 tions. Christians, I pray God, that your love may 
 abound yet more and more, in knowledge and in all 
 judgment, that ye may approve the things that are 
 excellent. 
 
SERMON XVI. 
 
 PROV. xxv. 28. 
 
 HE THAT HATH NO RULE OYER HIS OWN SPIRIT, IS LIKE A 
 CITY THAT IS BROKEN DOWN, AND WITHOUT WALLS. 
 
 NO man can be said to have attained complete 
 rule over his own spirit, who has not under his habit- 
 ual control the tenour of his thoughts, the language 
 of his lips, the motions of lust and appetite, and the 
 energy of his passions. This shows you at once the 
 extent, and the division of our subject. By its ex- 
 tent you will immediately perceive, that it excludes 
 from the praise of self-command much of what passes 
 in the world for great moderation. There are many 
 men of such stagnant and heavy tempers, that no ir- 
 ritation can provoke them, and no injuries rouse them 
 to resentment ; men, who are never thrown off their 
 guard by rage, and yet indulge with much compla- 
 cency in all the grossness of animal pleasure, and 
 resign themselves* soul, spirit, and body, to the 
 tyranny of sensuality, intemperance, and lust. To 
 compliment such men with the praise of self-mastery 
 would be absurd 5 yet this virtue is, in general, sup. 
 
264 
 
 posed to consist in the mere suppression of anger. 
 There are others, who seem to have established a 
 perfect control of the tongue, that little member, 
 which setteth on fire the course of things ; men guard- 
 ed in speech, careful of olFence, using knowledge 
 aright, who yet secretly cherish a spirit of uncxtiu- 
 guishable resentment, and take no pains to conquer a 
 passion, which they find it so easy to silence. There 
 are others, who exhibit the utmost modesty of speech, 
 temperance of appetites, and gentleness of passions, 
 who yet indulge the wildest rovings of thought, and 
 expatiate in the vainest reveries of an undisciplined 
 imagination. Let us then consider the several prov- 
 inces of self-government. And 
 
 1. The government of the thoughts. After all that 
 has been written and recommended on the subject of 
 self-command, the regulation of the thoughts has 
 seldom drawn the attention of moralists. The imagi- 
 nation is supposed to be a faculty, which is not to be 
 controlled, or directed. As our thoughts cannot be 
 discerned by others, nor their habitual current deter- 
 mined by exteriour observation, they do not enter into 
 the estimate made of our characters by the world, 
 and are, therefore, unregarded in our judgment of 
 ourselves. On the authority of silly maxims, like 
 these, that thought is free as air, that no one can help 
 what he thinks, innumerable hours are wasted in idle 
 reveries, without the hearing of censure or the sus- 
 picion of blame. But when we consider, how great a 
 portion, even of the most active and busy life, must 
 
205 
 
 unavoidably be spent in thinking, and that complete 
 inactivity is a state of mind unknown, even to the 
 most sluggish of our race, the employment of the 
 thoughts rises into unexpected importance, and con- 
 stitutes no inconsiderable trait of character. The 
 time, which we fondly supposed to be merely wasted 
 in doing nothing, may have been busily employed in 
 mischievous imaginations, and thus, what was con- 
 sidered as lost simply, is found to have been abused* 
 When we reflect, also, that every licentious princi* 
 pie, every criminal project, and every atrocious deed> 
 is the fruit of a distempered fancy, w hose rovings 
 were originally unchecked, till thoughts grew into 
 desires, desires ripened into resolves, and resolves 
 terminated in execution, well may we tremble at dis- 
 covering, how feeble is the control over our imagina- 
 tions, which we have hitherto acquired. If we were 
 asked, in the solemn language of the prophet, how 
 long shall your vain thoughts lodge within you, few 
 of us, it is feared, could return a satisfactory answer. 
 
 It is, indeed, to be lamented, that our rules of vice 
 and virtue are applied so seldom to what passes with- 
 in ourselves. Others must form their judgments of 
 us from our actions and words only, but not so should 
 we form our judgments of ourselves. The indul- 
 gence of a loose imagination is not a crime cogniza- 
 ble by the world, till it has betrayed itself in conver- 
 sation, in writing, or in action. Thus, what others 
 cannot censure, because they cannot know, we forget 
 to estimate, or are afraid to examine, till correction is 
 34 
 
266 
 
 hopeless and impracticable. To suppress a rash 
 speech, or curb a craving appetite, is sometimes at- 
 tempted with success ; but who ever thinks of check- 
 ing a rising thought, or reining in a headstrong fan- 
 cy ? Who voluntarily draws off his attention from a 
 seducing subject, or resolves to think no more of a 
 favourite project, lest his imagination should lead him 
 astray, lest his principles should be polluted, his tem- 
 per injured, or his time wasted? Eat out of the heart, 
 says our Saviour, proceed evil thoughts, murders, 
 adulteries, fornications, thefts, false- witness, blasphe- 
 mies. At the head of this formidable enumeration 
 are placed evil thoughts, the invisible, airy precursors 
 of all the storms and tempests of the soul ; and it 
 would be no less absurd to use no precaution against 
 the violence of the wind, because its motion is invisi- 
 ble, than to take no care of our thoughts, because 
 their operations are unseen, and their tenour unmark- 
 ed by others. 
 
 We do not say, that he, whose head teems with 
 foolish fancies, is as reprehensible, as he who vents 
 his folly in conversation, or who spreads it over the 
 pages of a book ; or that he, who suffers his imagina- 
 tion to dwell on impure ideas, or to portray licentious 
 images, is guilty of a crime, as heinous as that of 
 the wretch, who endeavours to inflame the lusts, or 
 violate the purity of the innocent. We do not say, 
 that Caesar, brooding over his schemes of ambition in 
 his tent, was as guilty as Caesar passing the Rubicon, 
 and turning his arms against his country ; but we do 
 
267 
 
 say, that licentiousness of thought ever precedes li- 
 centiousness of conduct ; and that many a crime, which 
 stains the page of human nature, was generated in 
 the retirement of the closet, in the hours of idie and 
 listless thought, perhaps over the pages of a poison- 
 ous book, or during the contemplation of a licentious 
 picture. 
 
 The hints, which we have now suggested, as to the 
 importance of restraining the imagination, cannot be 
 deemed improper in an age, of which it is the mis- 
 fortune, to be inundated with books, whose smallest 
 fault is their stupidity, and whose only permanent 
 influence, where they have any, tends to pollute all 
 the sources of reflection, to fill the fancy with figures 
 unlike any thing in real life, the understanding with 
 principles inapplicable, doubtful, or dangerous, and 
 the heart with hopes, that it would be folly to realize, 
 with wishes, w hich it would be ruin to gratify. The 
 imagination, when completely distempered, is the 
 most incurable of all disordered faculties. Watch, 
 then, its first wanderings, and remember, that you 
 have made little progress in the government of your- 
 selves, if your thoughts disdain your control. Re- 
 member, also, that, when the thoughts are under hab- 
 itual restraint, the government of the tongue, the ap- 
 petites and passions easily follows. 
 
 2. The second -branch of self-command is, the 
 government of the tongue. If any man offend not in 
 word, the same is a perfect man. This will not ap- 
 pear an extravagant assertion, when we consider how 
 
268 
 
 numerous are the vices, in which this little member 
 takes an active part ; that it is this, which wearies us 
 with garrulity, defames us with calumny, deceives us 
 with falsehood ; and that, but for this, we should be no 
 more offended with obsceneness, shocked with oaths, 
 or overpowered with scandalous abuse. Well might 
 the apostle write, if any man among you seem to be 
 religious, and bridleth not his tongue, that man's re- 
 ligion is vain. 
 
 If we consider these vices of the tongue in the or- 
 der of their enormity, we shall see how easily one 
 generates another. Talkativeness, the venial offspring 
 of a lively, not to say an unrestrained fancy, hardly 
 rises to a fault, till it is found, that he, who talks in- 
 cessantly, must often talk foolishly, and that the prat- 
 tle of a vain and itching tongue degenerates rapidly 
 into that foolish talking and jesting, which, as an 
 apostle says, are not convenient. Loquacity is for- 
 ward and assuming, and soon becomes tiresome. 
 The story, a thousand times told, loses, at last, its hu- 
 mour ; and a jest, a thousand times repeated, is de- 
 spoiled of its point, and palls upon the ear. Some- 
 thing must then be found to revive flagging attention ; 
 and what is so universally interesting as slander? 
 The faults of our neighbour are then dressed up in 
 all the charms of exaggeration ; and the interest of a 
 description is found to be amazingly heightened by a 
 stroke of ridicule, or a tinge of sarcasm. In a list- 
 ening audience, at every new calumny passed upon 
 another's reputation, some one is found, whose fancied 
 
269 
 
 credit revives, and rises on its ruins in all the lustre 
 of comparison. The tongue then riots in its new 
 privilege, till, at length, " at every word a reputation 
 dies." All this may be done without deliberate ma- 
 lignity, and without violation of truth ; because, to 
 speak evil of most men, it is not necessary to speak 
 falsehood, and to pour contempt upon another, it is 
 not necessary to hate or to abhor him. Remember, 
 then, that the tongue must be sometimes restrained, 
 even in uttering truth. To justify a froward mouth by 
 a zeal for truth, is commonly to assign, as a previous 
 motive, what occurred only as an after apology. As 
 we may flatter by an unseasonable and lavish expres- 
 sion of merited approbation, so we may calumniate 
 by an incautious and unrestrained disclosure of real 
 defects. A word spoken in due season, how good is 
 it ! — but remember, that death and life are in the pow- 
 er of the tongue, and the tongue of the wise only 
 useth knowledge aright. Thus far the unguarded 
 talker, we observe, may have proceeded without mis- 
 representation, and without mischievous intention ; 
 but he, whose vanity has been long flattered by the 
 attention of an audience, will not easily relinquish 
 the importance he has acquired in particular circles, 
 or see, without uneasiness, that interest decline, which 
 his company has been accustomed to excite. Hence, 
 as the stock of scandalous truths is exhausted, fiction 
 lends her aid ; and he, who was before only a prater, 
 a jester, or a tattler, degenerates into a liar, who en- 
 tertains hy falsehood, and a calumniator, who lives 
 
270 
 
 by abuse ; and instances are not unfrequent of men, 
 whose moral sense, by a process similar to this, has 
 become so entirely obscured or corrupted, that they 
 will utter falsehoods with the most unconcious rapidi- 
 ty, and the most unreflecting indifference. Such are 
 the habits, which follow, in alarming progression, 
 from an unrestrained indulgence of the tongue. Is 
 not the danger formidable enough to induce us to say, 
 1 am purposed, that my mouth shall not transgress : 
 1 will take heed to my ways, that I sin not with my 
 tongue. 
 
 The catalogue of sins is not completed. Impurity 
 and profaneness are not far behind. The first, in- 
 deed, bespeaks such grossness of vice, and the latter, 
 such thoughtless impiety, that we presume it is almost 
 superfluous to denounce them in this state of society, 
 and from this place of religious instruction. If, for 
 every idle, unprofitable, false or calumniating word, 
 w hich men shall speak, they shall give an account 
 in the day of judgment, what account shall those 
 men render, whose conversation first polluted the 
 pure ear of childhood, first soiled the chastity and 
 whiteness of the young imagination, whose habitual 
 oaths first taught the child to pronounce the name of 
 God without reverence, or to imprecate curses on his 
 mates with all the thoughtlessness of youth, but with 
 all the passion and boldness of manhood ? 
 
 Who then is a wise man, and endued with knowl- 
 edge among you ? Let him show, out of a good con- 
 versation, his w T ords with meekness of wisdom ; for 
 
271 
 
 by thy words shalt thou be justified, and by thy words 
 shalt ihou be condemned. 
 
 3. We proceed to the third branch of self-com- 
 mand, the government of the animal appetites. Dear- 
 ly beloved, I beseech you, abstain from fleshly lusts, 
 which war against the soul. For how humiliating is 
 the consideration, enough, indeed, to make us weep 
 with shame, that man, the noblest work of God on 
 earth, the lord of this lower world, whose spirit the 
 pure breath of omnipotence breathed forth, whose un- 
 derstanding was formed to grasp at unlimited im- 
 provement, and enabled to rise, and purify, and spirit- 
 ualize, as it enlarged — that this noble creature should 
 suifer himself to fall into the hands of the grovelling 
 mob of appetites, and to be fettered by base lusts, 
 which ought to be his slaves — that this ethereal spir- 
 it should be wasted in the service of sensuality, and 
 this intelligence, capable of mounting to heaven, be 
 sunk and buried in the slime and pollution of gross 
 and brutal pleasures. When you look around you, 
 then, and see, on every side, how vast is the number 
 of immortal souls, chained to earth, and lost to heaven, 
 how deeply deplorable is the sight ? Will you di- 
 rect your observation to the lower classes of society ? 
 There may you see intemperance boasting of its vic- 
 tims. You see limbs enfeebled, and faculties cloud- 
 ed with intoxication. You meet, at every turn, the 
 ruins of robustness ; and of understanding you hardly 
 discern the parting vestiges. Will you ascend to the 
 rich and more polished classes of society ? You see 
 
luxury in the room of intemperance, and a refined 
 epicurism taking the place of vulgar sensuality. In- 
 stead of intoxication, stretched on a pallet of straw, 
 you see repletion, reposing on a bed of down. In- 
 stead of an appetite, craving for its burning draught of 
 daily poison, you see a fastidious taste, nicely dis- 
 criminating flavours, and pronouncing upon delica- 
 cies, a sated palate, longing for variety, and rejecting 
 it, as soon as offered. Instead of the reeling of vul- 
 gar drunkenness, you see sluggish bodies, bloated by 
 habitual excess, or else pining away in the midst of 
 luxury and abundance, till sickness imposes too late 
 the restraints, which reason could not enforce, or sud- 
 den death snatches his gorged and swollen victim 
 from the very table of his revels. 
 
 But to descant on the evils of an intemperate indul- 
 gence of lust and appetite, is, perhaps, useless. In- 
 stances are numerous within every one's observation, 
 and admonitions are to be found in the page of every 
 moralist. The most frequent operation of unrestrain- 
 ed desires discovers itself in an inordinate pursuit of 
 pleasure, or what is, with great significancy, called, 
 in modern times, dissipation. To analyze this species 
 of pleasure, is almost impossible. It is the well- 
 known tyrant of modern society, the idol of restless 
 and unoccupied minds. The inquiry of its nume- 
 rous votaries is not, what shall we eat, or what 
 shall we drink, but wherewithal shall we be clothed ? 
 Who will show us any new good ? Who will invent 
 for us a new pleasure ? Who will rid us of the irk- 
 
£73 
 
 some task of thinking? Who will snatch us from the 
 horrours of solitude, and the pain of obscurity, and 
 kindly transport us to some busy scene of untried 
 amusement ? This disposition for perpetual dissipa- 
 tion, when exhibited in its excess, may be called 
 father a madness, than a passion. To say, that its un- 
 happy votaries are lovers of pleasure, more than lov- 
 ers of God, seems to be a description, which falls far 
 short of the extremity of their case. They are lovers 
 of pleasure, which has no definite object ; slaves of 
 restive desires, which fix on nothing. They ex- 
 hibit pitiable spectacles of wishes never satisfied. 
 They stand as awful examples of self-anarchy and 
 internal misrule. Their thoughts, their time, and 
 even their passions, are lost in the whirl of endless 
 dissipation. 
 
 4. But let us leave these mournful examples of the 
 degradation of our nature, and proceed to the last 
 branch of self-command, which we proposed to con- 
 sider, the government of the passions. Not to be in 
 a passion, is generally the amount of the notion, which 
 the world entertains of self-command. But, excellent 
 as is this attainment, we conceive, that it embraces 
 but a part only of that extensive rule, which the 
 christian is expected to maintain over his own spirit. 
 In the broad scheme of gospel ethieks, the opposite 
 to anger is meekness ; and meekness is no narrow or 
 superficial virtue. It is a grace, which receives little 
 of the applauses of the world ; a grace, which Jesus 
 
S74 
 
 alone inculcated, and w hich no philosopher of ancient 
 times seems to have understood, or recommended. 
 
 The meek man of the gospel is the very reverse 
 of those, who act the most bustling and noisy part on 
 the theatre of human life. He finds himself in a 
 world, where he will be oftener called to suffer, than 
 to act. He is not ambitious, because he sees little 
 here worth ambition. Humility is the gentle and se- 
 cret stream, which runs through his life, and waters 
 all his virtues. To the government of the passions, 
 the principal prerequisite is the restriction of the de- 
 sires ; therefore, as he expects little from the world, 
 he will not often quarrel with it for the treatment he 
 receives. In short, the meek man of scripture con- 
 siders himself placed here, not in a state of enjoy- 
 ment, but of trial ; and to be passionately fond of 
 pleasures, which are insecure, or to be passionately 
 disturbed at injuries, equally transitory, seems to him 
 utterly unworthy of a being, destined soon to leave 
 this scene of rebuffs and disappointments, and capa- 
 ble of existing forever in a region of immortality and 
 peace. Finding himself, at present, in a state full of 
 jarring elements, and of violent changes, the sunshine, 
 which is frequently interrupted without him, he en- 
 deavours to preserve in mild lustre within his own 
 breast. No dark clouds of discontent, no storms and 
 whirlwinds of passion deform the serenity of his 
 mind. Where others are transported, he is calm ; 
 where they are restless, he is patient ; where they 
 
275 
 
 arc passion ate, rude and unforgiving, he is mild, 
 peaceable, full of mercy, and reconciliation. His 
 control of his passions is not so much the result of 
 any present and strong resolution, as of the general 
 temper of his mind. When he is reviled, he reviles 
 not again, because he feels no disposition to revile. 
 When he suffers, he threatens not, because the style 
 of threatening is, to him, an unknown tongue. He has 
 been accustomed to commit his cause to him, that 
 judgeth righteously. How equable is the career of 
 meekness ! How easily sits upon the meek man the 
 government of his passions ! How gracefully does he 
 sway his sceptre ! He is not in perpetual danger of 
 suffering from excess, he is not obliged unceasingly to 
 watch, and curb, and rein in a wild and headstrong 
 spirit ; but his course through life, is gentle and se- 
 cure, as it tends to that peaceful bourne, where he will 
 find quietness and assurance forever. 
 
 How unlike this the spirit of the times ! How little 
 does this temper consist with a state of passions in 
 constant turmoil, with provocations ever recurring, and 
 quarrels hardly appeased ; a state marked with inces- 
 sant agitation of the spirits, and feverish sensibility to 
 injury or insult ! A meek man in this world of our's is 
 hardly acknowledged by his species. For what shall 
 he do in a society, w here to kindle with resentment, 
 is spirited and noble ; and to retaliate an affront, is 
 the dictate of honour? What shall he do in a world 
 of restless beings, where some are climbing after dan- 
 gerous power 5 others labouring for wealth, which 
 
276 
 
 never satisfies ; others dissolved in pleasure, which 
 gradually destroys ? Where shall the meek pupil of 
 Jesus hide, in this bustle of contending passions and 
 unrestrained pursuits ? He will find, alas, that this is 
 not the place of his abode. He must live above the 
 world, while he lives in it, that he may breathe a 
 purer and a calmer air. From this elevated retirement, 
 look, christian, with steadfast eye on the author and 
 finisher of your faith. He was not of the world. 
 And why ? Not because he was in the form of God ; 
 but because he could assume the form of a servant, 
 and wash the feet of his disciples ; because he could 
 refuse the offer of royalty, bear indignity without re- 
 sentment, and become obedient unto death, despising 
 the shame, even of the cross itself. Surely it is little 
 to expect of the servants of such a master, that they 
 should at least be angry and sin not, that they should 
 be slow to speak and slow to wrath, in the midst of 
 a hasty and irritable generation ; for he that is slow 
 to anger, is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth 
 his spirit, than he that taketh a city. 
 
 Thus have we attempted, cursorily, to review four 
 branches of self-government, the control of the 
 thoughts, of the tongue, of the appetites, and of the 
 passions. We have seen, that, when unrestrained, 
 they become the most dangerous of tyrants. We 
 have seen, that their first excesses must be resisted, 
 and even lawful indulgences denied them, if we would 
 escape being brought under their power. 
 
277 
 
 But, we doubt not, it will be said by those, who 
 have never thought of cheeking a wish, or controlling 
 a passion, which ever arose in their hearts, that the 
 restrictions we impose are too severe ; that they can- 
 not be maintained, but with much trouble and self- 
 denial 5 and that, if strictly enforced, they would sub- 
 tract too much from the sum of human enjoyment, 
 during the hasty term of a frail life. To attempt to 
 prove, after so many instructers, philosophers and di- 
 vines, that no substantial enjoyment is lost, nor tha 
 real sum of sublunary happiness diminished by these 
 salutary restraints, would be tedious, if it w T ere not 
 superfluous ; for, to show the misery of unrestrained 
 indulgence, we have only to ask, what can exceed in 
 wretchedness the inquietude of the revengeful, the 
 pains and diseases of the sensualist, the perpetual 
 w r eariness of the slave of dissipated pleasures, or the 
 gnawing remorse of the man, who has indulged him- 
 self in rash and bitter speeches, which he cannot 
 retract. 
 
 But let us grant, that self-denial is as painful, as it 
 has been falsely represented. Let us grant, that the 
 government of ourselves is a work, which requires un- 
 interrupted labour and unpleasant attention. Is this 
 uttered as a complaint by one, who, as a follower of 
 Jesus, has virtually professed to deny himself? Are 
 w T e to profess the most pure and holy religion, which 
 the goodness of God ever granted to mortals, without 
 a single distinguishing mark of our privilege ? Shall 
 all the religions, which imposture and superstition have 
 
278 
 
 in every age established, be able to impose penances, 
 on their disciple, to encourage mortifications 01 the 
 flesh, to require sacrifices of pleasure, and even mar- 
 tyrdom of life ; and cannot the system of the gospel lay 
 a restraint, which will hold, or obtain the sacrifice of 
 a passion, a lust, or a pleasure, worth retaining ? It 
 has been well observed, that, " if Christianity requires 
 from its votaries a higher degree of purity, and a strict- 
 er command over the passions, than any other reli- 
 gion, it has a right so to do ; because it affords pro- 
 portionably greater helps towards accomplishing that 
 great work, and a proportionably greater prize to re- 
 compense the labour. For, however severe this strug- 
 gle with our appetites may be to us, and severe 
 enough, God knows, it sometimes is, yet it is our com- 
 fort, that, if we endure to the end, these light afflictions, 
 which are but for a moment, shall work for us a far 
 more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'** 
 
 This suggests another consideration to enforce our 
 subject. Is it possible, that he can complain of the 
 restraints, which Christianity imposes, who has ever 
 heard of the rewards, which it promises ? How elo- 
 quent, upon this subject, is the apostle of the Gentiles ! 
 Know ye not, says he to the Corinthians, in whose 
 sight w ere annually exhibited the celebrated Isthmian 
 games, know ye not, that they, which run in a race, 
 run all, but one receiveth the prize ? Even in these 
 races, every man, that striveth for the mastery, is tem- 
 perate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a cor 
 
 • Bp. Porteus, Vol. II. p. 286. 
 
279 
 
 ruptible crown ; but we, an incorruptible. I, there- 
 fore, so run, not as uncertainly ; so fight I, not as one 
 that beateth the air ; but I keep under my body, and 
 bring it into subjection, lest that, by any means, when 
 I have preached to others, I myself should be a cast- 
 away. Pursuing, then, the apostle's reasoning, let 
 us ask, if the incorruptible crown of heaven is to be 
 attained without an effort, or is unworthy of one? 
 Are the pure joys of a future state to he grafted, think 
 you, on the sensual indulgences of the present ; and, 
 while, with one hand, we cling to the delights of the 
 world, can we stretch out the other, and lay hold of 
 eternal life? It is absurd and impious to suppose, 
 that such rewards are to be attained without a sacri- 
 fice ; and think you, that you can merit them by those 
 petty self-denials, which may, perhaps, have forced 
 themselves upon you in the course of your vocations ? 
 At the approach of indisposition, you may have sub- 
 mitted to short restraints upon your appetites ; in obe- 
 dience to the forms of polite intercourse, you may have 
 controlled your boisterous passions ; on the death of a 
 friend, you may have slackened your career of dissi- 
 pation ; in the presence of a superiour, you may have 
 suppressed intemperate language, and checked the 
 oath just escaping from your lips. And for these 
 petty victories do you expect the wreath of honour ? 
 Are these the afflictions, which are to w ork out for 
 you a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory ? 
 Indeed, the disproportion is too serious. God grant, 
 that, when we have offered to bear the cross of his Son, 
 
280 
 
 we may not be secretly endeavouring to ease ourselves 
 of its weight. 
 
 Finally, my friends, those of you, who are now fight- 
 ing manfully the good fight of faith, be of good courage. 
 The contest will soon be over. The struggle with 
 passion, though here not completely successful, shall 
 be crowned with victory hereafter in the regions of 
 everlasting peace, where no insolence affronts, and no 
 revenge pursues. The baser appetites, which, even in 
 the best of men, sometimes retain an unhallowed force, 
 shall lose their office in a world inhabited by pure in- 
 telligences, and their power in bodies refined and 
 spiritualized at the resurrection of the just. The 
 tongue, that unruly member, shall not wander from 
 the praises of its author ; and the imagination shall be 
 employed on those subjects of celestial contemplation, 
 which at once fill and surpass the conceptions of man, 
 such as eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, and it 
 hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive. 
 
 God grant, that we, who have this hope in us, may 
 purify ourselves, even as Grod is pure. 
 
SERMON XVII. 
 
 1 COR. xi. 31, 
 
 IF WE WOULD JUDGE OURSELVES, WE SHOULD NOT BE 
 JUDGED. 
 
 NO action, sentiment, or occurrence is presented 
 to the human mind, on which it forms not some kind 
 of judgment. The multitude of objects, over which 
 the mind ranges, is innumerable ; and the extent of 
 human comprehension, though not infinite, is at least 
 undefinable. All that earth, air, seas, and skies con- 
 tain, submit themselves to man's investigation. The 
 heavenly bodies appear to come down, and offer them- 
 selves to the inspection of the inhabitant of this little 
 planet ; the records of time unrol themselves to the 
 observation of this creature of threescore years ; he 
 looks from his narrow chamber on the manners and 
 inhabitants of the remotest regions ; nay more, he 
 seems to explore futurity, to converse with the world 
 of spiritual existences, and ascend in contemplation to 
 the throne of God. In this mighty range of thought, 
 next to that great Being, who fills, embraces, and 
 sustains the whole, the most interesting object of 
 36 
 
282 
 
 speculation is the human mind ; and to every individ- 
 ual, his own mind is an object, in comparison with 
 which every other is unimportant. But the knowl- 
 edge of one's self, though so interesting, is not an 
 easy acquisition ; and to pass a strictly unbiassed 
 judgment on our own character, is an act of impar- 
 tiality, of which the records of the human mind never 
 have furnished, and, probably, never will furnish an 
 example. 
 
 The duty of self-knowledge is one of those few, 
 Which the heathens estimated according to its impor- 
 tance. To the precept, know thyself, they ascribed, 
 with no great propriety, a heavenly origin ; for there 
 is no one, whose utility unassisted reason sooner dis- 
 covers. The passages, also, in scripture, which urge 
 this personal virtue, are numerous, pointed, weighty. 
 We are taught its value, sometimes by direct injunc- 
 tion, sometimes by interesting narrative ; we gather 
 it, in one place, from the prayers of the pious ; in an- 
 other, from their expressions of regret; and in another, 
 from the examples of their presumptuous confidence. 
 When we read the parable of the ewe lamb, by which 
 the holy prophet taught the monarch of Israel the 
 enormity of his guilt, w ho marks not the wretched 
 blindness of the royal scholar, who suspected not his 
 own character, till the fearless Nathan exclaimed, 
 Thou art the man ? Hear, too, the aspiring Hazael, 
 when the prophet warned him of his guilty usurpa- 
 tion : Is thy servant a dog, says he, that he should 
 do this ? Who weeps not, too, when he finds the ar- 
 
283 
 
 dent, but too confident, Peter, declaring, Though I 
 should die with thee, yet will I not deny thee ? Yes, 
 Peter, you will deny him once, twice, thrice, even 
 within the reach of that eye, which, while it tells 
 you, that you are forgiven, teaches you more of your- 
 self, than you ever yet have known. 
 
 If we would judge ourselves, we should not be 
 judged. Let us consider the difficulty, the advan- 
 tages, and the means of forming a correct estimate of 
 ourselves. The portions of our character, which it 
 most concerns us to understand aright, are, the extent 
 of our powers, and the motives of our conduct. But, 
 on these subjects, every thing conspires to deceive us. 
 No man, in the first place, can come to the examina- 
 tion of himself with perfect impartiality. His wishes 
 are all necessarily engaged on his own side ; and 
 though he may place the weights in the balance with 
 perfect fairness and accuracy, he places them in scales 
 unequally adjusted. He is, at once, the criminal, the 
 accuser, the advocate, the witness, and the ju:lge. 
 
