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 -4uit^*4fkUK 
 
 SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D. D. 
 
 LATE PRESIDENT OF PRINCETON COLLEGE, NEW JERSEY. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 
 
 A BRIEF MEMOIR 
 
 OF HIS 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS. 
 
 TWO VOLS. VOL. I. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY S. POTTER AND CO. 
 J. MAXWELL, PRINTER. 
 
 1821. 
 
<&iii^liiiiW 
 
 EASTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA, to wit: 
 
 BE IT Remembered, that oa the 3d day of May, in the forty-fifth year of the 
 independence of the United States of America, A. D. 1821, S. Potter & Co. 
 of the said district, hath deposited in this office the title of a book, the right where- 
 of they claim as proprietors in the words following to wit: 
 
 Sermons of Samuel Stmihjpe Smith, D. D. late president of Princeton college, J^ew 
 Jersey. To which is prefixed, a brief memoir of his Life and Writit^s. 
 
 In comformity to the act of the congress of the United States, entitled " An 
 act for th& encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and 
 books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, durng the times therein men- 
 tioned." And also to the act, entitled, " An act supplementary to an act, entitled, 
 " 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 
 mentioned," and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, 
 and etching historical and other prints." 
 
 ^ DAVID CALDWELL, 
 
 Clerk of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 An account of the life and writings of the Author, - - 3 
 Sermon I. Felix trembling before Paul, . _ - 63 
 
 II. On the Parable of the Prodigal Son, - - 82 
 
 III. Repentance of the Prodigal, - - - 97 
 
 IV. Return of the Prodigal to his Father, - - 112 
 
 V. On swearing in Common