 Another difficulty, which prevents our passing a 
 correct judgment on our own characters, is, that we 
 can always find excuses for ourselves, which no other 
 person can suspect. The idea of possessing an ex- 
 cuse, which it would be improper to communicate to 
 others, is consolatory beyond expression. Frivolous 
 as the apology may be, it appears satisfactory, be- 
 cause, while no one knows its existence, no one can 
 dispute its value. From repeated failures in any un- 
 dertaking few men learn their own incapacity : be- 
 
284 
 
 cause success depends upon such a concurrence of 
 circumstances, minute as they are numerous, that it is 
 much easier to lament the blameless omission of some- 
 thing, which would have ensured success, than to 
 look full in the face our own deficiencies. It is the 
 same with the opinions we form of our moral worth. 
 The motives, which cooperate in producing almost 
 every action, are so various and almost impercepti- 
 ble, that, in contemplating our conduct, we can select 
 those that are honourable, and assign them that in- 
 fluence afterwards, which they ought to have had 
 before. By frequently defending, also, the purity of 
 our motives, we learn, at last, to believe, that they 
 are precisely what they ought to be ; and mistake 
 the eloquence of self-apology for the animation of 
 conscious integrity. 
 
 Another, and very essential cause^ of our ignorance 
 of ourselves, is, that few men venture to inform us of 
 our real character. We are flattered, even from our 
 cradles. The caresses of parents, and the blandish- 
 ments of friends, transmute us into idols. A man 
 must buffet long with the world, ere he learns to esti- 
 mate himself, according to his real importance in so- 
 ciety. He is obliged to unlearn much of what he has 
 been told by those, who, in flattering him, have long 
 been used to flatter themselves. And when, at last, 
 lie learns to compare himself with others, to correct 
 his false estimates, and to acquiesce in the rank, 
 which society assigns him, he is assisted, not by the 
 kind admonitions of friends, not by the instructions 
 
285 
 
 of those, who take an affectionate interest in his char- 
 acter ; but he must gather it from the cold indifference 
 of some, from the contempt and scorn of others ; he 
 must be taught it by the bitterness of disappointment, 
 and the rudeness of superiority, or the smiles of exult- 
 ing malice. 
 
 This leads us to the last difficulty, which we shall 
 mention, as preventing our forming a correct estimate 
 of our own characters. We fondly imagine, that no 
 one can know us as well, as we know ourselves ; and 
 that every man is interested to depreciate, even when 
 he knows, the worth of another. Hence, when re- 
 proved, we cannot admit, that Ave have acted amiss. 
 It is much more easy to conclude, that we have been 
 misrepresented by envy, or misunderstood by preju- 
 dice, than to believe in our ignorance, incapacity, or 
 guilt. Nothing, also, more directly tends to swell 
 into extravagance a man's opinion of his moral or in- 
 tellectual worth, than to find, that his innocence has, 
 in any instance, been falsely accused, or his powers 
 inadequately estimated. In short, unless a person 
 has been long accustomed to compare himself with 
 others, to scrutinize the motives of his conduct, to 
 meditate on the occurrences of his life, to listen to, 
 nay, evea to court the admonitions of the wise and 
 good, and to hearken to the language of calumny it- 
 self, he may pass through life intimate with every 
 heart, but that which beats in his own bosom, a 
 stranger in no mansion so much as his own breast. 
 
286 
 
 Notwithstanding the difficulties, which oppose 
 themselves to the forming of an impartial judgment 
 of ourselves, a good degree of self-knowledge, how- 
 ever, is not unattainable. When we shall have con- 
 sidered, secondly, its advantages, perhaps we shall 
 be encouraged to enter with vigour on this new course 
 of study. You may, at first, find the investigation 
 difficult. You will, no doubt, make many unpleasant 
 discoveries. Entering on a region, which you have 
 never explored, a full prospect of your heart, if it 
 could be presented at one view, must surprize and 
 appal you. But proceeding, step by step, in the sur- 
 vey, though you will find, at first, many dark and 
 narrow defiles, many hidden and dangerous pit-falls, 
 many spectacles of unexpected deformity, yet, if you 
 regularly, carefully, and perseveringly pursue the 
 investigation of yourself, the prospect will, at last, 
 brighten, the region will become more open and level, 
 and your progress, at last, smooth, easy, and delight- 
 ful. To encourage you, then, in this inspection of 
 yourselves, we observe, 
 
 1. That an intimate knowledge of ourselves is 
 absolutely necessary to the security and improve- 
 ment of our virtue and holiness. It is true, that 
 a good man may be ignorant of his own comparative 
 worth ; but no good man is ignorant of his own ab- 
 solute defects. He, who is unacquainted with those 
 portions of his character, in which reformation is most 
 needed, will never make any progress in virtue, for 
 
287 
 
 empty wishes and indefinite desires of improvement 
 alone cannot make us better. To be stationary in re- 
 ligion, morals, knowledge or capacity is impossible ; 
 and the character, which does not improve, will infal- 
 libly degenerate. If, then, you would secure the con- 
 quests, which, with the blessing of God, you may 
 have already attained over the enemies of your vir- 
 tue, you must endeavour to place a guard at every 
 gate, a sentinel in every watch-tower ; you must visit 
 all the weak places of your hearts, mark them, and 
 place there a stronger force ; you must be aware of ev- 
 ery stratagem, and watchful of every symptom of de- 
 fection, or remissness, 
 
 2. The knowledge of ourselves would preserve us 
 from much of the calumny, the censure, and the con- 
 tempt of others. If we would judge ourselves, we 
 should not be judged. When we look round upon 
 the judgments of men, we shall find, that most of the 
 severity, ridicule, and reproach of the world is be- 
 stowed upon what are called follies, rather than upon 
 vices. We laugh at vanity, oftener than Ave censure 
 pride. We condemn mistakes with asperity, where 
 we pass over sins with gentleness. Conceited igno- 
 rance, ostentatious parade, blind zeal, and glaring ab- 
 surdity are treated by the world at large with great- 
 er severity, than open profligacy, sensuality, and crime. 
 Against the contempt, which pursues such qualities, 
 self-knowledge will effectually guard us. He, who 
 thinks himself to be something, when he is nothing, de- 
 ceiveth himself, says the apostle ; he deceives not oth- 
 
288 
 
 ers. But he, who thinks of himself soberly, even as he 
 ought to think, will seldom be mortified by the eon- 
 tempt, or degraded by the derision of the publick. 
 
 3. A man, who knows himself, will know more of 
 others, than one who boasts of studying mankind by 
 mixing with all their follies and vices. Man has 
 often been termed a little world, a world in miniature ; 
 and every individual is an epitome, perhaps, of the so- 
 ciety, in which lie lives. In general, we are impelled 
 by similar passions, and occasionally engaged in sim- 
 ilar pursuits. The same temptations assail, the same 
 artifices deceive, the same motives impel us, though 
 with various success, and unequal repetition. He, 
 who has been accustomed to watch the motions of his 
 own mind, and to scrutinize the character of his own 
 actions, will, in general, judge with more justice, and 
 always with more candour, of the conduct of others, 
 than any of those, who value themselves on their knowl- 
 edge of life. There is something, which passes in the 
 world for penetration and sagacity, which consists in 
 always finding fault, where fault maybe found; in sus- 
 pecting baseness, when integrity is not clear ; in con- 
 demning without scruple, where others hesitate to de- 
 cide ; and in predicting the worst, when the prudent 
 doubt, or the timid are alarmed. But the man, who 
 knows himself, will be ready to pardon mistakes, to 
 conceal absurdities, to inform ignorance, to pity folly, 
 and to account, at least, for vices, w hich he cannot ex- 
 cuse. When he censures, he censures qualities in 
 others, which he has not failed to reproach in himself : 
 
289 
 
 and when he applauds, he applauds what he knows 
 how to value, either from the struggles, which it has 
 cost him to acquire it, or from the wretchedness, which 
 he suffers from its absence. He will not strike with- 
 out mercy, who feels himself the tingling of every 
 stroke. It is ignorance of ourselves only, which 
 makes us the libellers, or the self-constituted judges 
 of others. 
 
 4. Self-knowledge will preserve us from being de- 
 ceived by flattery, or overborne by unmerited censure. 
 The language of adulation sounds in the ears of a man, 
 who knows himself, like the language of reproach. 
 He receives it, as a gentle admonition of what he ought 
 to be, rather than as a description of what he is. He 
 is humbled, rather than elated by extravagant praise ; 
 and is disposed to pity the ignorance, or suspect the 
 designs of the man, who, whenever he approaches 
 him, holds out a compliment, or whispers an encomi- 
 um. Even when he is sensible, that, in any instance, 
 he merits approbation, yet, when he considers his in- 
 numerable deficiencies, failings, wants, unknown to 
 all but himself, the praise, which lie receives, seems 
 to him to have little more foundation, than the enthu- 
 siastick anticipations, which travellers sometimes ex- 
 press of a country, which they have never seen, w here 
 they expect a cloudless sky, a temperate climate, a 
 luxuriant soil, a happy people ; but, upon exploring 
 which, they find the same vicissitudes of weather, as 
 at home, similar ravages of disease, similar miseries 
 of poverty, and equal, though different vices, prejudices 
 37 
 
290 
 
 and defects of society. The man, too, who knows 
 himself, learns to bear reproach. If he •knows, that 
 it is merited, he is silent, but suffers not the oppor- 
 tunity of improvement to escape him. He puts on no 
 empty airs of resentment, or affected surprize. If it 
 is unmerited, he can look up, with humble eye, to 
 heaven, and say, My record is on high ; or, if he 
 suspects himself, he will ask, like the anxious disci- 
 ples, Lord, is it I? 
 
 5. He, w ho examines himself, will learn to profit by 
 instruction. Philosophy and revelation, moralists and 
 friends, the press and the pulpit, are perpetually hold- 
 ing up characters for our detestation, and yet we prof- 
 it not by the picture, we see not the resemblance, till 
 some Nathan, bolder than the rest, exclaims, Thou 
 art the man. Then we turn round in surprise, and 
 wonder at the insolence of the prophet. We attend 
 upon the publick institutions of religion. The preach- 
 er portrays a character. We listen and admire. We 
 recall the picture. What prominence of figure ; what 
 liveliness of expression ; w hat strength of colouring ! 
 We are asked, for whom it was intended. In a mo- 
 ment we answer, it is this man. Hoes it resemble 
 no other ? Yes. And we instantly point, with much 
 complacency, to a second, and a third, and then sit 
 down in unsuspecting possession of the original. O 
 Lord, examine me, and prove me, try my reins and 
 my heart ; and that which I see not, teach thou me. 
 
 Lastly, if we will judge ourselves, we shall not 
 be judged, at least, by the Judge of heaven and 
 
291 
 
 earth ; that is, we shall not be unprepared for the 
 judgment seat of Christ. It is impossible to imagine 
 a more solemn and yet miserable object, than a pre- 
 sumptuous, unreflecting, thoughtless man, standing at 
 the bar of God. All the gay and gaudy trappings of 
 self- applause fall off, and leave a poor, miserable, 
 naked and shrivelled body of worthlessness, deprav- 
 ity and folly. He turns from the view of his own 
 deformity ; he shrinks in vain to avoid the eye of om- 
 niscience. He thought himself innocent. Guilty of 
 few open vices, he passed through the world unre- 
 proached. He now sees, that his innocence was noth- 
 ing but inaction ; and that he was unreproached, be- 
 cause unknown or despised. He thought himself 
 pious ; he finds, that he has been only a formal re- 
 peater of solemn words. He thought himself tempe- 
 rate ; he finds, that he was often a cowardly venturer 
 to the brink of excess, whence the danger of his health 
 only called him. He thought himself just ; but he 
 sees, that he has been unequitable within the limit of 
 the law. He thought himself charitable ; but finds, 
 he never made a disinterested sacrifice ; hospitable, 
 but he was only ostentatious ; compassionate, but he 
 was only childish. He thought himself zealous for 
 truth, but he finds it was only for system ; patriotick, 
 but he was only a partizan ; forgiving, but he was 
 only cowardly. Think, then, can you bear to be 
 stripped hereafter of so many fancied excellencies ? 
 Are you ready now to submit your motives to the 
 eye of omniscience ? Have you ever ventured to look 
 
293 
 
 with a steady eye into your own hearts ? Dare you 
 read to the bottom of the page ? Are you not afraid 
 to find there the sentence of your condemnation ? Do 
 you know what manner of spirit you are of? 
 
 The time will not allow us to consider, minutely, 
 the means, by which this knowledge may be attained. 
 A few general precepts must conclude. First, then, 
 suspect yourselves. Do not be afraid of doing your- 
 selves injustice. When you suspect, watch your 
 conduct ; and detect, if you can, your predominant 
 motives. Depend upon it, you will struggle hard to 
 deceive yourselves. Compare yourselves, then, with 
 the word of God, and with one another. Recollect, 
 that what appears disgraceful in others, cannot be 
 honourable in you ; and what diminishes your esteem 
 of them, ought to diminish your esteem of yourself. 
 Find, if you can, some disinterested and sensible 
 friend, who will have the courage to disclose to you 
 your faults, and the goodness to assist you in correct- 
 ing them. But, above all, look up to the Father of 
 lights, lay yourself open to the eye of almighty mer- 
 cy, and cry, Lord, who can understand his errours ? 
 cleanse thou me from secret faults. 
 
SERMON XVIII. 
 
 EPH. ii. 5. 
 
 BY GRACE YE ARE SAVED. 
 
 THIS simple proposition, though often in the 
 mouth of christians, is yet not without its difficulties. 
 Every believer in the gospel acknowledges its truth ; 
 and yet there are very few men, who would entirely 
 coincide in their interpretation of the passage. 
 
 It is not to excite your surprise, that we shall now 
 proceed to enumerate some of the most popular senses, 
 in which this proposition has been understood, but 
 only to guard you against being carried away by 
 the dogmatical assertions of men, who are contented 
 with detaching a form of scripture words from the 
 place where it is found, and insisting, that it means 
 only what they choose to understand by the phrase. 
 
 What then is the meaning of grace ? When spoken 
 of God, it means simply, gratuitous kindness, and 
 thus is it often applied to any thing, in which his fa- 
 vour is discovered. Thus the gospel is called the 
 grace of God. The terms saved, or salvation, origi- 
 nally mean deliverance from danger, from disease, 
 
394 
 
 ©r evil of any kind, and hence, are often used with a 
 latitude, which embraces all the benefits, derived from 
 the introduction of the gospel, whether relating to 
 this life or the next, including of course the healing 
 of the mind, and deliverance from the power and 
 consequences of sin. 
 
 The following are some of the interpretations, which 
 the clause in our text has received. 
 
 1. There are many, who understand by the propo- 
 sition, by grace are ye saved, that man can do noth- 
 ing towards his own salvation. By grace, they un- 
 derstand a supernatural operation of the divine spirit, 
 which effects a change in the moral nature of a man, 
 toward which his own exertions contribute nothing ; 
 and where this change is effected, salvation is certain, 
 and thus God is not only the ultimate source, but 
 the sole and immediate agent in the production of 
 goodness in moral beings. 
 
 This, in technical language, is the doctrine of hu- 
 man inability. It represents the moral state of man 
 to be such, that he can do nothing to save himself 
 from ruin ; for, if it were otherwise, his salvation, it 
 is said, would not be of God, but of himself. 
 
 In this statement, it is obvious to remark, that 
 though there is a sense, and a very just one, in which 
 man can do nothing without God, it cannot be re- 
 garded as any derogation from the grace or glory of 
 God, to admit, that man can do all, that God enables 
 him to do. God governs and treats his moral crea- 
 tures in a moral way y and it would seem to be 
 
295 
 
 I 
 
 charging God with folly or contradiction, to say that 
 he offers men means and motives to virtue, while he 
 has provided them with no capacity to use the one, and 
 no susceptibility of the influence of the other, without 
 his own immediate and extraordinary operation. To a 
 plain man, there is no greater mystery in our depen- 
 dence on God, in the affair of religion, than in any oth- 
 er. We are to be saved, indeed, by grace, as by grace 
 we are, every moment, preserved from natural and 
 moral ruin ; that is, by the goodness of him, who gives 
 us our powers, and appoints us our circumstances. 
 
 Others, on the contrary, to avoid the perversion, to 
 which the interpretation just stated is exposed, and by 
 which Christianity has suffered, think, that they suffi- 
 ciently answer the meaning of the apostle, when they 
 admit, that man is not saved, either by his own exer- 
 tions, or by the operations of divine grace alone, but by 
 the concurrence or cooperation of God's spirit with hu- 
 man endeavours. Thus they suppose, that grace, by 
 which they mean spiritual influence, is communicated 
 to all good men, in answer to prayer, or in conse- 
 quence of human endeavours, and especially in sea- 
 sons of great temptation, trial, necessity, or peculiar 
 infirmity ; and yet always in such a silent manner, as 
 not to be distinguished from the natural operations, 
 or ordinary state of our minds. Thus, say they, we 
 are truly saved by grace, because, if left to ourselves, 
 we could not work out our salvation, but should, in- 
 fallibly, sink in the arduous undertaking. In this 
 way they propose to avoid the difficulties, attending 
 
296 
 
 the doctrines of human merit or ability on the one 
 hand, and those of human inability and irresistible 
 grace on the other ; while their adversaries say, that 
 they only unite, in one unintelligible scheme, the real 
 difficulties of both. Perhaps the principal advan- 
 tage of this mode of interpretation is, that it seems to 
 allow sufficient meaning for the various phraseology 
 of different passages of scripture, while it leaves the 
 real metaphysical difficulty of man's dependence and 
 activity as inexplicable as ever, and as much open 
 as before to the disputations of those, who wish to 
 penetrate into the secrets of the divine influence on 
 moral agents. 
 
 There is yet another class of christians, who con- 
 ceive, that men are said to be saved by grace, because 
 the introduction of the christian religion, by which 
 men are prepared for salvation, or a state of future 
 happiness, is a singular instance of the grace or un- 
 deserved favour of God. It is a proof of his care, to 
 which mankind had no claim, and of which they had 
 no previous desert. It was God's grace or favour 
 only, which originally appointed Jesus the mediator, 
 and sent him into the world ; it is God's gratuitous 
 or unmerited kindness, which provides the means of 
 reformation and recovery offered us by Christianity, 
 which gives the promise of pardon to the penitent, 
 establishes the hopes and wishes of immortal life. 
 It is in consequence of God's favour, that we are born 
 under this dispensation ; and if we attain, at last, to 
 the salvation, which it offers us, by grace only do we 
 
297 
 
 reach this felicity, because it is pure goodness* which 
 originally furnished the means. 
 
 In all these interpretations of the clause, by grace 
 ye are saved, you may have observed, that it is taken 
 for granted, by the different parties, that the apostle 
 refers to the final salvation of those, to whom he is 
 writing ; but it is at least doubtful, whether this is 
 here the meaning of the apostle. You well know, 
 that the term, saved, is used to express any kind of 
 deliverance, temporal or eternal ; salvation from dan- 
 ger, from disease, from miseries of various kinds, 
 from intellectual darkness, from doubt or despair, 
 from habitual corruption, from present condemnation, 
 and from everlasting punishment. When Peter, in 
 the name of the apostles, cries out, in the midst of a 
 storm, Lord save us, for we are perishing, every one 
 understands him to mean, deliverance from the imme- 
 diate danger of shipwreck. When our Saviour dis- 
 covers in the sick woman a remarkable confidence in 
 his power of curing her, and other dispositions wor- 
 thy of his favour, and says to her. Go in peace, thy 
 faith hath saved thee, no one imagines him to mean 
 any thing more than this, to your faith you owe the 
 recovery of your health. So when the jailer, alarm- 
 ed by the earthquake, and fearful that his prisoners 
 had escaped, rushed into the presence of the apos- 
 tles, crying out, Sirs, what shall I do to be saved? 
 the best interpreters understand him to mean, how 
 shall I best consult my safety ; and when Paul says 
 in reply. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you 
 38 
 
298 
 
 and your family shall be saved, he not only includes 
 the idea of present security, but extends the meaning 
 of the word to embrace the spiritual benefits, which 
 w ould follow from his reception of the christian doc- 
 trine. 
 
 If now we examine the meaning of the apostle in 
 the clause before us, we shall find, that he cannot here 
 refer to the eternal salvation of those, to whom he is 
 writing. He says of them, that they are now saved, 
 not that they will be saved hereafter. Here is ac- 
 tual and present privilege, and not the unconditional 
 promise of a future benefit. That the Ephesians had 
 not then entered upon the heavenly felicity, it is un- 
 necessary to prove ; they could not, therefore, be then 
 saved, in the sense, in which we commonly use the 
 term. Neither is it probable, that the apostle meant, 
 they had been made subjects of an irresistible and ef- 
 fectual grace, from which they could never fall ; that 
 their final salvation was as certain, as if they had ac- 
 tually entered upon it ; for though we may believe, 
 that there would not be an impropriety in figuratively 
 saying, that they were saved, who had only an infal- 
 lible security of being saved, yet we cannot find, that 
 this was the idea of the apostle, or of the early in- 
 terpreters, but only a fiction of later theologians, 
 No ! the apostle's meaning cannot, perhaps, be more 
 exactly expressed in English, than in these words, 
 by God's unmerited favour are ye delivered. If it is 
 asked, from what the Ephesians were delivered by 
 Ihe grace of God, I answer, from the ignorance and 
 
299 
 
 wickedness of their former heathen condition. This 
 is the only salvation intended in the passage under 
 consideration ; their final salvation still depended on 
 the use they made of the new light, the new motives, 
 and the new means, which they enjoyed, for virtue 
 and happiness. 
 
 In support of this interpretation, let me refer you 
 to the words, which precede the text, and to the whole 
 strain of this epistle. On what does the apostle con- 
 tinually insist ? Does he say, you are now secure of 
 an eternal salvation, and, therefore, you have no con- 
 ditions of acceptance to perform ? Far from it. The 
 whole tenour of his exhortation is this : By God's 
 favour you are delivered from the darkness and mis- 
 eries of your idolatrous state. Ye were sometimes 
 darkness, but now ye are light in the Lord. Walk, 
 therefore, as children of the light. The blessings, 
 you already possess, are but the pledge and foretaste 
 of those, which the same grace will bestow on you 
 hereafter, if you walk worthy of God, who hath call- 
 ed you to glory and virtue. 
 
 If any one, in consequence of the explication, we 
 have given of this passage to the Ephesians, should 
 accuse us of diminishing the grace of God in the 
 final salvation of believers, and of encouraging the 
 obnoxious plea of human merit, let such person first 
 know whereof he speaks, and what he affirms. We 
 believe, and so must every christian, that if any of us 
 reach at last, under Jesus Christ, the blessedness of 
 his heavenly kingdom, it will be through the grace or 
 
800 
 
 gratuitous goodness of God, whose grace alone in- 
 troduced the christian dispensation, whose grace has 
 fixed the terms of acceptance and forgiveness in 
 mercy, and not in the rigour of law, and, finally, 
 whose grace alone could have offered a reward, so 
 infinitely transcending the deserts of the believer. 
 Salvation, under the gospel, begins, proceeds and 
 terminates in grace ; and although we do not believe, 
 that it was the apostle's intention, in this particular 
 passage, to state all these principles of our religion, 
 yet we arc so impressed with their truth and impor- 
 tance, that we propose to illustrate them in what 
 remains of this discourse. 
 
 In the first place, it would be enough to justify the 
 propriety of the assertion, that final, as well as pre- 
 sent salvation is of grace, to remark, that the intro- 
 duction of the christian dispensation, under which we 
 live, is an instance of the undeserved goodness of 
 God. No reason can be assigned for the mission of 
 Jesus Christ into the world, but the love of God to 
 his rational creatures. Nothing but grace could have 
 led him to look with an eye of pity on the state of 
 mankind, and provide a method of recovering any 
 part of them from the dismal influence of idolatry, in 
 which they were sunk, or from the unfavourable and 
 uncharitable operation of the Jewish economy, in the 
 state, to which it had then fallen. Indeed, no motives, 
 but those of pure benignity, can be assigned for God's 
 granting to his creatures at all any light beyond that, 
 which unassisted nature furnishes. It was not his 
 
301 
 
 fault, but man's, that they had debased and extin- 
 guished much of that illumination, which reason had 
 given, or which he had vouchsafed to them in former 
 communications. God would not have been unjust, 
 if he had left our race to all the consequences of their 
 self- depravation, to the miseries of superstition, to the 
 horrours of idolatrous worship, and to all that moral 
 darkness, in which the world was enveloped before 
 the coming of the Christ. It was, then, because God so 
 loved the world, that he gave his only- begotten Son, 
 that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but 
 have everlasting life. If, then, a single christian at- 
 tains to glory, honour, and immortality, under this 
 gracious dispensation, it is by grace he is saved. For 
 no one man or nation has a claim to the light, 
 which it furnishes, to the motives, w hich it alfords, to 
 the promises, it makes, to the pardon, it extends, or to 
 the eternal life, which it discloses. These advantages, 
 by which so many men are recovered to spiritual life, 
 who, without this, would have been sunk in idola- 
 try, are the benefactions of a merciful father. If, then, 
 christian, in consequence of your knowledge and im- 
 provement of the gospel, you are saved at all, it is 
 by grace you are saved ; and for this grace you ought 
 to be unceasingly grateful. 
 
 2. But not only may we say, with great justice, that 
 every christian, who attains to heaven under the gos- 
 pel dispensation, is saved by grace, because it was 
 pure grace, which sent Jesus Christ with this religion 
 into the world ; but the terms of human salvation, 
 
302 
 
 under this dispensation, are conditions of favour on 
 the part of God ; and the system proceeds altogether 
 upon the principle of benignity or kindness. God is re- 
 presented as forgiving the sins of mankind, upon their 
 repentance, and as receiving them to his favour, upon 
 their faith. The terms of acceptance are not a strict 
 and literal conformity to the whole law of God, with- 
 out any place for repentance, or allowance for infir- 
 mity, for, if this were the case under the gospel, who 
 then could be saved ; but the gospel is introduced, as 
 a dispensation of grace, in contradistinction to that of 
 law. The law was given by Moses, but grace and 
 truth came by Jesus Christ. The new covenant, as 
 it is called by the writers of the New Testament, in 
 opposition to the old or Mosaick, is founded upon 
 better promises ; and the situation of mankind, with 
 reference to God, as their moral governour, is exhib- 
 ited in a different light. 
 
 The terms of our salvation, under the gospel, are 
 not laid in a sinless obedience to what may be called 
 the rule of right, but in the sincerity and strength of 
 the principle, from which our obedience proceeds, or, 
 m other words, of our faith. The difference between 
 law and gospel is this : that, by the former, considered 
 as a law, no provision is made for human transgression; 
 its language is positive, unbending, and unaccommodat- 
 ing ; and if God's conduct towards his creatures were 
 to be guided purely by what we may call legislative 
 exactness, we should have no hope of escaping from 
 the condemnation, to which every man, as a trans- 
 
303 
 
 gressor, is exposed. It is in opposition to this view 
 of God's government of his creatures, that the gospel 
 is so often called grace, a spirit, a life, in other 
 words, a principle of faith. It provides for remis- 
 sion, for pardon, and for repentance. It represents 
 God, in the light of a father, disposed to receive the 
 returning child ; as a friend, who looks at the dispo- 
 sition, which his creatures exercise towards him ; as a 
 gracious governour, who wills not, that any should 
 perish, but rather that they should come to repentance. 
 
 In this view, the gospel is continually held up by the 
 apostles in opposition to the law ; it is called a spirit, 
 and not a letter ; life, and not death ; grace, and not 
 condemnation. I do not say, that this has not always 
 been God's method of justification, from the begin- 
 ning of the world ; indeed, the apostle to the Ro- 
 mans seems to declare, that it has ; and that, in fact, 
 the gospel, or rather, that faith, which is the principle 
 of gospel obedience, is as old as Abraham. I say 
 only, that the christian dispensation is the first, in 
 which the character of God has been expressly and 
 explicitly exhibited in this parental light, as justi- 
 fying men freely by his grace, and as accepting a 
 principle of sincere faith, and the practice of unre- 
 served repentance, instead of legal, strict, and uner- 
 ring obedience. 
 
 But even if we had no other dispensation, with 
 which to contrast the christian, yet whoever looks in- 
 to his own character, and considers the terms of the 
 gospel salvation, the impossibility of our ever attain- 
 
304 
 
 jug to eternal life, on the ground of merit, and the 
 very nature of those promises, which the gospel con- 
 tains, must be sensible, that if he is made heir of an 
 immortal life at all, he must be saved by grace, and 
 cannot be sufficiently thankful for a religion, which 
 throws such a light on the character of God, and re- 
 lieves the mind of man from its misapprehensions and 
 doubts oq the subject of pardon. 
 
 This leads me to say, thirdly, whenever, as chris- 
 tians, we look into our own characters, and then at 
 the heaven, which is opened to the true believer, and 
 observe the astonishing disproportion between the 
 rewards promised and the service done by us, we 
 feel the whole truth of the assertion, by grace are 
 ye saved, in the sense, in which it is commonly 
 used. The first honest attention to our own charac- 
 ters discovers to the christian the absurdity of the 
 doctrine of merit, in the sense of our deserving re- 
 ward from the hands of a holy and just governour. 
 There is not a law of (rod, which we have not broken ; 
 there is not a class of duties, in which we are not sen- 
 sible of defective performance. The law of God re- 
 quires of us love to him with all our hearts. Who 
 is there, that can boldly step forward, and put in his 
 claim to the rewards of heaven, on the ground of the 
 complete performance of this law ? Is the case easier 
 with the law relating to our social duties, Thou shalt 
 love thy neighbour as thyself? The man must be 
 foolish or infatuated, who can believe, that his obedi- 
 ence has been such, either in spirit, in extent, or in 
 
constancy, as that he may go and demand a compen- 
 sation from the justice of his God. On the contrary, 
 no fact, in the history of religious men, is more cer- 
 tain than this, that their humility before God al- 
 ways increases with their piety and virtue ; and they 
 are most sensible of their need of God's mercy, whose 
 characters, in the estimation of the world, are thought 
 to put in the strongest claim to reward. 
 
 But even if it could be allowed for a moment, that 
 it might be said, without abuse of language, with re- 
 spect to some very good men, that they were worthy 
 of a better world than this — which is a form of speech, 
 however, to which there are very strong objections — 
 yet, when we consider the terms, in which the state 
 of the blessed is described, how can we imagine for 
 a moment, that even the best of men have merited, or 
 could merit, such a reward. For eye hath not seen, nor 
 ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man 
 to conceive the things, which God hath prepared for 
 them that love him. When you add to all this the 
 idea of this reward being unlimited in duration, as 
 well as inconceivable in greatness, who will not say, 
 that it is infinitely beyond any thing, to which man 
 can have a right or a pretension ? When, therefore, 
 the scriptures teach us the exceeding grace and mercy 
 of God, as displayed in the salvation of men, they 
 teach us the same doctrine, which a consciousness of 
 our own deficiencies establishes and confirms. Whiit 
 we feel in ourselves, corresponds with what we read 
 in scripture. 
 
 39 
 
306 
 
 But, against this doctrine of salvation by grace, 
 there have been raised two objections, which I should 
 think myself unfaithful to the subject, if I neglected 
 to consider. The first is founded, not in just views 
 of christian doctrine, but on the systems and vain in- 
 terpretations of men. It is asked, how can God be 
 said to forgive us freely or gratuitously, if, as is 
 sometimes declared, complete satisfaction is already 
 made to his justice, by the death of Christ, for all the 
 transgressions of those, who are admitted to partake 
 in the benefits of his death ? If, by the punishment 
 which some represent as inflicted on Christ, as the 
 substitute of the human race, the claims of God's law 
 are satisfied, it is no longer mercy, but justice in God 
 to accept those, for whom this satisfaction has been 
 made. Hoav, ask they, can it with any propriety be 
 said, that we are saved by pure favour, after such an 
 atonement has been made by the blood of Christ ? 
 To this the common answer is, that we are to ascribe 
 it to the pure good will of God, that he accepted any 
 atonement or provided any satisfaction ; and, there- 
 fore, we may still be said to be saved by grace, be- 
 cause it was grace, which made it just to save us. All 
 this confusion follows from men's substituting words 
 or inventions of their own, in place of the general 
 expressions of scripture. 
 
 The death of Christ is no where in scripture spok- 
 en of in such terms, as make it necessary to imagine, 
 that a strict equivalent has been paid to God for the 
 transgressions of mankind. The terms, satisfaction; 
 
307 
 
 substitution, and some others, equally used on this 
 subject, are not to be found applied to it in scripture, 
 but only in the systems of theologians. If we will 
 but go back to the simplicity of the faith and language 
 of scripture, Ave shall find, that all which Christ did, 
 and suffered, from his birth to his painful death, pro- 
 ceeded from the antecedent love or favour of God, 
 and was a part of his great design to recover man- 
 kind from sin. The idea of satisfaction to an offend- 
 ed Deity, never once enters into the different state- 
 ments, which are made of these facts. There is noth- 
 ing in scripture, which represents, that Christ lias 
 made it just for God to forgive sins now, upon repen- 
 tance, when it would not have been before. The dis- 
 positions of God toward mankind, or the principles of 
 his government are not altered by the death of Christ ; 
 on the contrary, the disposition of mercy, by 
 which we must at last be admitted to everlasting life, 
 is the same, which sent Jesus into the world, and ad- 
 mitted Jew and Gentile into the church of Christ. 
 
 Unless, therefore, we affix to the death of Christ 
 ideas of an efficacy, which the scriptures do not as- 
 cribe to it, there is no kind of inconsistency between 
 the merits of this death and the gratuitous dispensa- 
 tion of pardon upon repentance ; but both the death of 
 Christ, and the acceptance of mortals are alike parts 
 of the same gracious scheme, and flow from the same 
 sentiments of mercy in God. We only embarrass 
 ourselves and our religion, when we attempt to intro- 
 
308 
 
 duce the legal ideas of substitute, equivalent, surety, 
 or satisfaction. 
 
 But a more important objection still recurs. If the 
 grace of God is so gratuitous, as you represent it, and 
 if the death of Christ, though you do not choose to 
 call it a satisfaction, has any efficacy in the forgive- 
 ness of the sins of mankind, how is this to be recon- 
 ciled with the indispensable necessity of good works, 
 for which the apostles have, in so many places, taken 
 care to provide ? I might answer this question by 
 saying, that the nature of christian salvation is such, 
 that it is impossible for any but a good man to enjoy 
 it ; and Christianity cannot alter that original constitu- 
 tion of the moral world, by which God has made sal- 
 vation or happiness dependent upon virtue. 
 
 But if this should not be deemed satisfactory, or 
 accommodated to every apprehension, I shall be ex- 
 cused in giving, in conclusion, the following quotations 
 from one of the plainest and most popular of writers.* 
 
 "In the business of our final salvation, there are nat- 
 urally, and properly, two things, viz. the cause and the 
 condition ; and these two things are different. 
 We should see better the propriety of this distinction, 
 if we would allow ourselves to consider well, what 
 salvation is : what the being saved means. It is noth- 
 ing less, than, after this life is ended, being placed in 
 a state of happiness exceedingly great, both in degree 
 and duration ; a state, concerning which it is said : 
 the Bufferings of this present world are not wor- 
 
 * Paley's Works, Vol. iv. p. 275. Boston Edition. 
 
309 
 
 thy to be compared With the glory, that shall be 
 revealed." " It is, out of all calculation, and com- 
 parison, and proportion, above and more than any 
 human works can possibly deserve. To what, then, 
 are we to ascribe it, that endeavours after virtue 
 should procure, and that they will, in fact, procure to 
 those, who sincerely exert them, such immense bles- 
 sings ; to what, but to the voluntary bounty of a 
 God, who, in his inexpressible good pleasure, has ap- 
 pointed it so to be ? The benignity of God towards 
 man hath made him this inconceivably advantageous 
 offer. But a most kind offer may still be a condi- 
 tional offer. And this, though an infinitely gracious 
 and beneficial offer, is still a conditional offer ; and the 
 performance of the conditions is as necessary, as if 
 it had been an offer of mere retribution. The kind- 
 ness, the bounty, the generosity of the offer do not 
 make it 'less necessary to perform the conditions, but 
 more so. A conditional offer may be infinitely kind 
 on the part of the benefactor, who makes it, may be 
 infinitely beneficial to those, to whom it is made ; if it 
 be from a prince or a governour, may be infinitely 
 gracious and merciful on his part ; and yet, being con- 
 ditional, the condition is as necessary, as if the offer 
 had been no more, than that of scanty wages by a 
 liard taskmaster. 
 
 In considering this matter in general, the whole of 
 it appears to be very plain ; yet, when we apply the 
 consideration to religion, there are two mistakes, into 
 which we are very liable to fall. The first is, that, 
 
310 
 
 when we hear so much of the exceedingly great kind- 
 ness of the offer, we are apt to infer, that the condi- 
 tions, upon which it was made, will not be exacted. 
 Does that at all follow ? Because the offer, even with 
 these conditions, is represented to be the fruit of love, 
 and mercy, and kindness, and is, in truth, so, and is 
 most justly so to be accounted, does it follow, that the 
 conditions of the offer are not necessary to be per- 
 formed? This is one errour, into which we slide, 
 against which we ought to guard ourselves most dil- 
 igently ; for it is not simply false in its principle, but 
 most pernicious in its application ; its application al- 
 ways being to countenance us in some sin, which we 
 will not relinquish. 
 
 The second mistake is, that, when we have per- 
 formed the conditions, or think, that we have perform- 
 ed them, or when we endeavour to perform the condi- 
 tions, on which the reward is offered, we forthwith 
 attribute our obtaining the reward to this our per- 
 formance or endeavour, and not to that, which is 
 the beginning, and foundation, and cause of the 
 whole, the true and proper cause, viz. the kindness 
 and bounty of the original offer. This turn of 
 thought, likewise, as well as the other, it is necessary 
 to warn you against. For it has these consequences : 
 it damps our gratitude to God ; it takes off our atten- 
 tion from him. Some, who allow the necessity of 
 good works to salvation, are not willing, that they 
 should be called conditions of salvation. But this, I 
 think, is a distinction, too refined for common christian 
 
311 
 
 apprehension. If they be necessary to salvation, they 
 are conditions of salvation, so far as I can see." 
 
 I can add nothing to the simplicity, or perspicuity of 
 these statements. I will only, therefore, beg you to re- 
 member, that the grace, and mercy of God, in the sal- 
 vation of men, so far from diminishing the necessity or 
 the obligations of holiness, constitute, in fact, the 
 strongest obligations and motives to christians to lead 
 a life of unreserved and grateful virtue ; otherwise 
 they are treasuring up for themselves wrath against 
 the day of wrath, by despising the riches of God's 
 forbearance, and neglecting this great salvation. 
 
SERMON XIX. 
 
 LUKE xviii. 10. 
 
 TWO MEN WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY J THE ONE 
 A PHARISEE, AND THE OTHER A PUBLICAN. 
 
 CONFESSION of our sins, and humiliation on 
 account of them, are not duties, which belong exclu- 
 sively to our prayers. But, if ever the sense of our 
 unworthiness ought to take full possession of the soul, 
 it is, when we stand in the presence of God, when, 
 after acknowledging his purity, and contemplating his 
 bounty, we turn to the consideration of the sinfulness 
 of our hearts, the ingratitude of our conduct, and the 
 poverty of our best services. It is, however, much to 
 be feared, that, in our intercourse with God, as well 
 as with one another, we are not always thoroughly 
 honest. Accustomed, as we are, to put on our best 
 dress, and keep back our deficiencies in our conver- 
 sation with mankind, especially when we are our- 
 selves the subjects of it, there is mucli reason to sus- 
 pect, that we sometimes carry, either our vanity, or our 
 equivocation and concealment, to the foot of the mer- 
 
813 
 
 cy seat, and there, as well as in the world, we think 
 to appear better than we are. Sometimes our confes- 
 sion of sins degenerates into an act of customary for- 
 mality, or, what is far more dreadful, we confess them, 
 that we may recommence, with a lighter heart, the ca- 
 reer of transgression. To correct these dangerous 
 errours, and to assist you iu the performance of this 
 part of duty, let us attend to the following instructive 
 parable. 
 
 Two men went up into the temple to pray ; the 
 one a Pharisee, the other a Publican. The gates of 
 the sanctuary are thrown open for the admission of 
 all, who choose to enter its courts. The foot of the 
 hypocrite does not stumble at the threshold ; nor are 
 the uplifted hands of the profane and polluted blast- 
 ed and withered in the midst of their devotions. 
 Even now, these walls enclose, with equal security, 
 the devout and the dissembling, the humble and the 
 haughty, the Publican and the Pharisee. In man's 
 undiscerning eye, the incense of their prayers seems to 
 mingle ; but, through this cloud of disguises, the eye 
 of heaven pierces into the intention, and explores the 
 heart, which we are not allowed to penetrate or judge. 
 The duties of the Lord's day have summoned us 
 here, my friends, as usual ; and Ave agree to bar out, 
 for a time, the importunate cares, and not less impor- 
 tunate gayeties of the week. God knows the spirit 
 of our prayers ; and it may be w ell for us to remem- 
 ber, that, of the two men, who went up to the temple 
 to pray, one went down to his house justified, rather 
 40 
 
314 
 
 than the other ; they returned as they came, one a 
 Pharisee, the other a Publican. 
 
 The Pharisee, continues the parable, stood and 
 prayed thus with himself : " God, I thank thee, I am 
 not, as other men are $ extortioners, unjust, adulte- 
 rers, or even as this Publican." You are, perhaps, 
 surprised to find, that a sentiment of this nature should 
 have gained a place in the prayers even of a Phari- 
 see. But out of the abundance of the heart the 
 mouth speaks, even at the footstool of the Almighty ; 
 and the man, who has been fond of comparing his 
 own advantages and attainments with the imperfec- 
 tions and disadvantages of his inferiours in life, will 
 be little disposed to humble himself in the presence 
 of his God. My friends, we never shall acquire a 
 fair knowledge of ourselves, if this is the method we 
 take to form the estimate ; for who cannot "find many 
 in the circle of his acquaintance, with whom, in 
 some respect, he will not suffer by comparison ? 
 When you consider, then, how inclined we all are, 
 however unconsciously, to compare ourselves with 
 those in the same rank or occupation of life, and 
 when we observe, also, that every man is naturally 
 most intimate with those, whose moral taste and at- 
 tainments are of a rank with his own, have we not 
 some reason to suspect, that the spirit, if not the lan- 
 guage of the Pharisee have sometimes mingled witli 
 our prayers, and checked that humility, with which 
 they ought ever to be accompanied ? 
 
316 
 
 But let us carefully trace the workings of this 
 Pharisee's mind. He first thanks his (rod, that he is 
 not, as other men are, an extortioner. He had not 
 wrung from his debtors their hard earnings, nor 
 snatched the bread from their children's mouths, nor 
 left the parents to pine away in the cold damps of a 
 dungeon. He had always been contented with sober 
 gains. To the Publicans he had cheerfully left the 
 collection of a hateful tribute ; therefore, he had been 
 guilty of none of the extortions and oppressions of 
 office, concerned in no usurious contracts, or cruel im- 
 positions. He was surprisingly free from sins, which 
 he had neither opportunity nor temptation to commit ; 
 and, with this wondrous purity, he conies into the 
 temple of his God to indulge his self-complacency ! 
 
 He next is thankful, that he is not an adulterer. 
 He has not been willing to run the dangerous risk of 
 being stoned to death by the laws of Moses, of which 
 he was, perhaps, a constituted expositor ; and for this, 
 too, he thanks his God. 
 
 The catalogue of his excellencies would, perhaps, 
 soon have been exhausted, even in his own account, 
 had he not, perchance, turned his eyes upon a poor 
 Publican, who had also come up to the temple to 
 pray. The sight of this man adds another clause 
 to his impious prayer. " God, I thank thee, I am 
 not as this Publican !" The Publicans were a class 
 of men exceedingly odious to the Jews, because they 
 were the appointed collectors of a revenue, which, 
 with a reluctance never to be subdued, was paid by 
 
316 
 
 this obstinate nation to the emperour of Rome. It 
 is true, the receivers of this tribute were, in general, 
 not less iniquitous than hateful ; and nothing but 
 the most extravagant propensity to self- applause 
 could have found any satisfaction in a consciousness 
 of superiority to this despised class of his country- 
 men. Here, indeed, closes the Pharisee's enumera- 
 tion of vices, in abstaining from which he congratu- 
 lates himself. 
 
 And now let us turn, my hearers, from this ficti- 
 tious story, the temple, the Pharisee, and Jerusalem, 
 and look at our own times, our own churches, our own 
 characters. How often, in our secret meditations 
 and prayers, have we deluded ourselves, and offend- 
 ed God, by partial estimates of our moral worth ! In 
 examining ourselves, how hastily do we suffer our 
 thoughts to glance over the dark, and repose with 
 delight on the bright portions of our character ! In 
 our commerce with men, do we not try to lure their 
 gaze to these illuminated spots, and even venture to 
 hope, that they may catch and please the eye of om- 
 niscience itself? Ho we not value ourselves most 
 upon our freedom from those sins, which we are least 
 tempted to commit ; and think it a great virtue to have 
 been afraid of a great vice ? Few of us are extor- 
 tioners ; fewer, perhaps, adulterers. We do not out- 
 strip the age in degeneracy ; and we do not care to 
 fall far behind it. We are not guilty, forsooth, of 
 any sins but those, which most easily beset us ; we 
 allow ourselves those indulgences only, which belong 
 
317 
 
 to our profession, our occupation, our rank in the 
 world. Are we to expect contrition, humiliation, 
 godly sorrow, and repentance, in the prayers of such 
 men — men, who prefer complaining of the increas- 
 ing corruption of the times to stepping out of their 
 old place and manners to resist its progress, and 
 who compose their consciences by the thought, that 
 the world abounds with more corrupt inhabitants than 
 themselves ? 
 
 The Pharisee, however, in the parable, relies not 
 entirely on his freedom from atrocious guilt. He has 
 yet in reserve some works of supererogation, to re- 
 commend himself more certainly to the God, who 
 hears and disdains his prayer. " I fast," says he, 
 " twice in the week ; I give tithes of all I possess." 
 These fasts, it should be observed, were not required 
 by the law of Moses. They were imposed only by the 
 traditions of the Rabbins, and adapted to impress 
 an ignorant populace with an opinion of their pecu- 
 liar sanctity, temperance, piety and punctuality. It 
 is true, that religious fasting is not the method, by 
 which we are now disposed to discover our rever- 
 ence for religion, or secure the reputation of saints. 
 At the present day, a man would not be in the road 
 to applause, if he were discovered by his fellow citi- 
 zens praying at the corners of the streets, or if he 
 were known to introduce two fast days into his do- 
 mestick arrangements for the week. But, though we 
 are not now so Judaical, or so ignorant, as to sup- 
 pose, that such punctilious observances can atone for 
 
318 
 
 the want of piety, or of integrity, still are there none, 
 who take to themselves undeserved credit for many 
 habits and opinions, in the hope of concealing their 
 want of the real spirit of Christianity ? Thus, it is 
 popular, I had almost said fashionable, in the socie- 
 ty, in which we live, to acknowledge, with much se- 
 riousness, the importance of religious institutions, and 
 to condemn, without reserve, that infidel philosophy, 
 which had almost effected the desolation of the civil- 
 ized world. It is creditable, at least among us, to 
 lend to the cause of Christ the support of our elo- 
 quence, and, when circumstances require, to open our 
 purses. It is customary, to pay to its ministers agree- 
 able attentions ; and not to withhold from its ordi- 
 nances honourable respect. Our churches are not 
 yet deserted, nor our sabbaths generally and openly 
 profaned. Is it uncharitable or presumptuous, to in- 
 quire, whether there is not a disposition to rest our 
 claim to the high and sacred character of christians 
 on these easy expressions of good will and respect? 
 Are we not in danger of substituting these for that 
 thorough purity and inward devotion, which are 
 the very life of the system ? Is it not more com- 
 mon, to contribute a word in support of its insti- 
 tutions, than to give an example of the graces, it 
 would form ; to subscribe a sum to advance its inter- 
 ests, than to sacrifice a vice, which is at w r ar with 
 its spirit ? Far be it from me, to withhold the hon- 
 our, which belongs to christian bounty, or diminish 
 that respect, which the institutions of our religion, 
 
319 
 
 even in these tempting times, have preserved ; but 
 far be it from me, also, to encourage you in the de- 
 lusion, that any professions of regard to Christianity 
 will counteract the influence of that example, which 
 sets at nought its authority ; or that any contributions 
 to its support, or any attentions to its teachers can 
 atone for ah habitual worldliness, which chokes and 
 stifles all its virtues, or for a love of pleasure, which 
 swallows up the wealth, the passions, and pursuits of 
 its votaries. 
 
 There is, also, a great danger of confounding a re- 
 gard for our own system of belief with a regard for 
 our common faith. The Pharisee paid tithes of all 
 he possessed. Forget not, my friends, there is due 
 a tithe of charity, as well as of zeal, or of rational- 
 ity ; and let us be less solicitous to oppose others, 
 than to excel them. The spirit of Christianity is 
 wasted, whenever the flame of dissension burns ; and 
 in contending for the faith, it is easy to lose the tem- 
 per of Jesus. 
 
 One farther observation shall close our reflections 
 on the conduct and spirit of this haughty Pharisee. 
 He thanks God, you observe, that he is not, as other 
 men are. Remember, then, that a man may acknowl- 
 edge, it is the grace of God, which constitutes the dif- 
 ference between him and others, and profess this hum- 
 bling sentiment of the gospel, with some degree of sin- 
 cerity, and, at the same time, cherish and express his 
 pride in the very language, which declares his faith, 
 and in the very prayers, which accompany his imag- 
 
320 
 
 inary humiliation. Beware, my hearers, of carrying 
 into the presence of your God a tone of spiritual 
 pride, which you would he ashamed to exhibit in the 
 presence of your fellow men. 
 
 But to return to the parable. " The Publican," 
 continues our Saviour, " standing afar off, would not 
 so much as lift up his eyes unto heaven, but smote 
 upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a 
 sinner V 9 There is nothing in the history, which 
 would lead us to conclude, that this humble worship- 
 per had been guilty of enormous sins, that any unex- 
 piated crime pressed upon his conscience, and drew 
 forth this exclamation of abasement and remorse. He 
 was, perhaps, as honourable, as pure, and as devout, 
 as was expected of the class, to which he belonged in 
 the community ; still we hear him smiting his breast 
 with anguish, and exclaiming, God be merciful to me 
 a sinner ! And what was there in his circumstances 
 to suggest so different a prayer from the other ? Why 
 could he not have addressed his Maker thus : I thank 
 thee, O God, I am not, as other men are, proud, vain, 
 and superstitious, or even as this Pharisee. I place 
 no reliance on ritual observances ; I am not a slave 
 to tne unauthorized traditions of the elders ; neither 
 have I endeavoured to confine all rectitude, piety, 
 and sanctity to my own order ; but I worship thee, 
 who art a spirit, in spirit and in truth. But, instead 
 of this encomium on himself, his prayer presents us 
 one short and comprehensive clause of contrition, 
 supplication and humble acknowledgement. 
 
mi 
 
 Let this, my friends, be the model of our religious 
 exercises, especially in private. It is a more uncom- 
 mon tiling, than we are apt to imagine, to be convin- 
 ced, that we are sinners ; and yet this is the root of 
 christian excellence. The more deeply it strikes, the 
 more branching and firm will be our virtue. O chris- 
 tians, how pure, and good is that God, whom we 
 have offended ! How faint is the impression, which 
 remorse leaves upon our minds ; and how many thou- 
 sands of our offences have passed away without ex- 
 citing a sentiment of humiliation, without leaving a 
 trace of contrition. Think, how many confound the 
 fear of punishment with the sense of guilt, or the ap* 
 prehension of dishonour with the self-abasement of 
 the christian. How many mistake the mere tears of 
 disappointment for those of godly sorrow ; and are 
 angry with themselves for having sinned unsuccess- 
 fully, instead of humbled for the ungratefulness of 
 their transgression. There are some men, who per- 
 form repentance for once in their lives ; and think, that 
 a season of contrition, in which they feel something 
 of their guilt, and more of the dread of punishment, 
 and which is followed by a state of rapture and con- 
 fidence, places them, for the remainder of their lives, 
 in a state of grace, and in the favour of God. But 
 the conviction of sin is not such a transitory impres- 
 sion. It is never entirely effaced from the memory, 
 or the conscience of a christian. You will, perhaps, 
 tell me, that no one is so ignorant, as to suppose, that 
 he has not disobeyed his Maker : or needs the aid of 
 41 
 
323 
 
 argument to convince him, that he is, in the sight of 
 God, imperfect and polluted. But, let me ask, to what 
 does this conviction amount ? If it consist only in a 
 vague notion of inheriting a sinful nature from our 
 progenitors, of sharing in a general corruption insep- 
 arable from the posterity of Adam, such an opinion as 
 this, we fear, may be entertained without much sharp- 
 ness of compunction, and without much hope of re- 
 formation. If, too, our idea of sin amounts only to 
 this, that it is a kind of imperfection, which necessa- 
 rily adheres to finite beings, we shall varnish our 
 vices with the pleasant name of frailties, and lament 
 the infirmity of our natures, rather than acknowledge 
 the guilt of our conduct. Away, then, with all these 
 palliatives ; and let us look immediately, and boldly, 
 and deeply into our own hearts. Away with all 
 our flattering comparisons of ourselves with others, 
 this self-gratulation, this complacent sense of sin. 
 We gain nothing, my friends, by measuring ourselves 
 with every other person, whom we meet : it does not 
 add a cubit to our stature. The infallible laws of 
 God are the only standard of religious or moral pu- 
 rity ; and this detects, at once, the scantiness of our 
 virtue. To the law and to the testimony let us re- 
 sort. Vie shall then find, that we have understood 
 little of its spirit, that we have shrunk from its de- 
 mands. We shall sec, that much of our boasted 
 righteousness is but as filthy rags, which serve only 
 to dress us up for the company of men, but in God's 
 presence conceal nothing of the odious form of sin* 
 
323 
 
 We shall not so much as lift up our eyes to heaven, 
 hut place our hands on our mouths, and our mouths 
 in the dust, before our Maker, and cry, God be mer- 
 ciful to us sinners. 
 
 There is among us, I fear, an overweening esti- 
 mate of our publick morality. We confound this no- 
 tion with that of patriotism. We arc too fond of boast, 
 ing of our regular habits, our religious advantages, 
 our attention to the regular services of the sanctuary, 
 and the decencies of life. We cherish this flattering 
 notion by comparing ourselves with countries, older 
 in corruption, and more unblushing in their vices. 
 Let us not rely too strongly on what our fathers have 
 done for us. It was the darling and the destructive 
 errour of the Jews, in the days of their depravity, 
 that they comforted themselves witli the reflection, We 
 have Abraham to our father. The contrition of one 
 true penitent, for his personal sins, is better than all 
 the grace of our ancestors. Let us not mistake the 
 beauty of the temple for the presence of God, which 
 alone can consecrate it. 
 
 To conclude, the Publican, in t3ie parable, throws 
 himself, with deep humiliation, on the mercy of God. 
 True penitence is not verbose, not declamatory. Pie 
 does not attempt to aggravate his guilt by confes- 
 sing sins, of which he is not guilty ; an errour too 
 common among those, who give themselves up to a 
 hackneyed form of contrition ; but he seems unable to 
 dwell long upon his own unworthiness. Much less 
 does he boast of any virtues, or plead any merit in his 
 
observances. You, christians, have far greater en- 
 couragements to the exercise of contrition, than this 
 poor Jewish Publican. Blessed be the God and 
 Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, there is, at the 
 throne of an offended God, a kind intercessor for his 
 brethren. Though we stand afar off, though we lift 
 up not so much as our eyes to heaven, yet has ho 
 promised us, that not a faint sigh of godly sorrow 
 shall be lost. When the heart is wounded, the most 
 secret act of sorrow is as eloquent, as the tears and 
 entreaties of the most importunate supplicator. The 
 Publican, though his prayer was short and unlabour- 
 ed, went down to his house justified, rather than the 
 other. Christians ! let not this house of prayer ever 
 w itness your pharisaick self-complacency ; and may 
 God touch our hearts with a sense of our own un- 
 worthiness, and his purity, and make our prayers the 
 true expression of penitential feeling, through Jesus 
 Christ, 
 
SERMON XX. 
 
 MATT. xxvi. 35. 
 
 PETER SAID UNTO HIM, THOUGH I SHOULD DIE WITH THEE, 
 YET WILL I NOT DENY THEE. 
 
 luke xxii. 61, 62. 
 
 AND THE LORD TURNED, AND LOOKED UPON PETER. AND 
 PETER REMEMBERED THE WORD OF THE LORD, HOW HE 
 HAD SAID UNTO HIM, BEFORE THE COCK CROW, THOU 
 SHALT DENY ME THRICE. AND PETER WENT OUT, AND 
 WEPT BITTERLY. 
 
 WE have often ealled your attention to the in- 
 ternal evidences of truth, which the gospel history 
 presents to a careful reader of the New Testament ; 
 and have often remarked, that proofs of this kind 
 multiply prodigiously, the more the gospels are studi- 
 ed. To this class of proofs belong the characters, 
 which are occasionally introduced in the evangelical 
 narrative, and which, every one must acknowledge, 
 are, in general, delineated with great distinctness and 
 consistency. They all have their distinguishing traits, 
 such as w r e find in real life ; and so natural are they, 
 that we reject, at once ; the suspicion; that John, Pe- 
 
326 
 
 ter, Thomas, Mary, or Paul, for example, are either 
 fictitious, or studied portraits. In the number of the 
 twelve, each apostle has his peculiarities. One is 
 bold and precipitate ; another, gentle and affection- 
 ate ; a third, doubtful and hard to be persuaded ; 
 and the best of them occupies a grade of excellence, 
 which leaves him at an infinite distance below his 
 Lord. If the gospel history had been a fabrication 
 of some ingenious or fanatical impostor, instead of 
 this distinctness and variety, I think, we should have 
 found a tame uniformity of characters. The disci- 
 ples would all have been fashioned on the model of 
 their master ; and the delineation of Jesus himself, 
 supposing it to have been the work of imagination, 
 "would have presented none of those solemn and un- 
 describable tints of supernatural originality, which 
 now make the character of the Saviour of the world 
 such as it is ; such, in fact, as no mortal fancy had, or 
 could have conceived ; and such, too, as no being of 
 merely mortal race would have been able, or daring 
 enough to appropriate. 
 
 Among the characters in the New Testament, that 
 of Peter is transmitted to us with singular force and 
 individuality. Not that his character is drawn, for 
 there is not an instance in the gospels of what may 
 be called character painting. What we know of the 
 apostles, we know, as it were, by accident. In the 
 New Testament, there is no circumstantial narration 
 of an individual's life ; but all that is said of him is 
 incidental, and unpremeditated, as well as short, and 
 
 J 
 
327 
 
 hastily set down. Of Peter, however, the first of 
 the apostles, perhaps in age, certainly in calling and 
 office, more facts happen to he recorded, than of any 
 other in the company of the disciples. He appears 
 to have been a favourite with our Saviour; and, 
 though not perhaps so amiable as John, of a cast of 
 mind more characteristick and decisive. If we col- 
 lect the scattered notices of this apostle, and attempt 
 to combine them in a regular outline, we shall find a 
 character arising out of them, which, from its truth 
 and nature, must have belonged to a real personage ; 
 a character, bold, impetuous, sensible, consistent in 
 its contradictions, uniform in its variations ; a charac- 
 ter, such as the great drama of human life acknowl- 
 edges, and often reproduces on the stage of human 
 action. 
 
 Now, my hearers, when we consider, that four in- 
 dependent historians have recorded circumstances in 
 the life of Peter ; historians, who, from the occasional 
 discordancies in their narratives, could not have writ- 
 ten in concert, — that they have recorded, also, dif- 
 ferent facts, and, if we include the Acts, have w ritten 
 different portions of Peter's life, — that Paul, too, has 
 left us, in his letters, indirect and occasional notices 
 of the same apostle, — and that all these different 
 traits, if combined, make up an original, interest- 
 ing, natural, harmonious, and well-marked charac- 
 ter, is not the conclusion irresistible, that the origi- 
 nal existed, or that they all copied from nature, and 
 probably from personal observation ? 
 
328 
 
 Recollect, now, I pray you, that, if one only of the 
 characters of the apostles be supposed to be real, the 
 gospel history must be true. The facts are so inti- 
 mately blended, the characters so mutually depen- 
 dent, that the whole story of Jesus and his immedi- 
 ate disciples must exist together ; nay, the character 
 of a single apostle is not to be accounted for, but on 
 the supposition of the truth of the principal facts in 
 the evangelical history ; and thus, from the character 
 of a single apostle, we come to that most grand and 
 glorious conclusion, the divine original of the gospel 
 of Christ. 
 
 In the following discourses, we propose to give you, 
 
 1. An outline of the character of Peter, as far as 
 it may be collected from the circumstances mentioned 
 in the evangelical histories ; 
 
 2. And then to make some reflections in confirma- 
 tion of the truth of the gospel, and in aid of our 
 christian steadfastness. 
 
 The character of Peter is no uncommon union of 
 qualities. In his constitution there was nothing 
 phlegmatick, nothing cold. He was sanguine in his 
 projects, rash in his movements, tender in Ms at- 
 tachments, exposed to change from the very impetu- 
 osity of his feelings ; with more of courage, than of 
 fortitude ; more of zeal, than of firmness ; more of 
 confidence, than of constancy. 
 
 That fact in Peter's history, which lias given him 
 such a preeminence in the estimation of christians, 
 and has elevated him, in the opinions of a large di- 
 
329 
 
 vision of the christian world to a seat second only 
 to that of Jesus Christ, and secured to him an ever- 
 lasting primacy in the church, was that magnanimous 
 acknowledgement, which he first made of the char- 
 acter of his master : Thou art the Christ, the Son 
 of the living God. It was at a time, when, as you 
 well know, the Jews were full of expectation, that 
 the great deliverer was to appear in the family of 
 David, who should raise his standard of revolt, as- 
 sume the almost forgotten ensigns of hereditary roy- 
 alty, place himself at the head of his oppressed and 
 impatient nation, confirm his authority by visible and 
 splendid prodigies, maintain his cause by supernatu- 
 ral achievements, establish his court in the capital of 
 Judea, and erect an universal and everlasting domin- 
 ion. — In this state of things, when every Jewish 
 mother was longing to give birth to the Messiah, 
 and every Jewish breast beating high with hopes of 
 future greatness, Jesus appears, a perfect contrast to 
 such worldly and ambitious fancies, the poor son of 
 a carpenter's wife, wandering from village to village, 
 without a place to lay his head, simple in appear- 
 ance, spiritual in his conversation, meek and lowly 
 in his views, and daily disgusting his gross and self- 
 ish followers by his recommendations of poverty, 
 and predictions of approaching calamity. The dis- 
 ciples were, beyond measure, perplexed. They 
 saw Jesus daily performing the most astonishing 
 and beneficent miracles, which convinced them, that 
 (rod was with him 5 but their preconceptions of the 
 42 
 
330 
 
 Messiah's character were such, as refused to be 
 reconciled with his present situation and prospects. 
 Now, in this crisis of distressing uncertainty among 
 the disciples — for they had left all and followed 
 Jesus — when others were deserting him in great 
 numbers, dissatisfied and disappointed, and Jesus 
 says to his disciples, Will ye also go away ? Peter, 
 with his usual forwardness, answers for them all : 
 Lord, to whom shall we go ? thou hast the words of 
 eternal life. And, soon after, when Jesus explicitly 
 asks them, Whom say ye that I am ? Peter alone 
 replies, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living 
 God. Jesus exclaims, Blessed art thou, Simon ; for 
 flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but 
 my father who is in heaven : that is, you derive this 
 from a higher and better source than the world's 
 opinion. Then our Saviour pronounces that memor- 
 able promise : Upon this rock will I build my church, 
 and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it ; 
 and Peter's confession was not unworthy of such a 
 promise. It was a brave confession ; a sentiment of 
 his heart, as well as a dictate of his understanding. 
 It was the united result of Peter's personal attach- 
 ment to Jesus, and his knowledge of his miracles 
 and character. 
 
 The most characteristick trait of Peter's mind is, 
 undoubtedly, that impetuosity, and ardour of feeling, 
 which rendered him sometimes too confident, rash, 
 and intemperate, but commonly bold, decisive, and 
 affectionate. Observe, now, I entreat you, how r clear- 
 
331 
 
 ly this distinctive feature of his character is present- 
 ed to us by all the evangelists, and even preserved 
 through the different periods of his life. Permit us, 
 first, to remark, however, that every man's virtues or 
 vices are peculiarly his own : that is, they cannot be 
 transferred to the mind of any other man, though 
 equally virtuous or vicious on the whole, without as- 
 suming a different colour, or else producing some 
 manifest incongruity of character. The graces of the 
 best christian in the world are, in some degree, mod- 
 ified by his peculiar temperament : they are not pre- 
 cisely the same thing in him, which they are in anoth- 
 er christian of the same school. It is not to be hoped, 
 perhaps it is not to be desired, that we should here 
 lose all our characteristick passions, in the uniformity 
 of christian perfection. The christian always melior- 
 ates the man ; but never yet has the man been com- 
 pletely lost in the christian. The only character, in 
 which every thing constitutional seems to have been 
 lost in a kind of perfection never to be surpassed, is 
 that of Jesus Christ ; and this is one of the many 
 proofs of its superhuman greatness. 
 
 But the native ardour of Peter's temper is perpet- 
 ually breaking out, both before and after the death 
 of his master. That sudden confidence, which is al- 
 ways attendant on such minds, is curiously exhibited 
 in Peter's desiring our Lord, if it were indeed he, to 
 bid him come to him on the water. Jesus says, come ; 
 and Peter sets out to walk upon the waves, in all the 
 ardour of faith ; but he has proceeded but a few steps, 
 
332 
 
 cre his heart fails him. The billows are boisterous, 
 and he sinks, crying out, Lord, save, or I perish. Is 
 it fanciful to imagine, that we discern, in this partial 
 failure of the apostle, the hints and rudiments of that 
 lamentable weakness, which afterwards allowed him 
 to deny his master ? 
 
 The impetuosity of Peter's temper, united with the 
 strong affection, which he bore to Jesus, sometimes 
 mounted into intemperate courage, and sometimes 
 melted into the other extreme of tenderness and hu- 
 mility. When Jesus had requested him and two 
 other of his disciples to watch with him, during that 
 night of agony, when he was apart, praying, that the 
 cup of death might pass from him, Peter, like a man 
 of more ardour than perseverance, w as overcome with 
 sleep. He is soon awakened by the noise of the mul- 
 titude, that approached, with their swords and staves, 
 to arrest his master. Immediately, he puts his hand 
 upon his sword, and asks his master, if lie shall strike. 
 But, with characteristic!?: impatience, he cannot wait 
 for the answer, but instantly draws, and cuts off the 
 ear of one of the high priest's servants. Jesus cries 
 out : hold ! so far as this I* — touches the ear, and heals 
 the wound. — Two exquisite traits of character, both 
 in Jesus and his impetuous disciple. These are the 
 little circumstances, which give a story the stamp of 
 truth. 
 
 Let us mention some other instances, equally be- 
 yond the reach of the fabricator of a narrative. 
 
 * See Wakefield's note on this passage. 
 
333 
 
 Jesus, after his resurrection, appears on the shore 
 of the lake, where some of his disciples were out in 
 a boat employed in fishing, but without success. 
 They espy some one on the shore, who orders them 
 to throw on the right side, and they shall find. Im- 
 mediately the net is filled, almost to breaking. They 
 conclude that it was Jesus ; and instantly Peter throws 
 himself into the sea to swim to his beloved master, 
 while the rest of the disciples wait, till the boat reach- 
 es the shore. 
 
 Again, in that affecting interview, when Jesus 
 washed his disciples' feet, when he comes to Peter, 
 he cries out, Lord, thou shalt never wash my feet. 
 Jesus answers him, If I wash thee not, thou hast no 
 part in me. Melted to tenderness by this reply, he 
 flies to the other extreme of humility, and says, Lord, 
 not my feet only, but my hands and my head ! A man 
 of such passions, in a moment of affectionate enthu- 
 siasm, might rush into death to save a friend, while, in 
 the next moment, his fears might overpower and pet- 
 rify him. 
 
 Once more, there is mentioned a trifling circum- 
 stance in a visit to the sepulchre, which, though en- 
 tirely incidental, may, perhaps, be thought happily to 
 illustrate this apostle's affectionate character. On the 
 morning of the resurrection, he arrives with John at 
 the sepulchre, and finds it open. John stoops down, 
 and, looking in only, concludes, that Jesus is not there. 
 But Peter, not satisfied with this, goes in, and searches 
 the sepulchre. After that, John also enters, and they 
 
334 
 
 ascertain, that the sepulchre is undoubtedly empty. 
 Now this trait, like the others, is incidental, but they 
 are all worthy of being observed. It is the privilege 
 of simplicity and truth alone, to leave these touches of 
 nature, which are not without difficulty to be attained, 
 and which, in the present case, are utterly incon- 
 sistent with imposture. 
 
 You see, then, my hearers, the character of Peter. 
 Our Saviour, who had been with him more, perhaps, 
 than with any of his disciples, as he appears to have 
 resided at his house in Capernaum, knew his disposi- 
 tion, and often attempted to discipline and improve it. 
 He even goes so far, as to forwarn him, that, with all 
 his fervour of affection, he would one day deny his 
 Lord. Peter declares, with indignant confidence, 
 Though I should die with thee, yet will I not deny 
 thee. Ah, Simon ! though you are ready to fight for 
 your master, you cannot yet suffer for him ! You have 
 followed him, hitherto, not only because you love 
 him, but in the expectation, that lie will discover his 
 Messiahship. You are hoping, that he will soon de- 
 clare himself, and lead you to victory in his cause, 
 and to honour and eminence in his kingdom. You 
 are not prepared to see him die upon a cross. Your 
 faith will falter in that day of disappointment. Your 
 impetuosity alone will not ensure your fidelity. It is 
 one thing, to have the boldness of enthusiasm, and 
 another, to have the firmness and endurance, which 
 are necessary in the apostle of a suffering master. 
 
335 
 
 We must attend now to that unfortunate event in 
 Peter's history, which, if it were not so instructive, 
 might be forgotten. But, while it has blemished, it 
 has contributed to immortalize the fame of this 
 apostle. 
 
 Jesus, contrary to the expectation of his disciples, 
 even to the last, is arrested and hurried away to trial. 
 He is now entirely in the power of his enemies. His 
 supernatural faculties appear to have deserted him ; 
 and the God, in whom he had trusted, comes not to 
 his rescue. At this crisis, his hitherto faithful disci- 
 ples, alarmed, disappointed, and confounded, forsake 
 him, and flee. Peter, however, yields to his affection, 
 and follows his master, at a distance, to the palace of 
 the high priest. Eager to see what would be the 
 end, and, no doubt, secretly hoping, that our Saviour 
 would yet deliver himself, he mixes with the crowd 
 of servants and soldiers at the bottom of the hall, 
 where he might observe all that passed, and remain 
 unnoticed in the multitude and tumult. But either 
 his speech or his perturbation soon betray him. One 
 of the high priest's maids unfortunately passes liim, 
 and says, This man was with Jesus of Nazareth. He 
 replies, I was not. Again, another challenges liim. 
 He denies it again. Then a relation of him, whose 
 ear he had cut off, looking at him, says, Did I not see 
 thee in the garden with him ? And now, with all that 
 passion, which we have seen to belong to him, and 
 with that distracting terrour, which attends upon great 
 and sudden danger, and upon falsehood in a man un- 
 
336 
 
 accustomed to deceive, he begins to curse and to 
 swear, saying, I know not the man. 
 
 Ah ! faithless, fallen Peter ! Is this, then, the man, 
 who was just now drawing his sword, and ready to fight 
 for his master ? Is this the man, who lately declared 
 before all the disciples, Though I should die with thee, 
 yet will I not deny thee ? Is this the man, on whom Je- 
 sus was to build his church, so stable, so immoveable, 
 that the gates of hell should not prevail againt it ? Is 
 this the man, who was to hold the keys of the king- 
 dom of heaven ? Precipitated, in a moment, from all 
 his dignity, real as well as imaginary, the great apos- 
 tle is the sport of a maid ! The magnanimous, enthu- 
 siastick, fearless, and, let us add, honest disciple is 
 become the prey of his own guilty conscience ; and 
 shrinks into the covert of his own shame. I know 
 not the man ! Though you know not your master, 
 poor, fallen Peter ! he is not forgetful of his disciple 
 and friend. The Lord turned and looked upon Pe- 
 ter ! — One would think, that such a look, in such a 
 moment, would have overwhelmed him with confu- 
 sion, and chilled the blood around his heart ; that he 
 must have sunk to the earth, in hope that it might open, 
 and swallow him up, and his unsupportable shame. — 
 He cannot, indeed, endure it. He rushes out of the 
 hall, and weeps, says the evangelist, — and weeps bit- 
 terly. 
 
 In the circumstances of this affecting event, we dis- 
 cern all the peculiarities of Peter's character. It was 
 the same man — who cannot see it? — that first confessed 
 
337 
 
 and that first denied his master, the same man, that so 
 loved and so abjured him. When the other disciples 
 fled, his affection overcame his fears, and he ventured 
 to follow to the high priest's palace. The others had 
 not the courage to rush into the same extremity of 
 danger, and were not, therefore, exposed to a similar 
 temptation. No ! they were not forward enough, they 
 were not ardent enough — if the solecism may he par- 
 doned, they were not hold enough to fall, like Peter. 
 And how momentary was his fall ! The blush of dis- 
 honest shame had hardly time to tinge his cheek, ere 
 the tears of contrition washed away the stain. The 
 tempter dropped his prey, as soon as he had grasped 
 it. The moment of his fall coincided with the mo- 
 ment of his repentance. He w ent out, and wept bit- 
 terly. Here we see all the quick sensibility of his 
 temper. A look dissolved him. The bigoted high 
 priest and cruel Jews were unaffected by the mani- 
 fest innocence and greatness of our Saviour's charac- 
 ter, as it appeared upon his trial. Though the earth 
 shook unier them at his crucifixion, and darkness 
 covered their favoured land, while the light of nations 
 was expiring in the midst of them, their hard hearts 
 w r ere not touched. All his beneficence, all his com- 
 passion, all his power, his resurrection itself left them 
 the same ungracious, unrepenting, unforgiving, un for- 
 given race. In the mean while, Peter is in tears. A 
 look recovered this tender apostle. While his mas- 
 ter was suffering on the cross, Peter, I doubt not, was 
 suffering, in secret, reproach and anguish on account of 
 43 
 
338 
 
 a fault, which, because he could uot forgive himself, 
 the world and his master have long since forgiven him. 
 
 This unfortunate event in Peter's life was, no doubt, 
 permitted in the counsels of a kind Providence, to hum- 
 ble this confident apostle. It was necessary, to temper 
 the inconvenient warmth of his zeal, to moderate his 
 impatience, and to make him ashamed of his positive 
 and ostentatious professions. This, indeed, it seems to 
 have effected. By his lamentable fall he seems to 
 have learned extraordinary humility ; for we find him, 
 in after life, acknowledging before Paul, who was 
 comparatively a novice in the gospel, that he had 
 been in an errour, in yielding to the opinion of the 
 Jews of Jerusalem, and withdrawing from his inter- 
 course with the Gentiles. Yes, my hearers, this 
 venerable apostle was rebuked by his younger broth- 
 er Paul, and he submitted. This humility he learned, 
 I doubt not, in that memorable school, the hall of the 
 high priest, where he had been so terribly rebuked by 
 the eye of his master. 
 
 Let us turn to a most affecting and beautiful incident 
 in the character of Jesus, and conclude this part of the 
 discourse. As soon as he has risen from the grave, his 
 first words to Mary Magdalene are : Go tell my disci- 
 ples and Peter, that I am risen from the dead. How 
 touching is this little mention of Peter only by name. 
 Afterward, in an interview with the apostles, where 
 Peter was present, he draws from him a threefold de- 
 claration of his attachment, in allusion to his having 
 three times denied him. Simon, son of Jonas, lovest 
 
339 
 
 thou me ? Peter was grieved, that he said unto him 
 the third time,Lovest thou me? and replies, Lord, thou 
 knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. 
 Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep. 
 
 Thus was Peter reinstated by our Saviour in his 
 apostolical commission, and he preserved, to the end 
 of life, that preeminence, to which his age and virtues 
 entitled him, and all that activity, which his disposition 
 rendered peculiarly easy. Yes, affectionate apostle ! 
 from the hour of your fall, you followed your master 
 through the dangers of a publick ministry ; and now 
 the crown of honourable martyrdom in the cause of 
 Christianity adorns the head of that apostle, who was 
 once tempted to say of his master : I know not the 
 man. 
 
 The outline, which we have now presented you 
 of the life and character of Peter, has, we hope, suf- 
 ficiently prepared you for the reflections, which are to 
 follow. The first of them is, the argument in favour 
 of the truth of the gospel, drawn from the change of 
 character and views in Peter, and the rest of the 
 apostles, after the resurrection. It is an argument, 
 which we earnestly entreat the unbeliever to ponder 
 well, to examine on every side, and tell us, how its 
 force is to be eluded. 
 
 If you will attend, then, to the characters of these 
 twelve men, among whom Peter was unquestionably 
 the most eminent, you find, that they were, in general, 
 uncultivated, and, originally, as narrow in their preju- 
 dices, as the rest of their countrymen. They do not 
 
340 
 
 appear to have been distinguished from the middling 
 class of Jews by any qualities, which would com- 
 mand peculiar respect, or conciliate extraordinary af- 
 fection. Certainly, they were among the last men, 
 whom we should have chosen to propagate a new 
 theory, and to convert, to such a system as the gospel, 
 the conceited disciples of Zeno and Lucretius and 
 the still haughtier doctors of the synagogue. They 
 who sat in Moses' seat were prepared to despise their 
 presumptuous pupils, who had been so long implicit- 
 ly subjected to their ecclesiastical authority. They 
 could not but smile, to see these Galileans putting off 
 their fishers' garments to put on the robes of a pro- 
 phet. No ! we should have chosen the noble and in- 
 telligent Nicodemus, the learned Gamaliel, the rich 
 Joseph of Arimathea, the eloquent and insinuating 
 Tertullus. So entirely the reverse of this were the 
 appointments of Jesus, that the only man among the 
 disciples, who appeared capable, by the energy of his 
 character, and, perhaps, by the powers of his mind, 
 to spread a new religion in the face of an opposing 
 world, is suffered to show his incompetency, and give 
 a most humiliating proof of his infirmity, which is 
 transmitted to all succeeding generations, to satisfy 
 the christian, that, if that doctrine, or that work 
 had been of men, it would have long since come to 
 nought. 
 
 Peter and the other disciples, we doubt not, at- 
 tended Jesus, while he lived, chiefly because they had 
 hopes of his assuming some higher power, than that 
 
4 
 
 of healing diseases ; a power, which should defeat 
 the enemies of the Messiah, and reward with the first 
 places in his kingdom his faithful adherents. Such 
 was the state of Jewish expectation, that they could 
 have formed no other idea of the kingdom of Christ. 
 Whenever Jesus hinted, that they would meet with 
 sufferings, they probably had no conception, that these 
 sufferings would be any thing more, than some tempo- 
 rary impediments from the incredulity of their coun- 
 trymen, which would soon be at an end, and termi- 
 nate in their final elevation to undisputed authority. 
 But, when our Lord hinted at his own death, Peter 
 cries out, indignant and alarmed, Be it far from 
 thee, Lord, this shall not be unto thee ; so that 
 our Saviour was obliged to rebuke him, and say, 
 Get thee behind me, Peter, thou art an offence unto 
 me. 
 
 The apostles retained these worldly hopes, till the 
 very last moment of their attendance on our Saviour. 
 Of course, his arrest must have sufficiently surprised 
 them ; but when they found, that there was no inter- 
 position in his behalf, and that lie was not to escape 
 from the hands of the officers, they gave up his cause 
 as lost. Their full-blown hopes were blasted in an 
 hour ; and all the gay and imposing imaginations of a 
 worldly kingdom, with its palaces and crowns, robes 
 and riches, the ermine, and the sceptre, vanished like 
 the dream of the morning, leaving them nothing, in 
 place of ail this, but their nets and rods, and fishers' 
 garments. Then all the disciples forsook him, and 
 
343 
 
 fled. Peter returns, indeed, from curiosity, or from 
 personal attachment ; but he returns only to deny his 
 master. In this state of confusion and disappoint- 
 ment, when the few disciples are all dispersed, Jesus 
 is tried ; and the unwillingness of Pilate, the last hope 
 of his friends, avails nothing to his release ; but the 
 new founder of the christian faith, without resistance, 
 surrenders himself to crucifixion, and breathes his 
 last breath upon the cross. Now, I ask, where was 
 the religion, which he preached? His history has come 
 to a close ; his life has gone out, after a short and 
 dazzling lustre ; his religion is dissipated with his 
 disciples ; and, in this solemn hour, what remained, I 
 ask, of Christianity ? Why was it not, at that mo- 
 ment, obliterated ? Why was it not then added to the 
 funeral pile of the thousand and ten thousand sys- 
 tems and chimeras of the human mind ? The triumph 
 of the Jews was, at that moment, complete. Jesus 
 had expired ; and the gospel appeared to have sunk, 
 never again to rise. 
 
 Wait but a few days, and a man arises, in the midst 
 of an assembly of thousands of hostile Jews, with 
 confidence in his features, intrepidity in all his mo- 
 tions, with the utmost fluency, sincerity, gravity and 
 energy of speech. He begins by saying, Ye men of 
 Israel, hear these words : Jesus of Nazareth, a man 
 approved of God among you by miracles, and won- 
 ders, and signs, which God did by him in the midst of 
 you, as ye yourselves also know — him being deliv- 
 ered by the determinate council of God, ye have tak-. 
 
343 
 
 en, and by wicked bands bave crucified and slain ; 
 this Jesus bath God raised up, whereof we all are 
 witnesses. Therefore, let all the house of Israel 
 know assuredly, that God hath made that same Je- 
 sus, whom ye have crucified, both Lord an J Christ ; 
 and he hath shed forth this spirit, which ye now see 
 and hear. This speech is delivered in the presence 
 of eleven other men, who corroborate every fer»t by 
 their own testimony of the same. And who is this 
 man? Who are these men, so assuming, so presumptu- 
 ous ? Do you know, that this man is Peter, who, but a 
 few days since, denied his dying master, and hid him- 
 self to conceal his shame ? Do you know, that these 
 are the same men, who fled in all directions upon the 
 arrest of Jesus, and of whom we hear no more, till 
 we find them in this assembly of the murderers of 
 their leader ? I have a right to ask the skeptick, 
 whence this sudden transformation ? Jesus, you say, 
 is dead ; his body moulders in the dust ; his resur- 
 rection is a mere fable. Will you say, that they, who 
 followed a master principally for the rewards, they 
 expected, when he was alive, were thus completely 
 and suddenly changed in their views, their hopes, 
 their intrepidity, their whole character, when they 
 knew, that he was dead, and was still lying lifeless 
 in the grave ? From a dead man what had they to 
 expect ? From his murderers what could they antici- 
 pate, but a fate similar to their master ? I have a right 
 to call upon the skeptick for a solution of this diffi- 
 culty. I have a right to demand of him, to inform 
 
341 
 
 me, why the religion of Jesus was not utterly extinct, 
 when he was dead upon the cross, and his disciples 
 had fled in consternation. I have a right to be in- 
 formed — if Jesus did not rise, and the story of the 
 apostles is a fable — whence is it, that a religion, which 
 contains these facts, has existed through eighteen cen- 
 turies, bumble in its origin, persecuted in its progress, 
 and o ; aining strength by opposition ? How was it, that 
 twelve cowardly and feeble men established a relig- 
 ion in the centre of Jerusalem, the founder of which 
 had but just expired in the shame of an accursed cru- 
 cifixion ? 
 
 You may say, if you please, that it was enthusiasm 
 and fanaticism in the apostles, so that they really im- 
 agined, that they saw and conversed with Jesus after 
 his death; and were not guilty of falsehood, but were 
 only insane, when they maintained the fact of the re- 
 surrection. But what enthusiasm is this, which could 
 bring together twelve men, who had fled in conster- 
 nation, and induce them to agree in a consistent and 
 intelligible story ? If they were enthusiasts, whence 
 the change of their ideas respecting the nature of our 
 Saviour's character ; whence this new direction of 
 their views ? If they were enthusiasts merely, it is 
 to be supposed, they would be enthusiasts according 
 to their old notions, and that a little of that suffering 
 and persecution, to which they were soon exposed, 
 would cure them of their madness. But the most pu- 
 sillanimous of men are converted into the most bold 
 and intrepid \ the most ambitious and worldly, into 
 
345 
 
 the most spiritual, disinterested and faithful. They 
 maintain, through the greatest sufferings — sufferings* 
 such as they once could not think of with patience — 
 a faith, which has stood to the present hour, and will 
 stand, I trust, till the heavens he no more. 
 
 This change, then, in the character of Peter and 
 the disciples, let the infidel account for, if he can, 
 without admitting that fact, which is the basis of our 
 religion. If the fall of Peter lends any confirmation to 
 the truly miraculous nature and propagation of our 
 religion, he did not fall in vain. 
 
 We have learned something, then, from Peter's 
 history, in aid of our faith. It also affords instructions 
 of a practical nature. It gives us all a lesson of re- 
 solution and vigilance, lest we, too, fall from our 
 steadfastness. Let no christian say, that he can never 
 be precisely in Peter's situation, and, therefore, that 
 he can never deny a master, who is no longer present 
 with his followers. We deny him, christians, when 
 Ave suppress our secret convictions of the truth of his 
 gospel, and would make the world believe, that we 
 know not the man. We deny him, when we attempt 
 to shake off the restraints of his laws, or bend them 
 to a more convenient standard ; or when we take 
 pains to hide the few peculiarities, which our chris- 
 tian education, or profession of the gospel yet oblige 
 us to retain. We deny him, when, like Peter, we 
 mingle with the vicious and the base, endure the jests 
 of the scorner, and the licentiousness of the man of 
 pleasure, and, lest we should be suspected gf rigour, 
 
 <XA\ 
 
346 
 
 or of superstition, choose not to be distinguished from 
 the promiscuous multitude of worldly men, who know 
 not their God and their Redeemer. No, it is not 
 impossible to deny our master, nor is it easy to be al- 
 ways true to his cause. 
 
 It seems, indeed, to be no difficult task, to be a 
 christian, when the religion is creditable, when re- 
 spect attends upon its institutions, and men throng to 
 the temples, and the profession of Christianity leads 
 to publick honours. But, my hearers, to say nothing 
 of the struggles, which every disciple of Jesus has 
 to maintain with the corruptions of his own heart, 
 a man must not expect to be a christian, even in the 
 best of times, without suffering some reproach from 
 being true to his christian principles. The standard 
 of the world is low and variable ; but the everlasting 
 laws of christian purity, piety and benevolence are 
 not affected by any changes of manners, or fluctu- 
 ations of opinion. The gospel stands, in the midst 
 of the tide of fashions and fancies, the measure of all 
 opinions, but regulated by none. He, who would be 
 faithful to this religion, cannot pass through the 
 world, without being tempted by the example of oth- 
 ers, tried by many severe duties, reproached by some, 
 whom he wishes to love, and neglected by others, 
 whom a little sacrifice of his principles might retain 
 in his favour. Let him, then, be vigilant and resolute. 
 
 Again, the fall of Peter teaches a lesson of humili- 
 ty. If there are any presumptuous and enthusias- 
 tick christians among us, they may learn from this 
 
347 
 
 history, that they are not the most secure. Excessive 
 confidence in religion is hardly to he distinguished 
 from arrogance. It is never the means, and seldom 
 the consequence of a religious life. Let us not trust, 
 then, too much, to any temporary excitements in relig- 
 ion ; and much less think ourselves secure, because 
 we have made a competent profession of our faith. 
 Let us remember, too, that no man is allowed to make 
 wanton trial of his faith and virtue. A man may be 
 justly left to be overcome by a trial, which he has 
 presumptuously sought, when he might have tri- 
 umphed over a temptation, and stood a test, which 
 w r as presented to him in the ordinary course of Provi- 
 dence. The spirit of the christian life is, indeed, a 
 spirit of power and fortitude ; but it is always joined 
 with humility, distrust of one's self, humble estimation 
 of our own powers, and deep sensibility to the infirm- 
 ity of human virtue. The daily prayer of the chris- 
 tian is : Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us 
 from evil. Let him, who thinketh, lie standeth, take 
 heed, lest he fall. 
 
 Again, Ave learn from the history of Peter, that, 
 though a good man may fall, he is yet distinguished 
 by tenderness of conscience, and deep and severe 
 contrition. Peter went out, and wept bitterly, and re- 
 turned to his master. The habitual offender may re- 
 gret his sins, because he retains a lurking fear of their 
 consequences. But the good man suffers, because he 
 feels the shame and ingratitude of his offences. He 
 feels a stain, as he would a wound, though the world 
 
318 
 
 may not have discerned the blemish ; he hopes for 
 pardon, but does not cease to mourn. 
 
 To conclude, do not flatter yourselves, because Pe- 
 ter fell, and instantly recovered, that he, who is every 
 day sinking, and falling from his fidelity, is to be as 
 easily recovered. Contrition may purge away the 
 occasional lapses of a man, who lives the life of a dis- 
 ciple ; but it is difficult to conceive, how the effects of 
 a depraved life, the example of which has been ex- 
 tending and operating in every direction, are to be 
 expiated or removed by a dying hour of fear and sor- 
 row,' however deep, however painful. Watch, there- 
 fore, and pray, that ye fall not into temptation, 
 
 V 
 
SERMON XXI. 
 
 EPH. vi. 4. 
 
 FATHERS, PROVOKE NOT YOUR CHILDREN TO WRATH J BUT 
 BRING THEM UP IN THE NURTURE AND ADMONITION OF 
 THE LORD. 
 
 THE subject, upon which I am about to address 
 you, my friends, needs no laboured introduction. I 
 see before me the fathers and mothers of families, who 
 must, ere long, resign the world to another genera- 
 tion ; a generation, which will remember them with 
 fruitless reproaches, or everlasting gratitude. There 
 are among us thousands of young creatures, whom 
 our schools and colleges and families are pour- 
 ing into the world 5 and I ask, with anxiety, who 
 is responsible to the God of nature, and to the world, 
 for these daily and hourly accessions to the numbers 
 of society? Life, surely, is not all, that you are to 
 give them ; support, protection, accomplishments and 
 estates are not all, that you owe to these creatures of 
 your affection. For the time is coming, when all 
 these exteriour appendages to life will be heard of 
 no more 5 the grave will receive your children, as it 
 
350 
 
 lias their fathers ; the accomplishments, with which 
 you decorate them, w ill have fallen off, and withered 
 in death ; even the strong constitution of their bodies 
 will have crumbled away in the tomb ; the possessions, 
 which they have inherited, will have shrunk into the 
 narrow inclosure of a coffin. And is there nothing 
 more ? Surely, I see them existing anew in another 
 state, whither they have carried, from this world, the 
 character of their souls. And what is this, and whence 
 came it ? It bears your stamp ; it proclaims your care, 
 or your neglect ; and, in their destination, you may 
 read something of your own. 
 
 Fathers, says the apostle in my text, bring up your 
 children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. 
 This, surely, can be interpreted as nothing less, than 
 a precept for the religious education of those, who 
 are committed to your care. It shall be my present 
 object, then, with God's blessing, to offer you some 
 considerations on this interesting subject; to show 
 you, how you may previously secure the greatest 
 weight to your lessons ; to guard you against some 
 of the most common faults in this branch of educa- 
 tion ; and to point out some of the most suitable top- 
 icks and modes of instruction. These are the three 
 divisions of our subject. 
 
 I. 1. If, then, parents, you would train your chil- 
 dren up to be religious beings, and give the greatest 
 weight to your instructions, the first preliminary un- 
 doubtedly is, that they should have the highest re- 
 spect for your characters, entire confidence in your 
 
351 
 
 knowledge, and an affectionate sense of your regard 
 for their everlasting good. To any species of edu- 
 cation this is an important preliminary ; but, to a 
 christian education, it is indispensable. This early 
 deference to the character of the parent, it is, per- 
 haps, the more necessary to inculcate, as the progress 
 of manners and opinions, for many years past, has 
 tended much to reduce it. If you would preserve 
 in the minds of your offspring this permanent con- 
 fidence and respect, they must early be sensible of a 
 control, easy and equable, impartial and systemat- 
 ick. You must not fluctuate in your rules, or coun- 
 teract them by your example. Your commands must 
 appear the result of affection ; and, especially, your 
 instructions must be supported and enforced by a 
 consistent conduct. For what is more idle, than to 
 talk seriously to your children, when you are not seri- 
 ous yourselves ; or to recommend to their regard the 
 interests of eternity, when they see you exclusively so- 
 licitous for their present gratification ? 
 
 2. A second preliminary to the religious education of 
 children, and without which it will be impossible, I 
 fear, to train them up successfully to Christianity, is, 
 that, from their earliest years, they should receive a 
 deep impression of its importance. In order to this, 
 they should see, that Christianity is a subject, which lies 
 near your hearts ; that you mention not the name of 
 God or of our Saviour without respect ; that you can- 
 not easily tolerate in your presence the levity, which 
 treats the gospel with indifference, or the impiety, 
 
352 
 
 which treats it with contempt. They must see, that 
 you repair with delight to the assembly of God's wor- 
 shippers, and hear you often acknowledging, in their 
 presence, the obligation and the pleasure of devotion. 
 But, nothing, nothing, which I can recommend, will 
 tend so effectually to generate this early sentiment of 
 reverence, as the performance of family devotion, to 
 which your children should be admitted, as soon as 
 they are old enough not to interrupt it. This will 
 place them, even in infancy, exposed to the most fa- 
 vourable impressions, and the kindest influences of 
 grace. Religion will make a part of their notion of 
 life, and of their course of conduct : Christianity will 
 seem to them, from the first, as a necessary circum- 
 stance in the character. 
 
 3. A third preliminary to the religious instruction 
 of your children, of not less importance to give your 
 lessons their due weight, is this, that they should 
 clearly see, that it is your religion, which is the source 
 of all that they respect in your character, and is the 
 spring of the tranquillity and happiness of your life. 
 This latter circumstance is especially important ; for, 
 if your religion does not make you happy, you can- 
 not expect, that your mere lessons should be favour- 
 ably received. Let them see, then, ye fond parents, 
 that it is here, you derive your purest pleasures, and 
 your surest consolations. If they discover, that reli- 
 gion appears to be an interruption to your ordinary 
 course of life ; that it comes in only at stated times, to 
 chill all your animation, and congeal the flow of your 
 
253 
 
 enjoyment, how can it ever be recommended to their 
 gay and pleasurable spirits ? It will appear to them as 
 nothing better, than a severe pedagogue, coming, with 
 its tasks, its rods, and its rules, to interrupt the festiv- 
 ities of life. Let them see, then, I say, that your re- 
 ligion is the source of complacent and amiable dispo- 
 sitions. When you talk to them of God, let your 
 countenance light up ; let them see, that you take 
 pleasure in referring all your enjoyments to his boun- 
 ty, and that you feel inexpressible consolation in com- 
 mending them to his care. Let them discover, that you 
 have a perpetual confidence in his protection ; and, if 
 ever you find yourselves with them in circumstances 
 of anxiety and impending danger, they should be im- 
 pressed with the conviction, that your tranquillity re- 
 sults from a consciousness of his presence, under 
 whose overshadowing wing they and you are de- 
 fended. , 
 
 4. Lastly, all these advantages will be of little 
 value, unless you begin w ith them, as soon as they are 
 susceptible of instruction. As I have repeatedly 
 touched upon this subject before, I will say little, 
 now, on the necessity of early education. But, if any 
 thing should be taught soon, it is surely that, which 
 ought never to be forgotten. The cup will be tinc- 
 tured with the liquor, which it first receives. The 
 earliest age is that, which imbibes the most copiously, 
 and retains the longest. If, then, you would succeed 
 in training them up in the nurture and admonition of 
 the Lord, begin before the heart is hardened by preju- 
 45 
 
35$ 
 
 dices, or polluted with vice. If you intend them to 
 be christians, let them know it, as soon as they can 
 understand the idea of a God ; let them know, as 
 soon as the intellect expands, that there are some 
 truths, eternal and immutable, which are never to de- 
 sert them ; truths, which time has sanctioned, genius 
 embraced, learning illustrated, piety cherished, and 
 the world reverenced, in every age. The first light, 
 w hich strikes them, should be the light of heaven. The 
 mind will be preoccupied, if you are a moment idle. 
 The mind of the child cannot be shut up, till you are 
 ready to furnish it. No ! strange prejudices, and 
 curious and unaccountable opinions will gain an early 
 ascendency in the neglected understanding of your 
 children ; and, though it is hard to make them learn, 
 you will find it still harder to make them forget what 
 they should not have received. 
 
 II. I proceed, now, agreeably to our plan, to 
 point out some of the most common mistakes on this 
 subject of the religious education of the young. 
 
 1. The first is, an opinion, which too easily prevails, 
 that the habits only of your children are to be regard- 
 ed, and that, in time, principles will follow of course ; 
 that, if they only learn to behave well, it is of little 
 importance to trouble their weak heads with reasons, 
 or to furnish them with a stronger argument, than 
 the example, or the command of their parents. But 
 who does not know, that habits, unsupported by prin- 
 ciples, are, even in the maturest mind, the most pre- 
 carious and insecure of our possessions ? As soon as 
 
355 
 
 you change your child's company, if you have left him 
 without instruction, you change his character. Send 
 him from his father's house, and you send him, inno- 
 cent, indeed, but naked and unshielded, into the midst 
 of enemies in ambush, and weapons flying in mid air. 
 An amiable temper, unfortified by principles, and good 
 habits, strong only because they have not been tried, 
 are the richest and the easiest prey of the polluting 
 harpies of profligate society. A child may uniformly 
 speak the truth, because it has been your maxim in its 
 education, that it should never be exposed to the 
 temptation of a lie ; but how much more secure is the 
 honesty of that child, who has been taught, that there 
 is a God in heaven, who, afar off, discerns even an 
 equivocation, and a world to come, where all false- 
 hood will be disclosed. Indeed, parents, to be care- 
 ful of forming your children to correct habits and 
 fair demeanour, without implanting early principles of 
 piety, is nothing better, than raising the walls of a 
 citadel, which you intend to leave ungai'risoned, un- 
 eommanded. 
 
 2. A second mistake on the subject of education 
 is, that, because many of the subjects of religiou 
 are beyond the capacity of children, to instruct them 
 in Christianity is only to load their memories with 
 words, and, by the irksomeness of such a lesson, to 
 give rise to an antipathy, which, in after life, may ex- 
 tend to every thing, which wears the complexion of 
 seriousness. But, even if it should be granted, that the 
 primary truths of religion were not completely intelli- 
 
356 
 
 gible to the youthful capacity, it "ought not to be there- 
 fore inferred, that tuition is vain. In many branches 
 of human learning we acknowledge it enough, that 
 the memory is stored with rules, the reasons of which 
 remain to be explained ; with facts, the application of 
 which lies beyond the present reach of their capaci- 
 ties ; and with words, which shall only facilitate the 
 future progress of the understanding, and be used in 
 the future operations of the intellect. Of this kind is 
 the far greater part of the studies, which employ the 
 first years of children. Indeed, if every kind of in- 
 struction were deferred, till its nature and use could 
 be completely understood by the pupil, we should 
 soon be overwhelmed by a race of barbarians ; and 
 the next generation would find themselves thousands 
 of years behind their progenitors. 
 
 But, in fact, the principles of our religion are some 
 of the most simple and intelligible, which can be pro- 
 posed to the human mind. Is there any tiling so pe- 
 culiar, so transcendently incomprehensible in the ob- 
 ligations of your children to their Creator, that these 
 cannot be explained and illustrated by their obliga- 
 tions to yourselves ? Must they be able to conceive 
 distinctly of what is meant by spirit, by omnipresence, 
 !>y eternity, before they can learn to fear and love 
 their Father who is in heaven ? What if they do 
 cherish some gross and corporeal notions of God, 
 they are only a little less imperfect than our own. 
 Or must they be able to comprehend the nature of evi- 
 dence, nicely to balance probabilities, and decide on 
 
357 
 
 the relative value of testimony, and the miracles of 
 Christ, before you will venture to tell them of his 
 death and resurrection, or hold up to their opening 
 imaginations the solemnities of a judgment, and a re- 
 tribution to come ? 
 
 3. A third mistake on this subject is, that, to fur- 
 nish children early with religious ideas, is to infuse 
 into them prejudices ; as if a creature, introduced, as 
 man is, into the world, helpless, unfurnished, de- 
 pendent, and inexperienced, could live, or act, or 
 think, a single day, without the aid of some kind of 
 prejudices. This mistake, indeed, would be hardly 
 worth rectifying, had it not been, sometimes, ad- 
 vanced as a serious objection against every kind of 
 religious instruction. Prejudice is an unexamined 
 opinion. Now the slightest observation discovers, 
 that such is the condition of man, and such the pro- 
 gressive nature of his powers, from their feebleness in 
 infancy to their maturity in manhood, that it is a law 
 of his condition, which omnipotence only can abro- 
 gate, that, during the years of childhood, he should 
 depend on authority, and lean on the understandings 
 of others. His opinions, during this period, in dis- 
 tinction from his knowledge, can be nothing, and 
 ought to be nothing, but prepossessions. And do you 
 think, that, by withholding from him instruction on 
 subjects of religion, you secure him, for any season, 
 from the slavery of prejudice ? Believe me, by this 
 very neglect, you infuse into his susceptible mind one 
 of the most baneful and captivating of prejudices ; for 
 
358 
 
 you tempt hiin unavoidably to this dangerous con- 
 clusion, that religious opinions are unworthy his con- 
 cern, or make no part of his interests, and are un- 
 necessary, or unimportant to society. Besides, do 
 you think, that no prejudices will grow up and de- 
 form his fruitful mind, of which you have not drop- 
 ped the seeds ? Think you, the opinions, he will en- 
 tertain on these subjects — opinions, which he will 
 gather from his first intercourse with society — will 
 possess less of the nature of prejudices, than those, 
 which might have been instilled by parental affection, 
 and enforced by parental authority ? I fear, you will 
 be disappointed. 
 
 But on what other subject, which concerns the for- 
 mation of the minds of children, do you make so ab- 
 surd a mistake ? Wherein do you forbear to tincture 
 their tender minds with your own opinions ? It is not 
 politicks. We early hear them lisping out your an- 
 tipathies, and repeating on this subject, as they grow 
 older, your oracular decisions. It is not literature. 
 The earliest care is taken to form their rising taste 
 on established principles, and to lead them to the 
 perception of beauties, which have been sanctioned 
 by the concurrent praise of successive generations. 
 These are prejudices, which you think you cannot 
 too early, or too plentifully pour into their empty 
 minds. And are the elements of the religion of 
 Christ less fixed, than the principles of taste, less 
 certain, than the doctrines of party ? Why must these 
 alone be picked up by chance, or be left to be gath- 
 
359 
 
 ered by your children, at an age, when all their hab- 
 its shall be formed, all their prejudices rooted, and 
 parental recommendation have lost its supreme au- 
 thority ? The same motives, which induce you to in- 
 form your child of the being of a God, and of his 
 universal presence — truths, which you will call, per- 
 haps, the uneorrupted dictates of natural religion — 
 should also induce you to instruct him in the facts, 
 the nature, and the precepts of Christianity ; for, let 
 me assure you, that the difficulties and doubts, which 
 respect the simple being and providence of a God, 
 are much greater, and more numerous, than the dif- 
 ficulties, which belong to revelation, after the exist- 
 ence of a God is once granted. In the undistinguish- 
 ing mind of a child, these truths are all equally pre- 
 judices ; and they are noble ones too. They are pre- 
 judices, for which all nature cries aloud through all 
 her works ; prejudices, which past experience, from 
 ten thousand tongues, calls upon you to inculcate. You 
 will not, indeed, enforce doubtful, or merely specula- 
 tive opinions ; but you cannot do wrong in instruct- 
 ing your children in those principles, which have an 
 immediate influence on their conduct. It is true, that, 
 through your want of caution, they may find here- 
 after, that much, which they received from you, must 
 be relinquished as doubtful ; and you should remem- 
 ber, with solemnity, that this discovery will give a 
 shock to their whole system of belief, proportioned 
 to the importance of your mistakes. But it is better, 
 that they should encounter even this hazard, than 
 
860 
 
 I hat they should rush, unprincipled, upon the world, 
 in all the presumptuous poverty of skepticism. 
 
 4. Another most unfortunate errour upon this sub- 
 ject is this, that your children will certainly acquire 
 at school, and by the publick institutions of the gos- 
 pel, an adequate sentiment and knowledge of relig- 
 ious truths, without the necessity of your interference. 
 It is not necessary, you think, to waste your oAvn 
 time in giving supplementary lessons ; for, on this 
 subject, as on every part of education, the progress 
 of the child is provided for in the customary way. 
 This mistake, if indeed it can be called one, baffles 
 all exposure. For, if any thing in life deserves to 
 be considered as at once the exquisite bliss, and pre- 
 eminent duty of a pareut, it is this : to watch the 
 dawning disposition and capacity of a favourite child ; 
 to discover the earliest buds of thought ; to feed with 
 useful truths the inquisitiveness of a young and cu- 
 rious mind 5 to direct the eyes, yet unsullied with the 
 waters of contrition, to a bounteous benefactor ; to 
 lift the little hands, yet unstained with vice, in pray- 
 er to their Father who is in heaven. But so it is. 
 The child, as soon as it is released from the bondage 
 of the nurse, and needs no longer a careful eye to 
 look after its steps and guard it from external in- 
 jury, is too often surrendered to instructers, some of 
 whom are employed to polish the surface of the char- 
 acter, and regulate the motions of the limbs, others, 
 to furnish the memory, and accomplish the imagina- 
 tion, while religion gets admission as she can ; some- 
 
361 
 
 times in aid of authority, and sometimes as a Sat- 
 urday's task, or a Sunday's peculiarity, but how 
 rarely as a sentiment. Their little hearts are made 
 to flutter with vanity, encouraged to pant with emula- 
 tion, persuaded to contract with parsimony, allowed 
 to glow with revenge, or reduced to absolute numb- 
 ness by worldliness and cares, before they have ever 
 felt a sentiment of devotion, or beat with a pulsation 
 of sorrow for an offence, or gratitude for a benefit, 
 in the presence of God. Believe me, parents, you 
 have no right to expect, that the sense of religion will 
 be infused by the labours of others. It is peculiarly 
 the business — I should say, the pleasure of the par- 
 ent. So natural is the transition, from filial duty 
 and filial affection, to those sentiments, which ought 
 to be cherished toward the Father of mercies, that 
 any teacher, whether in the pulpit or the school, 
 who is not aided by parental cooperation, must de- 
 spair of excitiug sentiments of piety, or of impressing 
 principles of religion in the youthful mind. But if, 
 beside supplying your deficiencies, he must, also, 
 counteract your example, he will not, indeed, lose 
 his reward hereafter^ but he will look in vain for any 
 present success. Abjure, then, I beseech you, the 
 delusions, that your children are learning all that is 
 necessary of Christianity, without any encouragement 
 or instruction from yourselves. When parents have 
 ceased to be teachers, religion has ceased to be 
 taught* 
 
 16 
 
362 
 
 III. Though I have by no means exhausted this 
 second branch of my subject, the time compels me to 
 add something on the third and last division : that 
 is, the most proper topicks and modes of religious 
 instruction. 
 
 1. You will, at once, perceive, that you should 
 never begin with what is most difficult. It is not of 
 so much importance, what particular manual of in- 
 struction you adopt, as that it should contain those 
 facts and doctrines, which have the most direct in- 
 fluence on conduct, and are expressed in the most 
 perspicuous language. It is of primary importance, 
 that you make your children feel their perpetual de- 
 pendence upon God, and acknowledge his continual 
 omnipresence, in the darkness and in the light, 
 through the night and through the day, at home and 
 abroad, in solitude and in the presence of numbers, 
 marking every action they perform, understanding all 
 their petty concealments, comprehending all their 
 subtile equivocations, overhearing all their profane 
 or untrue expressions. They can easily understand, 
 that there is one being, whom they cannot deceive. 
 Teach them, also, to refer all the little innocent plea- 
 sures, which they enjoy, to a benefactor superiour to 
 yourselves, and to bear their little disappointments, as 
 tending, ultimately, to their greater enjoyment. Sure- 
 ly, nothing can be easier, than, before the mind has 
 learned to pry into secondary causes, to teach them 
 to feel their immediate dependence on a superiour 
 
303 
 
 power. By frequently comparing, also, their duties 
 and sentiments toward God with their relation to 
 yourselves, you have certainly a most efficacious in- 
 strument of religious impression. 
 
 2. In the next place, you will find, that the facts 
 and narratives in the scripture arc level to their ca- 
 pacities, and interesting to their feelings. They can 
 early sympathize with the sufferings of our Saviour, 
 early be impressed with the wonders of his miracu- 
 lous w r orks ; and their questions will soon afford you 
 opportunity to explain, in the most intelligible man- 
 ner, how he was the saviour and benefactor of our 
 race. They can understand the deplorable situation 
 of mankind, at the time of his appearance in the 
 world, and the love of the Father, in sending him, at 
 that moment, to enlighten and redeem it. They can 
 understand the high character of his obedience, and 
 the merit of his painful sufferings and death. When 
 they have once seen an instance of dissolution, and 
 have conceived an idea of the loss of life, they can 
 be made to understand what Jesus has promised 
 to those, who obey him, and that he himself rose 
 Prom the dead, as an example, and a pledge of the 
 life, that he promises to the good. They can easily 
 understand the wonderful excellence of the Redeem- 
 er's character, and, no doubt, they may be made to 
 feel, that it consisted in great benevolence, meekness, 
 patience, condescension and devotion. They will, at 
 once, discover, also, that the Bible is a book of a pe- 
 culiar character $ and it is not difficult, to generate in 
 
364 
 
 tlieir minds a reverence for its sentiments and style, 
 They should be directed to the most touching repre- 
 sentations, and the most moral stories \ and you will 
 find them susceptible of the best impressions'. 
 
 But, to preserve in their minds an habitual sense of 
 religion, even from their infancy, there is nothing 
 more salutary, than to accustom them to private pray- 
 er. Bo not imagine, that it is necessary to confine them 
 always to a certain form ; nor satisfy yourselves, that 
 it is sufficient to hear them repeat the Lord's pray- 
 er, morning and evening. You will find, that they 
 can, much sooner than you imagine, m Ike little 
 prayers of their own, however short or incoherent 
 they may, at first, appear. O, ye parents, if you were 
 sufficiently interested in this most interesting of sub- 
 jects, you would early aid their thoughts, and help 
 out their imperfect petitions, and accustom them to 
 pray for themselves, instead of hearing them repeat, 
 forever, a form, which they either do not understand, 
 or utter unconsciously. But I must leave the sub- 
 ject to your own good sense, aided by a deep con- 
 viction of the importance of religion, and of early 
 religion. 
 
 Before I conclude, however, I cannot but make one 
 remark, of great practical importance, that, though a 
 child may be secured from the contagion of innumera- 
 ble examples of depravity in others, one unequivocal 
 violation of rectitude, discovered in the parent, may 
 paralyze the influence of all past, and all future in- 
 struction. What, then, is not to be apprehended from 
 
365 
 
 an habitual transgression of the laws of virtue. You 
 cannot, you will not put lessons into your children's 
 hands, every line of which condemns you ; you will 
 not hear them read from books, whose pure pages 
 make you blush ; you will not teach them prayers, 
 who never heard you pray ; nor send them regularly 
 to the weekly services of the sanctuary, to see your 
 seats empty, and hear your irreligious habits con- 
 demned. This, I acknowledge, would be too much 
 to expect of you. Walk, then, within your houses, 
 with a perfect heart. Then may you teach diligent- 
 ly to your children the holy truths and precepts of 
 your religion. You will neither be unwilling to talk 
 of them, when thou sittest in thine house, when thou 
 walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when 
 thou risest up ; that the generations to come may 
 know them, even the children, which shall be born, 
 that they may arise and declare them to their chil- 
 dren, and their children to another generation. 
 
 • 
 
SERMON XXIL 
 
 DEUT. xxxiii. 29. 
 
 HAPPY ART THOU, O ISRAEL ; WHO IS LIKE UNTO THEE ? 
 
 THE proclamation of the chief magistrate, and 
 the long continued custom of this part of the union 
 invite us once more, my christian friends, to cast a 
 retrospective look of gratitude upon our publick bles- 
 sings. It cannot be very dissonant to the spirit of this 
 institution of annual thanksgiving, to devote the hour, s 
 which is occupied in the instructions of the pulpit, to 
 some considerations on the peculiar circumstances, 
 which distinguish this country from older and dis- 
 tant nations ; especially, if we endeavour to ascertain 
 and to acknowledge those advantages for moral and 
 religious excellence, which are afforded by its ex- 
 traordinary position. The very multitude of our 
 privileges, and especially their commonness and ap- 
 parent security diminish, in some degree, the feel- 
 ings of attention and interest, which they ought to 
 excite. Absorbed, as we all are, in the pursuits of 
 private emolument, we too often lose sight of those 
 
367 
 
 publick, but not less distinguished advantages of our 
 situation, which frequently furnish the only, or the pri- 
 mary ground of individual improvement and happi- 
 ness. It is true, we unavoidably feel, with peculiar 
 gratitude, the value of our personal blessings ; but it 
 would be unpardonable, to be always inattentive to 
 those publick privileges, which, though we share them 
 with many millions, may yet constitute our most envia- 
 ble advantages. It is my intention, this morning, with 
 diffidence, to consider, under several heads, some of the 
 circumstances in the situation of this country, which 
 are favourable to great moral and religious eminence ; 
 and to suggest, under each topick, such serious consid- 
 erations, as are suited to the religious nature of the 
 present occasion. 
 
 Omitting, as subjects too extensive for a single dis- 
 course, the blessings of Christianity and civil liberty, 
 the advantage, which I shall first mention, is to be 
 found in the novelty and youth of our institutions* 
 We may begin to build upon the experience of former 
 ages, and older countries, with all the privileges, and 
 all the spirit of new experiment. Young institutions 
 are flexible, and may be easily contrived to meet the 
 exigencies of circumstances, as they rise. To say 
 nothing of our political institutions, which are, in 
 truth, the most hazardous of our experiments — which, 
 from the very nature of our government, every one 
 feels himself called upon to scrutinize, and quite able 
 to adjust — experiments, which, God grant, our folly 
 may never defeat, let us attend to those establish- 
 
368 
 
 rnents, which have learning, publick utility, religion 
 and charity for their objects. In the countries of 
 Europe, the usefulness of this kind of institutions is 
 inconceivably diminished by the circumstance of their 
 v antiquity, and the character of the times, in which 
 they were founded. The munificence of truly pious 
 benefactors was often directed to the most worthless 
 objects. Estates have been bestowed upon mon- 
 astiek and unprofitable foundations ; legacies have 
 been left to keep up the repetition of the most idle su- 
 perstitions ; the bounty of princes and states has been 
 wasted upon establishments, which the change of 
 manners, the progress of literature, and the growing 
 culture of the human mind have rendered heavy in- 
 cumbrances. In truth, it may be safely asserted, that 
 more than half of the noblest generosity of centuries 
 has been entirely unprofitable. Some institutions 
 have grown into nuisances, from the very accumula- 
 tion of their wealth ; and it is too often true, that the 
 danger of reform is more to be dreaded, than the in- 
 convenience of enduring abuses. Ignorant regula- 
 tions, absurd restrictions, or repeated mal-administra- 
 tion have continued to abridge the value of so many 
 magnificent establishments, that we are almost ready 
 to weep at the splendid waste of publick charities 
 and private virtues. We look upon these establish- 
 ments, as we do upon the cumbrous Grothick piles, 
 with which they are so often connected ; piles, 
 which time is continually impairing, while every suc- 
 cessive year leads us to lament, that with all their 
 
369 
 
 solitary grandeur, they should continue so cold, so 
 uncomfortable, so dilapidated, unlit for the purpose 
 of habitation, and standing in worthless grandeur on- 
 ly to engage the curiosity of the antiquarian, or 
 ainnse a casual spectator. 
 
 My friends, a vast range of benefits is open before 
 you in the publiekspirited establishment of institutions, 
 which shall continue favourable to the best interests 
 of the community through many successive genera- 
 tions. Let no man consider himself uninterested in 
 the future influence of any rising institution. The 
 man of letters has something, for which he is responsi- 
 ble, in every literary project; the busy and active, in ev- 
 ery new plan of publick utility. The rich and benev- 
 olent arc answerable for our charitable foundations ; 
 and every man has something, for which he is interest- 
 ed, in our religious institutions. We have opportuni- 
 ties every day of affecting the moral and social char- 
 acter of the next, and consequently of more remote gen- 
 erations. Especially, let us remember the vast impor- 
 tance of our establishments for education, the intimate 
 connexion, which exists between knowledge and vir- 
 tue, between learning and the cause of pure Christianity* 
 
 Let us beware of imagining, however, that be- 
 cause our institutions are young, they are, therefore, 
 free from defect. There is need of experience, as 
 well as of youthful vigour ; and it is possible, that, by 
 multiplying too fast seminaries of education and in- 
 stitutions of publick good, we are misapplying talents 
 and munificence, which might be more usefully em- 
 47 
 
370 
 
 ployed in enlarging, encouraging, and improving old- 
 er establishments. 
 
 A second circumstance in the situation of this coun- 
 try, favourable to moral and religious eminence, is, the 
 equal distribution and abundance of the means of gene- 
 ral competency. No man is here condemned, by the cir- 
 cumstances of his birth, to hopeless want, or to shame- 
 less mendicity. Temptations to fraud are not suggest- 
 ed in this country by the desperateness of any man's 
 circumstances, but by the opportunity of great and al- 
 luring gains. So equally are our advantages distri- 
 buted, that every man, in every rank of life, is neces- 
 sarily taught, by some of the earliest lessons of com- 
 mercial experience, the indispensable value of indus- 
 try, integrity in his dealings, and the strictest fidelity 
 and honour in his trusts. The weight of opulent op- 
 pression is not even felt ; and the sins, which vast 
 monopolies of wealth, or great inequalities in the 
 means of different classes too often generate, are, 
 we trust, here known only by report. In countries, 
 where the distinctions of hereditary wealth have 
 been augmenting through successive ages, the temp- 
 tations to excessive luxury, sensuality, idleness and 
 imperious rule are hardly to be resisted among the 
 great ; and the conscience of the stranger stands aghast 
 at the depravity, which brutalizes the lowest orders. 
 There are countries, where myriads of the inhabitants 
 have not the smallest stake in the community, and 
 where many thousands of wretches are continued in 
 being for no other purpose, as it would appear, than 
 
371 
 
 to prey upon the charity, or the unsuspecting kind- 
 ness of others. Reduce any class of men to inevitable 
 want and hopeless depression, and all the powers of 
 their minds — powers, which must in some way or other 
 he exerted — are bent to the contrivances of petty 
 fraud, or the accomplishment of more desperate 
 crimes. It too often happens, also, that the chari- 
 ties, which the increasing poor of a country demand, 
 though highly honourable to the character of the na- 
 tion that bestows them, tend to perpetuate the evil, 
 they are designed to relieve. My friends, you can- 
 not be too highly grateful for a constitution of society, 
 which secures to the poor his earnings, and protects 
 the rich in his hereditary possessions ; which opens 
 sources of competence to every class of the communi- 
 ty, and affords the enterprizing spirit opportunities of 
 opulence. 
 
 A third circumstance, which you mast allow- me to 
 mention, as favourable to the moral purity and reli- 
 gious character of our uation, is, the comparative thin- 
 ness of our population. We are no where grouped, 
 like the inhabitants of older countries, in large mass- 
 es, but diffused over a prodigious breadth of soil. In- 
 deed, from the great extent of our sea-coast, and the 
 multitude of our commodious harbours, it is not to be 
 feared, that we shall soon have to lament the corrup- 
 tion and the miseries of an overgrown metropolis. 
 Far be it from me to say, that great virtues are not of- 
 ten the peculiar growth of great cities ; virtues, 
 which, perhaps, would never have ripened in the 
 
372 
 
 colder and more insulated climates of a country life. 
 But it is no less certain, that the contagion of evil ex- 
 ample circulates most rapidly, where the points of con- 
 tact are most numerous. Vast bodies of men are always 
 swayed by something like the principle of fashion; and 
 it is chiefly in large cities, that a standard of publick 
 opinion is set up, hardly less than omnipotent, and 
 to which morals, taste and conscience must dishon- 
 ourably conform. It is also true, that, where men 
 are crowded together in superabundant numbers, the 
 lurking holes of depravity are most numerous, and 
 most difficult to be traced. Certain portions of the 
 population form, among themselves, little common- 
 wealths of corruption, in which crime is at once sys- 
 tematized, propagated, sheltered, and brought to per- 
 fection. The promiscuous collection of ail ages and 
 sexes in large manufacturing establishments, which is 
 one of the evils attending on great wealth and popu- 
 lation, is also most deadly in its influence on publick 
 morals. In these establishments a mass of corruption is 
 brought together, and kept continually fomenting, till 
 it produces the most active and deleterious spirit of 
 human depravity. From the evils of excessive popu- 
 lation we have nothing yet to fear. The very activity 
 and diffusion of our commerce will prevent the inconve- 
 nient and excessive population of any one spot ; and 
 the prospect of an overgrown inland metropolis, more 
 unfavourable to purity of manners than a commercial 
 city, is too faint to occasion any present anxiety about 
 its effect on the moral character of our nation. 
 
873 
 
 Intimately connected with this advantage is the, 
 fourth, we shall mention, viz. the agricultural character 
 of a very great majority of our citizens. No situation 
 in life is so favourable to established habits of virtue, 
 and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a residence 
 in the country, and rural occupations. I am not speak- 
 ing of a condition of peasantry, of which, in this coun- 
 try, we know little, who are mere vassals of an ab- 
 sent lord, or the hired labourers of an iutendant, 
 and who are, therefore, interested in nothing but the 
 regular receipt of their daily wages ; but I refer to 
 the honourable character of an owner of the soil, 
 whose comforts, whose weight in the community, and 
 whose very existence depend upon his personal la- 
 bours, and the regular returns of abundance from the 
 soil, which he cultivates. No man, one would think, 
 would feel so sensibly his immediate dependence upon 
 God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar bles- 
 sings, he is invited to look immediately to the bounty 
 of heaven. No secondary cause stands between him 
 and his Maker. To him are essential the regular 
 succession of the seasons, and the timely fall of the 
 rain, the genial warmth of the sun, the sure produc- 
 tiveness of the soil, and the certain operations of those 
 laws of nature, which must appear to him nothing 
 less, than the varied exertions of omnipresent energy. 
 In the country, we seem to stand in the midst of the 
 great theatre of God's power, and we feel an unusual 
 proximity to our Creator. His blue and tranquil sky 
 spreads itself over our heads, and we acknowledge 
 
3?4 
 
 the intrusion of no secondary agent in unfolding tins 
 vast expanse. Nothing but omnipotence can work 
 up the dark horrours of the tempest, dart the flashes 
 of the lightning, and roll the long-resounding ru- 
 mour of the thunder. The breeze wafts to his senses 
 the odours of God's beneficence ; the voice of God's 
 power is heard in the rustling of the forest ; and the 
 varied forms of life, activity, and pleasure, which he 
 observes at every step in the fields, lead him irresis- 
 tibly, one would think, to the source of being, and 
 beauty, and joy. How auspicious such a life to the 
 noble sentiments of devotion ! Besides, the situation 
 of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should 
 seem, to purity and simplicity of moral sentiment. 
 He is brought acquainted, chiefly, with the real and 
 native wants of mankind. Employed solely in bring- 
 ing food out of the earth, he is not liable to be fasci- 
 nated with the fictitious pleasures, the unnatural 
 wants, the fashionable follies and tyrannical vices 
 of more busy and splendid life. 
 
 Still more favourable to the religious character of 
 the husbandman is the circumstance, that, from the 
 nature of agricultural pursuits, they do not so com- 
 pletely engross the attention, as other occupations. 
 They leave much time for contemplation, for reading, 
 and intellectual pleasures ; and these are peculiarly 
 grateful to the resident in the country. Especially 
 does the institution of the sabbath discover all its 
 value to the tiller of the earth, whose fatigue it 
 solaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who 
 
375 
 
 feels, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, 
 which cannot be understood by the busy man, who 
 considers the repose of this day as interfering with 
 his hopes of gain, or professional employments. If, 
 then, this institution is of any moral and religious 
 value, it is to the country we must look for the con- 
 tinuance of that respect and observance, which it 
 merits. My friends, those of you, especially, who 
 retire annually into the country, let these periodical 
 retreats from business or dissipation bring you near- 
 er to your God ; let them restore the clearness of 
 your judgment on the objects of human pursuits, in- 
 vigorate your moral perceptions, exalt your senti- 
 ments, and regulate your habits of devotion ; and if 
 there be any virtue, or simplicity remaining in rural 
 life, let them never be impaired by the influence of 
 your presence and example. 
 
 After what we have now said upon the virtuous 
 and devotional tendency of a country life, it may, 
 perhaps, be considered as inconsistent, or even para- 
 doxical, to place our commercial character among our 
 moral, much less bur religious advantages. But, let 
 it be considered, whatever be the influence of trafnek 
 upon the personal worth of some of those, who are 
 engaged in it, its intrinsick value to the community, 
 and its kind influence upon certain parts of the moral 
 character are not to be disputed. Hence, I do not 
 scruple to state it as the fifth of our national distinc- 
 tions, which call for our grateful acknowledgments. 
 Tell me not of Tyre, and Sidon, and Corinth, and 
 
376 
 
 Carthage. 1 know they were commercial, and cor- 
 rupt. But let it be remembered, that they flourished 
 long before the true principles of honourable trade 
 were understood, before the introduction of Christiani- 
 ty had given any stability to those virtues of conscien- 
 tious integrity, and strict fidelity in trusts, which are 
 now indispensable to commercial prosperity. They 
 have passed away, it is true ; and so has Sparta, 
 where no commerce w r as allowed ; and Judea, though 
 mostly agricultural, is known no more, except for its 
 national ingratitude and corruption. Besides, when 
 the choice of a nation lies, as, from the present state 
 of the world, it appears long destined to lie, between 
 a commercial and a military character, surely there 
 can be little hesitation about the comparative influ- 
 ence of the peaceful activity of trade, though it may 
 tend to enervate some of the energies of the human 
 character, and that deplorable activity of a mere war- 
 like nation, where plunder is the ruling passion of 
 the great, and destruction, the trade of the small, 
 where every new conquest tends only to concentrate, 
 in still fewer hands, the wealth of kingdoms, and to 
 inspire the common people with an undistinguishing 
 ferocity. Surely, we cannot hesitate, whether to pre- 
 fer that warlike state of a nation, which poisons, at 
 once, the sources and security of domestick happi- 
 ness — a state, in which the lives, as well as the vir- 
 tues of mankind, sink into objects of insignificant im- 
 portance — or that commercial situation of a people, 
 which rouses and develops all the powers of all 
 
377 
 
 classes of the population, which gives a perpetual 
 spring to industry, and which, by showing every 
 man, how completely he is dependent upon every 
 other man, makes it his interest to promote the \ ds- 
 perity, to consult the happiness, and to maintain the 
 peace, the health, and the security of the millions, 
 with whom he is connected. Surely, that state of a 
 people cannot be unfavourable to virtue, which pro- 
 vides such facilities of intellectual communication be- 
 tween the remotest regions, so that not a bright idea 
 can spring up in the brain of a foreign philosopher, 
 but it darts, like lightning, across the Atlautick ; not 
 an improvement obtains in the condition of one so- 
 ciety, but it is instantly propagated to every other. 
 By this perpetual interchange of thought, and this 
 active diffusion of understanding, the most favour- 
 able opportunities are afforded for the dissemim 
 of useful knowledge, especially for the extension of 
 that most precious of gifts, the gospel of Jesus. I 
 need not add, that the wide intercourse, we are keep- 
 ing up with foreign nations, ought to enlarge the 
 sphere of our intelligence, liberalize our sentiments 
 of mankind, polish the manners of the community, 
 and introduce courteousness and urbanity of deport- 
 ment. Merchants ! if I may be permitted to suggest 
 to you any considerations on the value of your order 
 to the community, I would say, that upon your per- 
 sonal character depends much of these favourable in- 
 fluences of commerce. I would beg you to beware 
 of an engrossing love of profit, which invariably nar- 
 48 
 
37B 
 
 rows the capacity, and debases the noblest tendencies 
 of the human character. I would persuade you to 
 cultivate habits of mental activity, to indulge enlarg- 
 ed views of your connexion with mankind, to con- 
 sider yourselves as forming part of the vast chain 
 of mutual supports and dependencies, by which the 
 activity, the improvement and the pleasure of the in- 
 habitants of every part of the w orld are secured and 
 promoted. Above all, forget not, that you are in- 
 struments in the hands of Providence, by which he 
 diffuses his blessings, and promotes his grand pur- 
 poses in the cultivation, the civilization and, thus, 
 the moral and religious advancement of this wide 
 creation. Grod grant, that you may never feel the 
 remorse of having deliberately contributed to the in^ 
 troduction of a new vice into the community, or to 
 the corruption of an old or established principle ; of 
 having aided the tyranny of a worthless fashion, or 
 assisted the gradual encroachments of selfishness, 
 vanity, pomp, and slavish imitation, on the freedom 
 and dignity of social life ! 
 
 I have already said, that the blessings of the chris- 
 tian religion and of civil liberty, though far more 
 important in their influence, than any one of those 
 advantages, we have already considered, were too 
 extensive to be fairly represented in the limits of a 
 sermon ; and, for that reason, I purposely omit them, 
 especially, too, as they are subjects of such common 
 discourse. But I cannot spare myself the satisfac- 
 tion of suggesting, as the sixth of our peculiar ad- 
 
379 
 
 vantage*, the perfect toleration and equal competi- 
 tion of religious opinions. In this country, the wishes 
 of innumerable great and good men, of former ages 
 and older countries, are wonderfully realized ; and 
 many of the sincere friends of religion are looking 
 on, with anxious expectation, to watch the success of 
 the experiment of unmixed religious liberty. It must 
 be, it will be favourable to the grand cause of God 
 and truth and virtue. In those countries, where 
 freedom of religious inquiry is cautiously restrained, 
 where subscriptions to formularies and articles of 
 faith are made qualifications for every species of 
 civil dignity or ecclesiastical employment, the con- 
 clusion quickly follows, that religion is only the crea- 
 ture of the civil power. Wherever an establish- 
 ment exists, especially if freedom of inquiry is at 
 the same time discouraged, the majority of the people 
 have no other conception of Christianity, than as it is 
 found in that establishment, or as it is stated in its 
 authorized compendium. Hence, every objection, 
 which, as the mind enlarges, is casually suggested 
 against that peculiar modification of Christianity, op- 
 erates fatally against revelation itself ; and hence the 
 number of infidels in any country will be in exact 
 proportion to the restrictions laid on the liberty of 
 thinking and writing on subjects of religion. But 
 when those grand objects of meditation, God, and 
 Christ, and eternity, and retribution, and revelation, 
 and miracles, and the origin and destination of man, 
 are not considered as the exclusive study of the 
 
380 
 
 priest, from being the most sublime, they become, also, 
 the most interesting of speculations. Man, in such a 
 country, feels, that no power on earth can interpose 
 between his conscience and his Creator. He feels 
 something of the nobility of his origin, and has a 
 foretaste of the grandeur of his destination. He finds, 
 that there are subjects, and those, too, which infinitely 
 transcend the ordinary subjects of human inquiry, in 
 which he has as deep an interest as his superiours, 
 and for the knowledge of which he is as responsible 
 as his instructers. Thus the latent powers of the 
 mind are developed, its pursuits ennobled, and its 
 views enlarged ; and man feels that sentiment of his 
 own dignity, without which there can be nothing of 
 frankness, nothing of generosity, nothing of stable 
 excellence in the moral character. 
 
 When, also, there is a perfectly fair competition 
 between all the sects of a community, each one of 
 them finds, that it can maintain its influence, or its 
 numbers, only by a degree of purity in its doctrines, 
 which will stand the test of inquiry, or by the supe- 
 riour sanctity of its morals, or by the especial exer- 
 tions and zeal of its ministers. Hence, though the 
 prodigious diversity of religious opinions in a free 
 country will sometimes be found productive of seri- 
 ous evils, yet are these evils counterbalanced by the 
 circumstance, that here religion is brought home to 
 the bosom of every man ; it becomes his personal 
 concern ; he worships God with more ardent and 
 devotional satisfaction, because he can worship him 
 
381 
 
 according to the dictates of his own conscience. 
 Thousands of temptations to hypocrisy are thus cast 
 off at once ; the sacred inviolability of religious opin- 
 ion becomes an hereditary sentiment, which every 
 man is proud to transmit. Feeling the value of his 
 own liberty, he learns to respect what he thinks the 
 erroneous conscience of his brother ; and, by the un- 
 embarrassed communication of every truth, of every 
 doubt, and every interesting sentiment, the celestial 
 fire of religious inquiry is enkindled in thousands of 
 hearts, and the grand work of our spiritual per- 
 fection hastened and promoted. My friends, shall 
 we become the more indifferent about our faith, as 
 our means of ascertaining its truth and purity are 
 multiplied ? Shall that unbounded liberty of con- 
 science, which we enjoy, terminate in nothing but 
 the liberty of not bestowing a thought on the subject? 
 Shall the unrestrained freedom of religious choice 
 amount to nothing but freedom from the restraints of 
 every species of religious belief? 
 
 Bear with me yet a little longer, that I may mention, 
 in the seventh and last place, the peculiar advantages, 
 we enjoy in our iemoteness from the wars, the tu- 
 mults, the revolutions and the crimes of the older 
 world. A mighty drama is acting on the theatre of 
 Europe. We sit here peaceful spectators, while an 
 ocean rolls between us and that stage of fearful 
 events. Feeling none of the miseries of war, we 
 have not yet witnessed all the confusion of its crimes. 
 Indeed, my friends, our situation is unexampled in 
 
38S 
 
 the records of nations. Brought into the rank of in- 
 dependent states at this late period of the world, the 
 experience of past ages is spread out before us, and 
 all the rolls of time are unfolded for our instruction. 
 A wonderful providence seems to lift us up miracu- 
 lously to a lofty region of observation, that we may 
 see the shock of empires, and tremble, and be thankful. 
 Indeed, it would seem, as if a last experiment were 
 making among us, to prove, whether a nation can profit 
 any thing, not merely by the history of its predeces- 
 sors, but by a series of dreadful events, which are 
 passing directly before its eyes. God grant, the grand 
 experiment may succeed ! You and I, and generations 
 yet unborn, are interested in it. It is to be seen, wheth- 
 er religion has found here that permanent shelter, she 
 sought. It is to be seen, whether the only valuable bles- 
 sings of human life, order, virtue, mental cultivation, re- 
 ligious liberty and religious sentiments can coexist with 
 a state of permanent and unexampled peace and pros- 
 perity. It is to be seen, in short, whether a people can 
 be entrusted with the very blessings, for which thou- 
 sands of great and good men have most earnestly 
 sought ; or whether we shall add another to the list of 
 corrupted and corrupting states, and go down with the 
 rest, enervated by the crimes of youth, to the vast 
 cemetery of nations, (rod, of thy mercy, avert this re- 
 sult ! Scourge us, distress us, reduce us, alarm us, if 
 we may, by any means, preserve that righteousness, 
 which exalteth a nation, and may escape that sin, 
 which is the ruin of any people. 
 
• 
 
 SERMON XXIII. 
 
 PHIL. iv. 3. 
 
 I ENTREAT THEE, HELP THOSE WOMEN, WHICH LABOURED 
 
 WITH ME IN THE GOSPEL, WHOSE NAMES ARE IN THE 
 
 BOOK OF LIFE, 
 
 THIS is one of the numerous passages in the 
 gospel history, where honourable mention is made of 
 the female sex. From the angel's salutation of the 
 virgin mother of our Lord, to the letter of John, the 
 beloved apostle, to the elect lady and her children, 
 the New Testament is full of their exertions, their 
 affection, fidelity and influence. In the course of our 
 Saviour's ministry, sublime and solemn as was his 
 supernatural character, we find frequent examples of 
 his attention to them, and of their attachment to 
 him. To the woman of Samaria he made the first 
 declaration of his Messiahship, and imparted the first 
 principles of his new and spiritual doctrine ; and this, 
 too, with a condescension, which surprised his disci- 
 pies, who wondered, that he talked with the woman. 
 We find him, also, a frequent guast in the family of 
 Martha, and Mary } for Jesus, we are told, loved 
 
Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. One of these 
 affectionate sisters, to testify her respect for his per- 
 son, just before his sufferings, came with a box of 
 costly perfume, and poured it over his head, as he 
 sat at meat ; and with so much pleasure did he re- 
 ceive this offering of female affection, that even the 
 disciples murmured, while he declared, that, wherev- 
 er his gospel was preached, it should be told for a 
 memorial of her. 
 
 Mary Magdalene, too, a Jewish lady of some 
 wealth and consideration, makes a distinguished 
 figure among the friends of Jesus. She has been 
 most strangely and unjustly confounded with that 
 penitent female, who had been a sinner, and who 
 bathed our Lord's feet with tears of contrition. But 
 Mary Magdalene had been cured by our Saviour of 
 one of the most terrible maladies, which can afflict 
 our suffering nature ; and the fondest employment of 
 her recovered reason seems to have been, to listen to 
 her deliverer, and to minister to him of her substance. 
 With many of the women, she followed him from 
 Galilee through that scene of suffering, when all the 
 disciples from our sex forsook him, and fled. The 
 women never lost sight of him, till he was raised 
 upon the cross ; then they stood by and witnessed 
 his expiring movements. They left not the body, till 
 it was deposited in the tomb ; then they saw, where 
 it was laid, and prepared their spices to embalm it. 
 On the sabbath they were obliged to leave it, and rest, 
 " according to the commandment but their wake- 
 
385 
 
 fid eyes caught the first streaks of eastern light on 
 the morning of the resurrection : and to the women, 
 watching and weeping at the sepulchre, appeared the 
 first delightful vision of the Lord of glory, risen in 
 all the freshness of his new and immortal life. 
 
 Some of the earliest and most faithful converts of 
 the apostles were also from this sex. To the assem- 
 bled saints and widows, Peter presented Dorcas alive, 
 who had been full of good works and almsdeeds, 
 which she did. The tender heart of Lydia was 
 melted at the preaching of Paul ; and, in his epistles, 
 he seldom fails to send salutations to some of those 
 excellent females, who, by their works of charity and 
 labours of love, cherished the feeble community of 
 persecuted christians, and illustrated the amiable 
 spirit and benignant influence of the religion they 
 professed. 
 
 Perhaps it is not difficult to account for these fre- 
 quent examples of female Christianity, so interesting, 
 and yet so honourable to the gospel. The men, in 
 Judea, were looking for a prince, as their Messiah, 
 who should answer their ambitious hopes, not only 
 by the restoration of the kingdom to Israel, but also 
 by dispensing individual honours and personal dis- 
 tinctions in his approachiug dominion. Every Jew, 
 therefore, as he expected a share of this splendid 
 power, felt a portion of that vanity, which belonged 
 to the expected masters of the world. Hence, they 
 at first approached our Lord with impatience and 
 49 
 
386 
 
 high-raised hopes ; but finding him, contrary to their 
 previous fancy, so poor, meek, unpretending, spiritual 
 and unambitious, they often retired in disgust, which, 
 in the great men of the nation, his rebukes often in- 
 flamed to rage. 
 
 Meanwhile the Jewish women, in their retired and 
 subordinate station, had little share in these ambi- 
 tious expectations. The mother of Zebedee's chil- 
 dren, when she came to ask a favour of Christ, solicit- 
 ed nothing for herself, but only for her sons, that 
 they might have offices in his kingdom. To the hap- 
 piness of the Jewish women it was of little conse- 
 quence, whether the standard of the expected univer- 
 sal empire waved on the temple at Jerusalem, or the 
 capitol at Rome. No wonder, then, they were de- 
 lighted, when they saw the Christ, the prince, the 
 idol of the Jewish expectation, treating their sex 
 with distinguished kindness. They were more at 
 leisure to feel and contemplate the moral greatness of 
 Jesus, the sufferer 5 while the other sex were eager 
 to see the sign from heaven, which should mark out 
 Jesus, the triumphant. The women were won by the 
 tears, which they saw him shed at the grave of Laza- 
 rus, in sympathy with the afflicted sisters ; but the 
 men, who were standing by, were dissatisfied, for, 
 said they, Could he not have caused that Lazarus 
 should not have died ? And when Jesus, the wonder 
 and glory of Judea, the suffering prince, cast his last 
 look from his cross down on the fainting Mary, and 
 says to John, with his last breath, Behold thy mo- 
 
387 
 
 ther ! is it to be wondered at, that the women, who 
 stood by and heard it, should have beggfed this body, 
 and embalmed this corpse, from which a spirit so af- 
 fectionate had just taken its flight? 
 
 This regard for the founder of our faith they seem 
 to have continued to the apostles ; for the christian 
 communities, in the first ages, were distinguished by 
 an order of women, who ministered to the necessities 
 of the saints, who brought up children, who lodged 
 strangers, who washed the saints' feet, who reliev- 
 ed the afflicted, and diligently followed every good 
 work, thus embalming anew the remains of their 
 Lord in the fragrance of their charities toward the 
 church, which is his body. 
 
 1 fancy myself standing in the presence of their 
 successors, who have not forfeited the religious char- 
 acter of the friends of Jesus, and who yet feel the 
 unimpaired influence of his affectionate religion. Do 
 not imagine, that we disparage the glory, or that we 
 lightly esteem the power of Christianity, when we 
 say, it is the only religion for the female sex ; for, 
 though it was introduced for the good of the whole 
 world, it produces much of this good by its effects on 
 their condition, and its power on their hearts. 
 
 When we find, upon opening the gospels, such lan- 
 guage as this, Blessed are the poor in spirit ; blessed 
 are the meek, the merciful, the peace-makers, the ca- 
 lumniated, is it surprising, that the most fond and 
 faithful votaries of such a religion should be found 
 among a sex, destined, by their very constitution, to 
 
388 
 
 the exercise of the passive, the quiet, the secret, the 
 gentle and humble virtues ? Is it surprising, that — 
 while the self-styled lords of the creation are ab- 
 sorbed in the pursuits of wealth and ambition, dis- 
 tracted in the game of war and politicks, or kept by 
 business or pleasure out of the knowledge of that 
 care and obscurity, to which their female partners 
 are separated by the customs of society— is it sur- 
 prising, that the dependent, solitary female, in looking 
 round for a bosom, where she may pour out her se- 
 crets, or assuage her anxieties, should resort with pe- 
 culiar tenderness and confidence to that invisible par- 
 ent, who is always present to her aid ; and thus ac- 
 quire a habit of devotion and communion with God, 
 unknown to our more presumptuous sex ? 
 
 You will not be offended by the suggestion, that, 
 accustomed, as you are, to feel, oftener than to reason, 
 the portions of our religion, which are addressed to 
 the imagination, affect you with singular force. Ac- 
 customed more to retirement, than to active life, you 
 have more leisure, and consequent disposition for re- 
 ligious contemplations. It is, also, infinitely honoura- 
 ble to your character, that you ever feel a secret 
 sympathy with a religion, which unlocks all the 
 sources of benevolent affection, which smiles on 
 every exercise of compassion, and every act of kind- 
 ness. We may say too, perhaps, that your hearts, 
 not hardened by the possession of power, the pains 
 of avarice, or the emulations of publick life, are 
 more alive to the accents of pardon by Jesus Christ, 
 
389 
 
 more awake to the glories of the invisible world. 
 The gospel came to throw a charm over domestick 
 life; and, in retirement, the first objects, which it 
 found, were mothers and their children. It came to 
 bind up the brokenhearted ; and for that office woman 
 was always best prepared. It came to heal the sick ; 
 and woman was already waiting at their couches. It 
 came to open the gates of life on the languid eye of 
 the dying penitent ; and woman was every where to 
 be seen, softly tending at the pillow, and closing 
 the eyes of the departing. 
 
 With this superiour susceptibility of religious im- 
 pression and aptitude to the practical duties of the 
 gospel, I know, there are evils associated, against 
 which it is sometimes difficult to guard. Sensibility 
 degenerates into weakness, and religious awe into su- 
 perstition, in your sex, oftener, perhaps, than in ours ; 
 yet, with all these dangers and inconveniences, I be- 
 lieve, that if Christianity should be compelled to flee 
 from the mansions of the great, the academies of the 
 philosophers, the halls of legislators, or the throng of 
 busy men, we should find her last and purest retreat 
 with woman at the fireside ; her last altar would be 
 the female heart ; her last audience would be the 
 children gathered round the knees of a mother ; her 
 last sacrifice, the secret prayer escaping, in silence, 
 from her lips, and heard, perhaps, only at the throne 
 of God. 
 
 But enough of the religious character of the female 
 sex. To say more, perhaps, would be invidious ; and 
 
390 
 
 to have said less would hardly have been just to those 
 meek spirits, who have, in every age, given a charm 
 and mild lustre to the gospel, which they first hail- 
 ed, as it dawned over the hills of Palestine, A less 
 delicate and difficult subject remains. 
 
 What has Christianity done for that sex, to which 
 it seems so well adapted ; and what ought they now 
 to do for Christianity ? These are the remaining heads 
 of our discourse. 
 
 1. What has the introduction of Christianity done 
 for your sex ? This inquiry presents itself with pecu- 
 liar interest on this occasion, when we are called 
 to appear before an assembly of females, who, un- 
 der the genial influence of the christian religion, and 
 of this alone, have founded, and supported, and suc- 
 cessfully conducted the institution before us. In 
 former ;ages, and under any other system of religion, 
 these children, instead of being nourished, as they 
 now are, by the care of christian women, would prob- 
 ably have been exposed, at their birth, to perish 
 under the broad cope of heaven; and you, ladies, 
 instead of assembling with your young and tender 
 orphans to praise the Father of the fatherless, and 
 claiming the respect and the patronage of our sex, 
 would have been crouching under our tyranny, or 
 ministering to our passions, or leading, in obscure 
 apartments assigned to your sex, a selfish, vapid, and 
 unprofitable life. 
 
 But, now, wherever this gospel is preached, that, 
 which these women have done, shall be told for a 
 
391 
 
 memorial of theni, and of their sex. These walls, 
 this service, these orphans, this audience, and all the 
 circumstances, which surround us, proclaim the pow- 
 er and blessedness of the gospel. 
 
 In savage life the condition of women is every 
 where nearly the same, varying only in degree of de- 
 gradation, from the brutal licentiousness of the Ota- 
 heitan, to the slavish drudgery of the females of more 
 northern climates. To this state of relative depres- 
 sion there' are exceptions, it is said, among the tribes 
 of Indians on our north west coast, wherej man ap- 
 pears to have sunk to a lower point of barbarity, than 
 his companion, who seems thus to have mounted a 
 little on his ruins. Perhaps, too, woman, in uncivil- 
 ized life, retains and exercises more of the peculiar 
 virtues of the sex, than we find, on the whole, in 
 their inactive retreats among the polished nations of 
 antiquity. Of the humanity and kindness of woman 
 in savage life, Ledyard has left a testimony, which 
 will never cease to be read with emotion, while there 
 is an eye left to weep. 
 
 It might be previously supposed, that, as the char- 
 acter of our sex was, in the progress of civilization, 
 refined and exalted, the condition of women would be 
 correspondent^ ameliorated, and their character ele- 
 vated. No doubt, many are ready to believe, that 
 Christianity has done nothing for women, which it had 
 not first done for men ; that it has elevated them by 
 raising us. But a very little attention to the private 
 life of the Greeks and Romans, at the summit of their 
 
393 
 
 civilization and intellectual culture, will refute this 
 suggestion. If Ave would find the wives and daugh- 
 ters of the Greeks, in the age of Pericles, we must 
 look for them in the inmost apartments of the houses, 
 where they were condemned to labour in obscurity at 
 the distaff and the loom, in common inanity and eternal 
 ennui. The only women of cultivated miuds were 
 then the females, who had thrown off the restraints 
 of decency and domestick life ; and the dreary vacan- 
 cy of the female understanding is but sadly relieved, 
 among this polished people, with the names of Sap- 
 pho, Aspasia, and some other courtezans, who have 
 come down to us with the titles of poets and philoso- 
 phers. You cannot fail to comprehend the condition 
 of your sex, w hen you read, that Socrates was compel- 
 led to resort for female conversation to the feet of As- 
 pasia ; and that Thucydides, the most philosophical 
 of Grecian historians, lays it down as a maxim, 
 that " the most virtuous woman is she, of whom the 
 least can be said." 
 
 If we now pass to Rome, we find little variation in 
 the relative condition or character of the sex. We 
 are attracted by the great actions of some Ro- 
 man women, in the days of their republican rudeness 
 and severity. We repeat, with the admiration of 
 school boys, the story of the Sabine matrons, and the 
 names of Lucretia, Volumnia, Hortensia, Cornelia, 
 the mother of the Gracchi, Portia, and Arria, the wife 
 of Partus ; but the oeccasional deeds of female great- 
 ness, which break out amid the austerity of the early, 
 
 i 
 
393 
 
 and the licentiousness of the later times, and which 
 are chiefly remarkable from the very depression of 
 the sex, serve now rather to point a moral and adorn 
 a tale, than to throw any certain light on the condi- 
 tion and character of the Roman women. When we 
 are told, however, that, for five hundred years, not a 
 husband in Rome exercised his manly prerogative of 
 divorce, we are tempted to lift up our hands in admi- 
 ration, either of the virtues of one sex, or the forbear- 
 ance of the other ; but we soon recollect ourselves, 
 and begin to suspect, with Gibbon,* " that the same 
 fact evinces the unequal terms of a connexion, in which 
 the slave was unable to renounce her tyrant, and the 
 tyrant unwilling to relinquish his slave." Soon, 
 however, the Roman matrons became, in consequence 
 of a new jurisprudence, " the equal and voluntary 
 companions of their lords." From that time, the 
 corruption and misery of their private life incalcula- 
 bly increased. The women, from having been con- 
 stant slaves, became the general corrupters of man- 
 ners : and, as luxury increased, those, who had left 
 the labours of the loom entirely to their slaves, had 
 no other substitute for this engagement, than frequent 
 marriages, capricious divorces, and licentious amours. 
 The morals of the Roman women, in the time of the 
 first emperours, are too well known from the satires of 
 Juvenal ; and of their intellectual condition it may be 
 enough to remark, that not a single work of a female 
 
 * Ghap. 44. 
 
 50 
 
394 
 
 classical author has come down to us through the 
 whole course of Roman literature.* 
 
 To heighten the dark colouring of this picture of 
 paganism, it is not necessary to survey the vast conti- 
 nent of Asia, to explore the recesses of the haram, and 
 follow the Hindoo wife to the funeral pile of her hus- 
 band. In that extensive region of the world, the 
 manners and customs, which have been the same 
 through many centuries, all proclaim the degradation 
 of the sex. If we resort to the land of Judea, where 
 all is singular and astonishing in the history of the in- 
 habitants, we shall not find much to relieve the pic- 
 ture of woman. The laws of Moses, it is true, were, 
 in many respects, more humane, impartial and favour- 
 able to the sex, than any thing we find in the rest of 
 Asia ; and we have left us, in the Proverbs of Solo- 
 mon, a description of what the wisest man of the east 
 conceived to be the perfection of a virtuous wife, 
 whose price, he says, is above rubies. But though 
 we may admit, that it is a picture of an excellent wife, 
 yet, if the king were now to draw a portrait of ideal 
 female perfection, he might gather, from some living 
 excellence, traits of moral beauty, and of female glo- 
 ry, of which the princes of the east, in the days of 
 Solomon, had a very faint conception. 
 
 We come now to the period, when the light of the 
 gospel began to break upon the world, and woman 
 w as first raised to share with man the same destiny 
 
 * That is, till after the introduction of Christianity., when av6 find several 
 
 female ecclesiastical writers. 
 
395 
 
 and duties, by being interested in the same redemp- 
 tion and the same hopes. The christian communi- 
 ties, in the first century, collected by a new and su- 
 pernatural impulse from the corruption and degrada- 
 tion of hunianUy in the pagan world, were early fill- 
 ed with women, who, at once, preached and practised, 
 ennobled and recommended the new religion. In the 
 course of a few years, the christian inartyrologies are 
 full of the names of female sufferers, who, for Jesus' 
 sake, went to the stake with all the courage and in- 
 flexibility of apostles. 
 
 From Judah's rocks the sacred light expands, 
 And beams and broadens into distant lands. 
 
 But O ye weak, beneath a master's rod, 
 Trembling and prostrate, own a helping God ! 
 Ardent in faith, through bonds, and toil, and loss, 
 Bear the glad tidings, triumph in the cross ! 
 Away with woman's fears I proud man shall own 
 As proud a mate on virtue's loftiest throne ; 
 On to the death in joy — for Jesus' sake 
 Writhed on the rack, or blackening at the stake, 
 Scorn the vain splendours of the world below, 
 And soar to bliss, that only martyrs know !* 
 
 But the effect of Christianity upon the character aud 
 condition of your sex did not terminate in raising 
 the armies of martyrs, with which the annals of the 
 church are crowded. The truly important and per- 
 manent influence of Christianity arose from the check, 
 which it gave to the licentiousness of divorce, and 
 
 * Lucy Aikin. 
 
396 
 
 from the abolition of the practice of polygamy. By 
 these sacred laws of the new dispensation man and 
 woman were raised from the abyss of depravity, in 
 which they were sunk together. By the prevalence 
 of the gospel it was soon understood, that the souls 
 of your sex were of an origin as high, a value as 
 precious, a destination as lofty, and a duration as 
 lasting, as our ow n. Woman then began to be the 
 companion and the partner of man ; the condition of 
 domestick life was changed ; and the household gods 
 of the pagans were supplanted. It was understood 
 to be one of the principles of Christianity, that, while 
 man was the head of the woman, woman was the 
 glory of the man ; the unbelieving husband was 
 sanctified by the w ife ; and the holy spirit had been 
 poured, without distinction of sex, on the male and 
 female converts. Not only was the bond of marriage 
 fastened indissolubly by the force of religion, as well 
 as by its laws, and woman delivered from the ca- 
 prices of divorce, and the miseries of polygamy ; but, 
 by the introduction of the gospel, a new impulse was 
 given to the ideas, and a new direction to the pursuits 
 of the sex. They were not only pure maidens and 
 faithful wives, but they became, also, thinkers and 
 students ; apologists, as well as martyrs for Christian- 
 ity. Where the new faith was received, they often 
 introduced it. They established it on the thrones 
 of the northern nations, who were preparing to burst 
 in upon the tottering empire of the west ; and what 
 our religion owes to them of its rapid extension; it 
 
3<J7 
 
 abundantly repaid by its influence on their condition. 
 It was, in fact, the regeneration of one half of the 
 human race. The life, liberty, talents and virtues of 
 mankind were doubled, as it were, by this wonder- 
 ful moral revolution. N,ew vigour was imparted to 
 benevolence, a new charm given to social life, a new 
 spring to the energies of the human mind, and a new 
 aud celestial character to the religion of the world. 
 While Christianity was accomplishing these benefits 
 for the female sex, mahometanism arose from the cor- 
 ruptions, which began to obscure and deprave it, and 
 formed, at the same time, a contrast to the effects of 
 the pure, original religion of Jesus. As the religion 
 of Mahomet extended and established itself in Asia, 
 it sealed forever the domestick slavery and relative 
 degradation of women ; while under the influence of 
 Christianity, even in its degenerating form, the sex 
 continued to ascend to the condition, which they now 
 enjoy in Europe. The parallel, which this new revo- 
 lution suggests, might be drawn, perhaps, with effect ; 
 but the cause of Christianity, before such an audience, 
 does not, I hope, require illustrations from the condi- 
 tion of Asiatick females. 
 
 In fine, when we compare the condition of your 
 sex, even under the present partial reign of the 
 christian faith, with their condition under the best 
 forms of paganism, it is not difficult to admit, that 
 the gospel ought to have the honour of this renova- 
 tion. There may be those, however, who are inclin- 
 ed to attribute these favourable changes to what they 
 
would call, the influence of philosophy. If by this 
 word is meant, a philosophy unenlightened by the 
 gospel, the facts, we have already adduced, sufficient- 
 ly refute the claim ; for the progress of women, in 
 the course of pagan refinement, was uniformly found 
 to be from slavery to licentiousness. On this subject 
 we, at least, may be satisfied with the memorable ac- 
 knowledgment of Rousseau, "that philosophy has 
 not been able to do any good, which religion could 
 not have done better ; and religion has done much, 
 which philosophy could not have done at all." Or 
 if by philosophy be meant, the best modes of think- 
 ing, which have prevailed in the most enlightened 
 part of Christendom, or that mental cultivation, to 
 which modern Europe has attained, we must first de- 
 termine, what Christianity has done for all the true 
 and sound philosophy, which now exists, before we 
 pretend to ascribe to the latter alone those blessings 
 of modern times, which are comprised under the gen- 
 eral name of civilization. 
 
 There is, however, an institution, which arose in 
 times of danger and confusion, to which an influence 
 has been ascribed, highly favourable to the cause of 
 politeness, humanity, and female dignity and virtue. 
 But, when you would know, what chivalry lias done 
 for your sex, you must be careful, that you do not 
 form your notions of its nature from the gorgeous and 
 fascinating descriptions, with which the early roman- 
 ces and chivalrous bards abound. The true Euro- 
 pean lady of those gallant days was a being very 
 
399 
 
 little like the sweet female portraits, which Spenser 
 has left us. It was not until after the revival of 
 learning in Italy, in the fifteenth century, that the 
 fair lady, who figured in the pageant of knighthood, 
 had any other brightness, than that, which radiated 
 from her eyes, or sparkled in her ornaments. 
 
 The natural effect of the idolatrous homage, then 
 paid to rank and beauty, must have been, to enfeeble 
 the female mind, already perverted by the sight of 
 scenes of blood and single combat, by which the fa- 
 vour of the sex was obtained. Chivalry, no doubt, 
 did much for the general courtesy of Christendom ; 
 but, whether it contributed much to the cultivation of 
 the heart or of the understanding, in your sex, we 
 may be allowed to doubt. The relicks of chivalry, 
 in modern days, are not often to be met with 5 nor is 
 the little, we have left, of such a nature, as to induce 
 us to wish, that more had been preserved ; for to it 
 we certainly owe that spurious gallantry, which lias 
 perverted the morals of the sex in a great part of 
 Europe ; and to it we trace those horrible notions of 
 honour, which yet prevail among us, to the disgrace, 
 and condemnation of a christian people. 
 
 When we compare the influence of that gallantry, 
 which grew out of this strange institution, with the 
 influence of the monastick spirit, w hich was intended 
 to counteract or repair its effects, we may, perhaps, 
 find reasons for believing, that the convent was not 
 always a step in the degradation, but often in the 
 elevation of your sex. We may find, perhaps, that 
 
400 
 
 the schools, the charities, the studies, and the devo- 
 tions, which these institutions encouraged, were some 
 contributions to the progress of the female mind. 
 
 Labour and rest, that equal periods keep, 
 Obedient slumbers, that can .wake and weep, ^ 
 Desires composed, affections ever eveji, 
 Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven 
 
 were not all, that was to be found in those religious 
 retreats. There, repentance not only found a place 
 to weep, but charity found objects of its constant 
 care ; the mind received a kind of melancholy culti- 
 vation, and the heart enjoyed an enthusiastick exer- 
 cise of some of its strongest affections. 
 
 Every favourable conclusion, which we have been 
 disposed to form of the influence of Christianity on 
 the character of your sex, is confirmed by a survey 
 of modern Europe. Notwithstanding the progress 
 of what is called refinement in nations, wherever re- 
 ligion has been most corrupted, woman is yet most 
 depraved, and shows a more sensible degradation, 
 than our sex. It would be easy to refer you to mod- 
 ern Italy and Spain for illustrations of this ; but it 
 will be sufficient to confine ourselves to that country, 
 where the dregs of chivalry seem to have settled in 
 the form of gallantry, after the pure spirit of honour 
 had evaporated. In France the female understand- 
 ing has been as highly cultivated, as in any part of 
 Christendom. There your sex has often dictated the 
 fashions of philosophy and taste, and exercised a 
 sensible sway over the republick of letters ; and if, 
 
401 
 
 with this high culture of the female imagination, and 
 this invisible influence and authority in criticism, 
 France had also produced the best female instructor! 
 of the world, and the purest examples in the walks 
 of doniestick usefulness, we should be obliged to re- 
 linquish some of the conclusions, which we have al- 
 ready embraced, and acknowledge, that the state of 
 Christianity in a country has little to do in the forma- 
 tion of female perfection. But, when we look over 
 the roll of the female writers of France, how often 
 are we compelled to pause, and wonder at their 
 strange union of sentiment and affectation, of moral 
 delicacy and voluptuousness, of philosophy and par- 
 adox, of exquisite sensibility and practical unprin- 
 cipledness ; so that there is hardly one of their most 
 celebrated females, whose works you may venture to 
 recommend without reserve, or to read without ex- 
 ception. It may be set down, perhaps, to the preju- 
 dices of a protestant education, or to national pride, 
 that, though I am disposed to allow the singular mer- 
 it and piety of the celebrated Madame Dacier, I 
 could wish, that she had not translated Aristophanes 
 and Anacreon ; and must be allowed to prefer the 
 severer accomplishments of the venerable Mrs. Car- 
 ter, and even the curious learning and delicate ripe- 
 ness of that modest prodigy, Elizabeth Smith. J 
 have felt occasional sympathy with the devout and 
 mystical genius of Madame Guyon, but I cannot 
 give to her that homage, which I pay to the angelick 
 
 vision of Klopstock's wife. I acknowledge the en- 
 51 
 
402 
 
 chanting sensibility of Madame de Sevigne, the prac- 
 tical good sense of Madame de Genlis, the Delphick 
 inspiration of Madame deStael, the passionate touches 
 of Madame Cottin ; but my admiration, at least of 
 these latter writers, is often clouded with sorrow and 
 disgust. I look in vain for one " sun — clad in perfect 
 purity," and turn for relief to the sound philosophy 
 of Elizabeth Hamilton, or delight myself with the 
 exquisite elegance and hallowed fancy of Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld, the exuberant diction and evangelical morality 
 of Hannah More, the well-attempered maxims of the 
 sensible Chapone, the practical sagacity and miracu- 
 lous invention of Maria Edgeworth. These names, 
 — except, perhaps, the last, who has not yet author- 
 ized us to class her, — all belong to Christianity. 
 They were nourished at the breast of protestantism ; 
 they are daughters of the christian family ; and they 
 have breathed, though a colder, yet a purer air, than 
 their rivals. It is our glory to belong to the age, 
 which they have illustrated by their genius, and our 
 happiness to believe, that they will light the way for 
 our children to glory, honour and immortality. 
 
 With these names I finish this division of my dis- 
 course ; and if you are still asked, what Christianity 
 has done for your sex, you have only to repeat these 
 names. 
 
 %. You have heard us with so much patience on 
 the past condition and character of your sex, we hope 
 you will not be wearied with what remains of this 
 discourse^ in which we intend to explain, what you 
 
403 
 
 may and ought to do for Christianity, which has done 
 so much for you. 
 
 Nature, when she endowed you with superiour 
 tenderness of frame and sensibility of mind, directed 
 you to the almost instinctive exercise of the kind and 
 compassionate duties. But Christianity, by raising 
 you to a community of rights and interests with the 
 other sex, while it has still left you this sphere of ac- 
 tion, has given you, in fact, the government of the 
 world. To you is every where entrusted, in civiliz- 
 ed Christendom, that precious deposit, the infant's 
 mind ; and thus, while it has made your example of 
 early and everlasting effect, it has also made the cul- 
 ture of your understandings of infinite importance. 
 Still, it may be doubted, whether the influence, you 
 have as mothers or as wives, is greater, than that, 
 which you have already exercised, and which your 
 daughters will exercise, in their turn, upon entering 
 the world, awakening the love, and leading away the 
 admiration of our sex. My young friends, who will 
 hereafter give to many homes their charm, or change 
 them into dens of horrour, when you know and feel, 
 that Christianity is every thing to you, you will make 
 it every thing to us. Think, then, what you may do 
 for pure, rational, unaffected, practical Christianity. 
 Is it not worthy of your ambition, instead of counte- 
 nancing, by your youthful favour, the unprincipled of 
 our sex, to attempt to raise the tone of masculine un- 
 derstanding and morals, and the standard of juvenilo 
 accomplishments ? 
 
404 
 
 To ensure these effects, is it not time, that female 
 education were generally directed to a higher mark, 
 not of accomplishments, as they are called, for of 
 them we have enough, even to satiety, but of intellec- 
 tual furniture and vigour ? Is it not time, that a race 
 of females should be formed, who may practise with 
 intelligence and with confidence on those rules, which 
 have been given, and those ideas, which have been 
 suggested in the immortal w orks on education, which 
 we already owe to the extraordinary women of the 
 present age? Is it not time, that some plan of more 
 liberal and extensive female education were devised 
 to form the mothers of your children's children ; an 
 education, which shall save many a ripening female 
 mind from that feebleness, to which it might other- 
 wise be destined, in this age of vanity and books ; so 
 that women may be more generally furnished with 
 principles, as w ell as sentiments, with logick, as well 
 as taste, with true knowledge, as well as with a mor- 
 bid thirst for entertainment ; to all which, should be 
 superadded a religious fear and love of God and his 
 Son, so that, as they draw toward the close of life, 
 visions of celestial bliss may fill their minds, instead 
 of those vanishing scenes of pleasure, which are now 
 so frequently gliding before their idle fancies ? 
 
 We look to you, ladies, to raise the standard of 
 character in our own sex ; w e look to you, to guard 
 and fortify those barriers, which still exist in society, 
 against the encroachments of impudence and licen- 
 tiousness. We look to you for the continuance of 
 
405 
 
 domestiek purity, for the revival of domes tick relig- 
 ion, for the increase of our charities, and the support 
 of what remains of religion in our private habits and 
 publick institutions. 
 
 O, you, who are at the head of families, husbands 
 and wives, you, who entrust each other with your 
 closest secrets and your most important interests, let 
 God be admitted to share your mutual confidence. 
 Where there is no communication of religious senti- 
 ment and affection, believe me, the richest spring of 
 social and domestiek bliss is unopened and untasted. 
 The subject of religion is one, on which the female 
 mind feels more, perhaps, than on almost any other, 
 a need of the most perfect confidence, in order to de- 
 relop and keep alive its feelings. The perplexed and 
 doubting spirit loves to find a breast, where it can de- 
 posit them without fear or shame ; and would to God, 
 that, next to Him, you might always find that confi- 
 dant at home ! Husbands and wives, let not this be 
 the only subject, on which you are ignorant of each 
 other's meditations, or destitute of each other's confi- 
 dence. Venture to disdain the false maxims and ty- 
 ranny of the world, and try what religion will add to 
 your domestiek felicity. 
 
 Where the gospel is really received by you, as the 
 source of your happiness, and the most important ob- 
 ject of your consideration, it will soon be discovered 
 by" your children and your families, that you think it 
 so. I have not recommended the duty of family re- 
 ligion, because it is expressly enjoined by Jesus 
 
406 
 
 Christy but because I am sure, that it is the best sup- 
 port of every thing valuable in domestick life, and 
 because I fear, that the living spirit of religion can 
 hardly be preserved without it. One day, at least, 
 ye mothers, may be selected from the seven, to im- 
 press upon your children the idea, that you think 
 them destined for some other world than this. One 
 day, at least, may bring your families on their knees 
 before your Father, your Master, your God, and 
 theirs. "What ! shall every thing be left to the pub- 
 lick preacher ? Ah, how little can he do ! Shall the 
 rising generation know nothing of their God and Sa- 
 viour, or even of themselves and their destination, 
 but what they may chance to gather from their school- 
 masters or their ministers ? How is it possible, that your 
 children should not come out into the world ignorant 
 of every thing, which relates to them, as religious be- 
 ings, if those, who betray the strongest and dearest in- 
 terest in every thing else, which relates to them, in 
 their health, their establishments, learning and ac- 
 complishment, discover no interest in this ? How can 
 they avoid the inference — for it lies not very deep — 
 that religion is the last thing, which need to be thought 
 of ? And is it, indeed, of such little importance ? O, 
 Son of God, who, when on earth, took those little 
 ones in thine arms, gather these lambs of ours in 
 thine arms, for their parents too often refuse or neg- 
 lect to bring them ! 
 
 But I feel checked in this career of advice, when I 
 see what you have done, and what you are still dis- 
 
407 
 
 posed to do for the best interests of humanity and re- 
 ligion, and begin to fear, that I have been presumptu- 
 ous. I look at these orphans, and see their grateful 
 eyes directed to you, their patrons and deliverers ; 
 and I feel a degree of shame and of impatience to 
 turn to my own sex, and beg them, in the words of my 
 text, to help those women, who have thus laboured in 
 the best of causes. Ye rich men, when you observe 
 these few children rescued from want and destruction, 
 or, what is more, snatched from the arms of fathers 
 and mothers, who, with grief and rage, witnessed 
 their undesired birth, and, with insensibility, saw 
 them perishing by their own parental example and 
 neglect ; nay, when you are told, that many more such 
 little creatures are now knocking for admission at 
 the gates of this blessed asylum, and waiting for the 
 first opening, which this day's generosity may make 
 for them, can you turn away with disdain from this 
 call of compassion, honour and religion ? Can you, 
 by withholding your bounty, leave to perish in the 
 wide common of a vicious world a multitude of fe- 
 male orphans, whom these good women are willing to 
 receive ? Wait but a few years, ye rich men, and 
 some of those, whom you refuse now to provide for, 
 will have grown up into life ; they will have entered, 
 perhaps, into the service of your own families accom- 
 panied with all their ignorance and original depravi- 
 ties ; they will be the occasional companions, per- 
 haps the instructers of your children, diffusing vul- 
 garity and corruption over the tender minds of your 
 
40$ 
 
 offspring, disturbing the peace of your families, and 
 even dishonouring the purity of your domestick life. 
 Wait but a few 3 ~ars longer, and you shall see some 
 of these same orphans, whom your want of charity 
 shall have, in their infancy, shut out from this asylum, 
 patrolling our streets in all the effrontery of mature 
 vice, and with all the secret misery of lost virtue, 
 gnawing consciences, corrupted health, and impend- 
 ing dissolution. Wait yet a little longer, and you 
 shall see these same victims carried, in the arms of 
 charity, to die in the infirmaries and hospitals, which 
 you may be compelled, at last, to provide for the 
 wretched and the guilty, whom a little additional 
 bounty to this institution might have saved from the 
 ruin of their health and morals, from a long life of sin, 
 and from a death of horrour and despair. 
 
 It would seem, indeed, that all exhortation, on a 
 subject like this, ought to be superfluous. The su- 
 preme value of that charity, which is bestowed upon 
 the young, is too plain to be enforced upon such an 
 audience. In comparison with it, every other mode 
 of charity shrinks into unimportance. In the bounty, 
 which is bestowed upon old age, infirmity, pain and 
 sickness, the good is too often at an end, when their 
 immediate relief is effected ; but, for the good conse- 
 quences of such an institution as this, we may look as 
 far as the eye can reach in the long perspective of 
 distant years and successive generations, and yet see 
 new blessings continually evolved. For this is an asy- 
 lum for the mind, as well as for the body. Its excel- 
 
1 
 
 409 
 
 lence °onsists, not so much in relieving cr correcting, 
 as in preventing evil ; not so mucb in saving a child 
 from want, as in rescuing it from the vices of a 
 corrupt world ; and, therefore, if you would know 
 the full effects of such an institution as this, you must 
 extend your view to the regions of eternal blessed- 
 ness and charity, where, I trust, these children, and 
 many more will live to bless you. 
 
 Look up, ye little ones, and let your countenances 
 tell us, what these mothers have done for you. When 
 you go out into the world, tell those, who will hear you, 
 from what you have been saved, and to what you have 
 been educated. May your good example, when you 
 grow up, be felt among the numerous ranks of domes- 
 ticks, whom our riches and our luxury are continually 
 multiplying. May you remember the story of the 
 little Hebrew maid, who waited on Naaman's wife, 
 and who was made, in the hand of Providence, an in- 
 strument of so much good to her master. Forget not 
 the lessons of neatness, industry, frugality, honesty 
 and piety, which you have been receiving here ; and 
 remember, that the only way, in which you can ever 
 hope to repay your patronesses and benefactors, is, by 
 preserving all the good, which you have learned here, 
 and by imitating, as far as you can in your stations 
 in life, their generous goodness. 
 
 What remains, then, my christian hearers, but that 
 you should help these women ? I beseech you, in the 
 name of that sex, which you profess to admire ; in the 
 name of that religion, which has given you wives, 
 52 
 
410 
 
 whom you can respect, and children, of whom you 
 hope every thing, send them not away empty. I be- 
 seech you, in the name of these little ones, of whom 
 Jesus would say, Suffer these children to come un- 
 to me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom 
 of heaven ; I beseech you, in the venerable name of 
 Jesus himself, the affectionate friend of this sex, who 
 was always ready to lay his hands on their orphans 
 and bless them, hear what our blessed Lord saith : 
 Take heed, that ye cause not one of these little ones 
 to offend — how much more, then, to perish — for, verily 
 I say unto you, their angels do always behold the 
 face of my Father, who is in heaven. What ! their 
 angels do always behold the face of God ? Perhaps, 
 then, they are witnesses of this scene. Perhaps they 
 will carry up with them to their blessed seats the 
 story of this hour's bounty. Perhaps they may con- 
 sent to join in the songs of thanksgiving, which we 
 send up to the ear of the Most High, in joy of this 
 day's charity. Do you say, that these are only illu- 
 sions of a heated or a benevolent fancy ? Be it so — 
 But this, at least, is certain, that, in a very few years, 
 these orphans will themselves bid adieu to this world 
 and its neglect, to this world and their benefactors. 
 Children, may you carry with you to heaven the re- 
 membrance of this day's goodness ; or, if your hopes 
 and mine should now be disappointed, plead for us, 
 dear children, at the feet of the God of mercy, and 
 obtain our pardon from the Father of the fatherless, 
 and the widow's Friend. 
 
SERMON XXIV. 
 
 2 PET. i. 5— 7. 
 
 ADD TO YOUR FAITH, VIRTUE ; AND TO VIRTUE, KNOWL- 
 EDGE ; AND TO KNOWLEDGE, TEMPERANCE J AND TO 
 TEMPERANCE, PATIENCE J AND TO PATIENCE, GODLINESS; 
 AND TO GODLINESS, BROTHERLY KINDNESS ; AND TO 
 BROTHERLY KINDNESS, CHARITY, 
 
 THIS enumeration of graces or christian accom- 
 plishments gives us a fine picture of the various ex- 
 cellencies of the christian character, and particularly 
 of the character, to which the apostle wished his con- 
 verts to attain. Though the text is not liable to any 
 considerable misapprehension, yet, as the manner of 
 expression appears to be, in some respects, tautolo- 
 gical, it may not be amiss, to offer some remarks on 
 the separate clauses. 
 
 As the text now stands, when the apostle exhorts 
 his converts to add to their faith, virtue, and to virtue, 
 temperance and patience, it would seem to be a loose- 
 ness of expression, which we should not expect, be- 
 cause our definitions of virtue include the subsequent 
 qualities of temperance and patience. In the same 
 
412 
 
 general English word, too, are included brotherly 
 kindness and charity ; and these two last qualities, 
 also, are generally supposed to be nearly the same. 
 But there is not this want of discrimination in the 
 original. The word, rendered virtue, here, accurately 
 means, courage or fortitude ; temperance, here, is pro- 
 perly, self-command ; and brotherly kindness, as dis- 
 tinguished from charity, means, here, the peculiar af- 
 fection of the converts to their christian brethren, in 
 distinction from universal love, the perfection of all 
 social virtue. 
 
 The apostle, then, addressing his converts, as be- 
 lievers in the gospel, exhorts them to take the most 
 earnest care to add to their faith, or to their simple 
 belief of the gospel, which, alone, was unprofitable, 
 courage — a quality very necessary in those days, 
 when an open profession of Christianity was a dan- 
 gerous, but an indispensable duty — and to their cour- 
 age, knowledge — for, at that time, the miracles of the 
 apostles might produce a sudden and irresistible con- 
 viction of the divine original of the gospel in many, 
 who had never heard of it before, and who, there- 
 fore, had very little knowledge of its doctrines and 
 duties — and to knowledge, self-command, or an hab- 
 itual control of the affections, passions and appetites ; 
 and to self-command, patience under afflictions ; and 
 to patience, godliness, or piety ; and to piety, brother- 
 ly kindness, or love of their christian brethren ; and 
 to love of the brethren, charity, or love to all men, the 
 ultimate point, the perfection of all moral excellence. 
 
413 
 
 Tfeis view of the several qualities is, with some 
 slight variations, given by most commentators. 
 
 Thus we find the text contains a copious enumera- 
 tion of christian virtues in their connexion and mutual 
 dependence. Perhaps they are not all placed in the 
 precise order, in which they commonly appear, or in 
 which they are most successfully cultivated ; but it is 
 enough to remark, that the apostle intimates their mu- 
 tual connexion and influence, and that he represents 
 faith and knowledge barren and unfruitful without 
 them. This is in perfect correspondence with the 
 whole strain of the New Testament. For, if these 
 things be in you, and abound, if you cultivate these 
 dispositions, they will make, that ye shall be neither 
 barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 It would occupy too much time, to consider the 
 text in all its parts, and to give all the dispositions 
 here enumerated a distinct consideration, as well as 
 to attend to their succession and intimate connexion. 
 This, indeed, would require several discourses. We 
 shall, therefore, take the liberty to lay out of our 
 present view the personal graces of courage, temper- 
 ance and patience, which, though unquestionably 
 connected with the other dispositions enumerated, 
 seem rather to form a distinct class, and shall pro- 
 ceed, after defining the terms, to consider the close 
 connexion and reciprocal influence of knowledge, 
 piety and charity. What, then, is the meaning of 
 these terms ? 
 
414 
 
 It is sufficiently clear, that the knowledge, which 
 the apostle recommends, is something beyond that 
 faith, which he had first mentioned, and which he 
 supposes his converts already to possess. Add to 
 your faith, knowledge. Faith, therefore, even chris- 
 tian faith, does not supersede the acquisition, or di- 
 minish the value of knowledge. Neither are we au- 
 thorized to say, that the faith of the text includes 
 knowledge in any greater degree, than it includes 
 the other accomplishments of temperance, patience, 
 godliness or charity, which are, also, to be added to 
 faith. If the faith here mentioned is nothing more, 
 than a simple belief of the divine origin of the gos- 
 pel, which is extremely probable, the knowledge, 
 which is to be added, is, of course, such an enlarged 
 acquaintance with religion or Christianity, as shall 
 render our faith intelligent, and contribute to its per- 
 manence, fruitfulness and value. 
 
 The knowledge, then, which the apostle exhorts 
 his converts to seek, is, the knowledge of religion. 
 This is to be acquired by the exercise of our reason, 
 and especially by the study of the scriptures, which 
 then were and will always remain the great repos- 
 itory of facts, precepts and doctrines, from which 
 the man of Grod is to be thoroughly furnished to 
 every good word and work. 
 
 The godliness, which we are required to add to 
 our faith and knowledge, is not, here, the whole of 
 our christian deportment, which the word sometimes 
 expresses, but rather the principle of religious obe- 
 
415 
 
 dience, or the sentiment of religious fear, which is 
 called, the beginning of wisdom. If this, however, 
 should be considered as too comprehensive a mean- 
 ing for the word, in the place, in which it stands, wc 
 may properly understand it of the disposition to 
 piety, or those devout affections, of which God is the 
 immediate object, which express themselves in the 
 usual and edifying forms of private and publick de- 
 votion, and which diffuse a sanctity and devotion 
 over the whole character of the mind and manners. 
 
 By charity, here, we cannot fail to understand that 
 consummate grace, which is the end of the command- 
 ment, and which is described in the well-known 
 chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians. It 
 may, indeed, include the love of God ; but usually 
 expresses the love of mankind. It means, not mere- 
 ly the common feelings of consanguinity, or of local 
 and occasional attachments, but universal good will. 
 It is a sentiment superiour to generosity, superiour to 
 compassion, and superiour to that enthusiasm, which 
 often prompts to extraordinary sacrifices for particu- 
 lar purposes ; a sentiment, which may exist between 
 men of different opinions, parties, tempers and inter- 
 ests, and is not confined to their temporal or pre- 
 sent concerns. It is that love, which, as the apostle 
 says, is kind and forbearing ; which envieth not ; 
 which is not vain or proud ; which doth not behave 
 itself unseemly, or with indecorum, but consults the 
 feelings of others ; which seeketh not its own advan- 
 tage ; is not easily provoked ; which thinketh no evil : 
 
416 
 
 nor rejoiceth in iniquity, that is in falsehood, but re- 
 joiceth in the truth, wherever discovered ; which, in 
 tine, is full of hope, full of contentment, full of pa- 
 tience, and, like the mercy of God, which endureth 
 forever, survives our present knowledge, faith and 
 hope in those regions of eternal charity and light, 
 where the great God will be its perpetual exemplar 
 and reward. 
 
 After these descriptions, then, of knowledge, piety 
 and charity, we proceed, according to our plan, to 
 offer some remarks on their inseparable connexion, 
 and reciprocal influence. 
 
 1. Our first topick, then, may be, the influence of 
 knowledge on piety and charity. 
 
 If any one is doubtful, whether the diffusion of 
 christian knowledge promotes the growth of piety, it 
 must be either, because he has formed mistaken no- 
 tions of piety, as independent of knowledge ; or, per- 
 haps, because he believes, that religious knowledge is 
 now extensively diffused, and yet that piety is on the 
 decline ; or because he has observed some men, who 
 are engaged in the pursuit of what is called religious 
 studies, deficient in godliness, or in devout habits and 
 affections. In what follows these will be the subject 
 of occasional remarks. 
 
 There is some reason to suspect, that many, even 
 in the protestant world, have secretly adopted the 
 degrading maxim, that ignorance is the mother of de- 
 votion. It is, indeed, the mother of devotion, if by 
 
417 
 
 devotion is meant a blind habit of religious services, 
 of which the reason and the object are alike unknown* 
 Ignorance is the mother of all that devotion, which is 
 paid to any other, than the Supreme Being. It is the 
 mother of that devotion, which attaches itself to times, 
 places, garments, words and ceremonies, and which 
 consecrates every thing but virtue^ It is the mother 
 of that devotion, which consists of a conceited and 
 self-righteous homage, and commences with exclu- 
 ding from God's complacent regard all but its own 
 section of the religious world ; of that devotion, which 
 deals in false humiliation, exaggerated confessions, 
 vain repetitions, ostentatious display, and unmeaning 
 language. To all such piety religious knowledge is, 
 indeed, fatal. 
 
 But, if it is of any importance to this great virtue of 
 the christian character, that we should have the most 
 exalted and comprehensive conceptions of the great 
 object of worship ; if it is of importance to the obedi- 
 ence of the will of God, that we should know what 
 God requires of man in his word ; if, in short, that 
 devotion may be expected to be the most free, filial 
 and happy, which is disburdened of those dishon- 
 ourable and perplexing notions, and those super- 
 stitious fears, which have arisen in the christian 
 world from misapprehension of the language of 
 scripture, then the diffusion of every degree of ration- 
 al principles and scriptural knowledge — however it 
 may, in some cases, produce a local and temporary re- 
 laxation of certain forms and feelings, which have 
 53 
 
418 
 
 been accounted sacred — must be ultimately beneficial 
 to real piety. 
 
 Nothing so much tends to multiply hypocrites and 
 infidels, as the mysterious suppression or discourage- 
 ment of all attempts to make religion intelligible. 
 Until men are every where exhorted and encouraged 
 to extend their religious inquiries, every wind of false 
 doctrine will shake, every bold blast of infidelity over- 
 throw their convictions. Till they arc provided with 
 the means of knowing the true grounds and reasons of 
 Christianity, and of becoming familiar with the best 
 interpretations of scripture, a great part of the real 
 piety of the christian world will be an irrational 
 and inexplicable quality ; men of great talents, and 
 eminent acquisitions on other subjects, will fall or be 
 driven, from their own ignorance or others' fury, into 
 the ranks of hypocrisy and unbelief ; the ambitious 
 will avail themselves of our religious passions for po- 
 litical or interested purposes ; and, while we shall be 
 filled, even to loathing, with accounts from every sect 
 of the prodigious progress of its own faith, igno- 
 rance will sit brooding" over the land, w arming into 
 life and mischievous activity a thousand passions 
 miscalled piety 5 and a religion will prevail, of which 
 it is one of the characteristick duties to represent as 
 infidel every intelligent and conscientious inquirer, 
 w ho does not take the draught, as it is offered him, 
 or who does not fill his cup at some one of the foun- 
 tains, which party has consecrated. Indeed, it may 
 be set down as a maxim, that all the advantages, 
 
H9 
 
 which may, at any time, appear to be gained by mak- 
 ing religion a passion, and faith an unenlightened 
 principle, are completely counterbalanced by the inev- 
 itable increase of hypocrisy, infidelity, and bigotry, 
 with which such a state of things is attended. 
 
 The effect of knowledge in diffusing charity is not 
 less conspicuous, than its influence on piety. If we 
 take charity in its common acceptation, we shall find, 
 that an enlarged and cultivated mind often dispo- 
 ses men to acts of generosity. It extends the sphere 
 of kind observation, and divests us of that sordidness 
 and prejudice, which so often restrain the exercise of 
 bounty, and directs us to proper objects of our good 
 will and exertion. But it is in the promotion of char- 
 ity, in opposition to what is called, uncharitableness, 
 that religious knowledge is most eminently successful. 
 Not that the most learned men have been uniformly 
 the most catholick. There is often a pride of opinion 
 among the learned, which learning alone will not 
 cure. There is, also, a love of dominion in vigorous 
 minds, which makes a bad use of the maxim, that 
 knowledge is power. But, if we would hope ever 
 to correct that denouncing and dogmatizing spirit, 
 which has been so disgracefully common in the chris- 
 tian world, it is only to be effected by giving men 
 some conception of the difficulties, w hich attend the 
 discovery of truth. He, who, deriving his faith from 
 the unexamined authority of numbers, has never felt 
 these difficulties, or, being persuaded of some private 
 operations or influences, of which he thinkis himself 
 
420 
 
 the favoured subject, cannot be made to feel theni, 
 must be expected either to pity or despise those, who 
 do not admit these compendious ways of arriving at 
 truth. If he is a good man, he will be tempted to 
 pity those, who have not ceased to doubt ; if he is a 
 proud man, he will triumph in his own fancied superi- 
 ority ; if he is a weak man, he will suspect, avoid, or 
 calumniate those, who are not so well established as 
 himself in every article of faith. He, alone, cannot 
 easily condemn others, whom it has cost much pains, 
 and time, and prayers, to form his own opinions. Re- 
 ligious knowledge reveals to us this most important 
 fact, which alone can cure our religious vanity, and 
 consequent uncharitableness- — the fact, that there is 
 not a single communion in Christendom without its 
 wise men and its saints ; neither is there a question 
 among those, which have been most fiercely disputed 
 in the christian world, which is not maintained and 
 rejected by men of piety and intellectual endowments 
 apparently equal. He, therefore, who undertakes to 
 pronounce, in an unqualified manner, on the indispen- 
 sable connexion of any mere opinion in theology with 
 holiness here, or happiness hereafter, can only be cured 
 by enlarging his sphere of inquiry, by being taught to 
 feel the real difficulties, which attend on many of those 
 articles of popular faith, which are often most confi. 
 dently maintained, when they are least understood. 
 
 2. We proceed now to consider the influence of 
 piety on knowledge and charity. 
 
421 
 
 It was the uniform doctrine of our Saviour, that 
 nothing so effectually promotes faith here, as a pious 
 disposition ; or unbelief, as a wicked or hypocritical 
 mind. It is almost superfluous to observe, that these 
 remarks of our Saviour on belief and unbelief may 
 be applied to religious knowledge and ignorance. If 
 any man will do my will, says our Saviour, he shall 
 know of my doctrine, whether it be of God. This 
 sentiment is thus expressed in other places : No man 
 can come unto me, except the father, who has sent 
 me, draw him ; that is, unless he is induced to it by 
 regard to God, or a principle of religious obedience. 
 The wise, that is, the pious, shall understand, but 
 none of the wicked shall understand. 
 
 This connexion, between religious knowledge and 
 sentiments of piety, is entirely natural and intelligi- 
 ble. The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. 
 That man only will preserve a mind open to convic- 
 tion, and faithfully use every assistance within his 
 reach for the discovery of truth, who lives under the 
 habitual conviction, that he must give an account of 
 himself, in this respect, to God. To such an one 
 wisdom is the principal thing. The merchandize of 
 it is better than the merchandize of silver, and the 
 gain thereof, than fine gold. She is more precious 
 than rubies ; and all things, we can desire, are not to 
 be compared to her. He, who has a deep and unaf- 
 fected sense of the greatness and goodness of God, 
 will receive with joy every new ray of divine truth ; 
 he will feel the impiety, as well as the uncharitable- 
 
422 
 
 ness, of closing the sources of religious inquiry ; and 
 feel the sacredness of that obligation, which lies on 
 every man to form, without prejudice or interested 
 motives, his religious opinions. He will rejoice in the 
 extension of a spirit of research, confident that, under 
 the government of God, the progress of inquiry will 
 be the progress of truth, and that truth cannot be ul- 
 timately unfavourable to virtue. 
 
 By this I do not mean, that piety alone will fur- 
 nish us with an extensive knowledge of this religion ; 
 and much less, that he, who only prays over the scrip- 
 tures, will thoroughly understand them, without the 
 use of the requisite helps. But it is with the scrip^ 
 tures, as with every other book, he will best under- 
 stand, who is most capable of entering into the spirit 
 of the author ; and if any one good affection rather 
 than another may be said to predominate in the books 
 of scripture, it is the spirit of piety. They are dis- 
 tinguished from all other writings by this character, 
 that they are a history of the dispensations of God. 
 He is the great object every where presented to our 
 view. Every other agent, w 7 ho appears in the scene, 
 is subordinate ; and the eternal relations of man to 
 God and to the life to come, are the topicks, on which 
 every thing in scripture has an immediate bearing. 
 
 The influence of piety on the progress of charity, 
 also, is great and important. It is true, the two sen- 
 timents may exist with different degrees of intensity 
 in different minds ; and some persons, from observing 
 a mistaken zeal in many good men for the glory of 
 
423 
 
 God, and from hearing acts of devotion too often 
 made the vehicle of uncharitable feelings, have been 
 led to think these two qualities separable at least, if 
 not sometimes irreconcilable. But far from us be the 
 attempt, to put asunder what God hath joined togeth- 
 er. Let us leave it to saints, who lived under a less 
 generous dispensation of religion, to mingle impreca- 
 tions with the accents of contrition. It is the uniform 
 language of our Saviour and his apostles, that every 
 christian must present to God his petitions for pardon, 
 in peace with all men, and with wishes of salvation for 
 all. I should think it entirely superfluous, to multiply 
 proofs of the inseparable connexion, every where 
 held out in the christian scriptures, betw r een charity, 
 in all its forms, and the love of God, which is the 
 sum of godliness. With regard to beneficence, that 
 great branch of charity, let this passage suffice : But 
 whoso hath this world's goods, and seeth his brother 
 have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion 
 from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him ? 
 
 It is not easy to conceive, how any man address- 
 ing God, the common father of all mankind, and con- 
 sidering, how little is known of God, except that he 
 is our gracious parent, can bring to his prayers any 
 other, than a heart of charity. But it sometimes hap- 
 pens, that we worship God, as altogether such an one 
 as ourselves. We make him a party to our own pre- 
 judices. We clothe him with ouv own passions. 
 We set up an idol, who smiles or frow ns according 
 to our wishes. Instead of imitating the almighty and 
 
impartial father of all mankind, we make a God, who 
 imitates ourselves. Thus, every odious quality of the 
 human mind becomes associated with our religion. 
 Our devotions become the nutriment of our passions ; 
 our habits of communion with God are become hab- 
 its of excommunication of others. If we attend to 
 God's providences, we interpret them all according to 
 our own uncharitable principles ; and the tower of 
 Siloam always falls, where we had expected the blow. 
 If we discern his footsteps, it is only in the narrow 
 path, which our vain imaginations have marked out 
 for him ; and his cause is identified with the ebulli- 
 tions of our own vanity and spleen. Now, when 
 piety is thus degraded, as it sometimes is, every in- 
 crease of piety is only an increase of ill- will ; we shut 
 up our bowels of compassion against those, whom, we 
 think, God has shut out of his covenant, and engage in 
 holy warfare — against what ? — not against our own 
 vanity, presumption, obstinacy and malignity, or the 
 sins, which most easily beset us, but against the ene- 
 mies of the true faith. These we call to choose — not 
 between the crucifix and the fire, for these are now out 
 of repute — but between our creed and our anathema. 
 Melancholy, indeed, that this spirit, which once pre- 
 vailed all over Christendom, is sometimes still called 
 piety, even in the protestant world ! 
 
 It is when such principles and feelings usurp the 
 place of genuine love to God, that piety becomes the 
 most dangerous of the weapons, which ambition may 
 use to disturb the peace of the church, and of the 
 
425 
 
 world. How important, then, the union of piety and 
 charity ! This would defeat the cry of the bigot, and 
 the sneer of the indifferent* Until this union is effect- 
 ed, the seamless coat of Christ will continue to be torn 
 in ten thousand pieces by aspiring partizans and nar- 
 row-minded bigots, while the exulting infidel and 
 profligate cast their reproaches on the exposed and 
 dishonoured religion of our blessed Lord. 
 
 3. The time, which remains, will not allow us to be 
 very copious on the third topick of discourse— to which, 
 indeed, we have already occasionally adverted — the 
 influence of charity on knowledge and piety. 
 
 Alas ! the experiment has never yet been made up- 
 on a broad scale in the christian world. Among 
 those great men, who have shone as lights in the 
 world, and whose light has reached our own times, 
 there are, indeed, a few, who give us an illustrious 
 specimen of the rare and godlike union of knowledge, 
 piety and love. I could enumerate some memorable 
 names ; but it has been the hard fate of many of them 
 to be persecuted, and of others to be suspected, when 
 alive, and to receive a kind of hollow admiration and 
 a doubtful prliise in later ages, especially from those 
 who know thmi only by their reputation for Catholi- 
 cism. Yet their reputation will stand unshaken 
 through the hottest and most malignant seasons of the 
 church, and afford a coul shelter for the quiet chris- 
 tian, like the shadow of a great rock in a vyeary laud. 
 
 If we may ever expect religious knowledge gener- 
 ally to prevail, it will be only when the geuiie voice 
 54* 
 
426 
 
 of charity is heard throughout Christendom encour- 
 aging men to follow the lights, which are held out to 
 them, without apprehension of reproach from " hard 
 unkindness ? altered eye" on every change of opinion. 
 When a spirit of true christian liberality shall pre- 
 vail, a spirit, not of latitudinarian apathy, but of aetive 
 benevolence, we shall be provided with the most am- 
 ple means for thorough and unbiassed inquiry, and 
 men will be invited, not only to read for themselves, 
 but to form their conclusions for themselves with a 
 manliness becoming intelligent creatures, who ac- 
 count it a light thing to be judged of man's judg- 
 ment, for he that judgeth them is the Lord. When 
 charity and zeal shall unite, truth will spring out of 
 the eartb. ; and righteousness look down from heaven : 
 and Christendom be like a well-watered garden, whose 
 beauty and fertility appear together. Thy kingdom 
 come, should be our prayer continually. 
 
 Do you ask, how charity will promote knowledge ? 
 It will do it by divesting us of those miserable preju- 
 dices, which lead us to take offence against a writer 
 from his subject, his manner, or his sectarian name. 
 It will promote knowledge by teaching men, that the 
 differences in the christian world, where they are not 
 allowed to produce alienation of affection, will infal- 
 libly produce good, by exciting attention, caution, in- 
 quiry, and, of course, truth. It will promote knowl- 
 edge by removing that undue bias, which will always 
 exist, where there is a fear of the results, to which our 
 studies may lead us. Charity expands the mind, 
 
427 
 
 and prepares it to receive truth, from whatever quar- 
 ter it may be presented. Charity is the genial 
 warmth of a good heart, not unlike that of the spring, 
 which first opens and loosens the soil, allows the 
 seeds, which are scattered on the surface, to find a 
 place, and encourages those to spring up, which have 
 been long struggling in vain for the light ; prejudice is 
 a rock, which refuses all hold, but to the short and bar- 
 ren mosses, with which it has been for ages covered, 
 and which time only hardens and embrowns. 
 
 It is true, there is hardly a sect in Christendom, which 
 has not sometimes been uncharitable ; and it is easy to 
 see, that there is sometimes a bitter party arrayed 
 against intolerance and bigotry. Indeed, the highest 
 exercise of charity is, charity toward the uncharitable. 
 But, whatever be the communion, in which it is found, 
 nothing is so unfriendly to knowledge, as a narrow, ex- 
 clusive, and censorious temper. This discovers itself, 
 sometimes in a weak dread of novelty, sometimes in a 
 petulant contempt of antiquity. It now puts in a cau- 
 tion against the character of an opponent, and now fas- 
 tens on his doctrines consequences, which he rejects. 
 It sometimes opposes ridicule to argument, feeling to 
 fact, and names to reasons ; and answers your state- 
 ments by an appeal to its own personal experience, 
 which can never be a reason to another, who has not 
 the same internal sensation. The essence of this 
 spirit is the same all over the world ; and effectually 
 bars the mind against the access of truth. When any 
 sect makes its last appeal to authority, or to its own 
 
428 
 
 peculiar sensations, as a standard of truth, there is an 
 end of religious inquiry. The niahometan is then 
 able to bring the same reason for his belief in the ko- 
 ran, the papist for the traditions of. his church, the 
 quaker for his silent illuminations, and all sects, with- 
 out distinction, for their own most diverse and contra- 
 dictory formularies. 
 
 If any one imagines, that, what we have described 
 as charily, is, in fact, indifference to truth, let such an 
 one know, that their nature and tendency are alto- 
 gether unlike. Indifference is always content with 
 the degree of knowledge, which already exists ; and 
 is willing, that men should be ignorant on the most 
 eolemn and interesting subjects. Indifference is in- 
 dolent, contemptuous and conceited ; charity is an 
 active temper, which, for its own sake, and that of 
 others, encourages every provision for the progress of 
 knowledge, sensible that the love of truth is one of 
 the noblest principles of human virtue. Indifference 
 thinks the study of religion unworthy of a thought ; 
 but charity is always employed in finding those truths, 
 in which the greatest number can agree, and the bet- 
 ter they are established, the better is charity pro- 
 moted. 
 
 From what has already been said, I deem it unne^ 
 eessary to enlarge on the last branch of our subject, 
 the connexion between piety and charity. The union 
 of these qualities, however it may now be suspected 
 tt> be doubtful or difficult, will be found practicable, 
 hi least in that world, and in that vast assembly, 
 
429 
 
 which no man can number, of all nations, and kind- 
 reel, and people, and tongues, who shall stand before 
 the throne and before the Lamb, clothed with robes, 
 and with palms in their hands, crying with a loud 
 voice, salvation to our God, which sitteth upon the 
 throne, and to the Lamb ! 
 
 And, would we form on earth a congregation on 
 the model of this, which the author of the book of 
 Revelations saw in vision, we must come to God be- 
 lieving, that he is a re warder of them, that diligently 
 seek him, and believing, also, that, with this faith and 
 this diligence, it is not impossible for any man to 
 please him. We must have the charity to banish 
 from our devotions every thing, which does not pro- 
 perly belong to this holy and charitable employment. 
 We must consent to make our prayers, not tests of 
 doctrine, but expressions of love. We must beware 
 of awakening passions by our religious services, 
 which are unfriendly to christian fellowship. Espe- 
 cially must we beware of making God a party to our 
 own feelings, and of converting acts of christian 
 communion and worship into a confederation — if the 
 word may be pardoned — for purposes of private in- 
 fluence and religious domination. Piety, then, will 
 most assuredly flourish, when we make our worship 
 and our ordinances the means, and not the end of re- 
 ligion, and when that end is well understood to be 
 love, out of a pure heart, a good conscience, and 
 faith unfeigned. 
 
430 
 
 To conclude, my christian brethren, are we among 
 those, who seek after knowledge, and lift up our 
 voices for understanding ? Have we made religion an 
 object of as much inquiry and attention, as its lofty 
 claims and eternal importance demand ? Is our char- 
 ity the cloak of ignorance and indifference, or a gen- 
 uine principle of philanthropy uniting, with tender- 
 ness and indulgence towards others, a sincere desire 
 of their improvement ? And are we careful to perfect 
 and consecrate our love of truth and our charity by 
 an inward and practical piety ? My friends, we have 
 much to do to wipe off the reproaches, which are con- 
 tinually cast upon one or the other of these blessed 
 qualities ; and we can do it only by uniting them in 
 our own characters. It is the constant object of my 
 wishes and prayers, and may it be the effect of my 
 preaching, under the blessing of God, to contribute 
 to the formation of that noblest of all characters, the 
 christian, whose love, as the apostle describes it, 
 abounds more and more in knowledge, and in all 
 judgment, who approves the things, which are excel- 
 lent, and who remains sincere and without offence, 
 till the day pf Christ, being filled with the fruits of 
 righteousness, which are by Jesus Christ, unto the 
 glory and praise of God. 
 
 THE END.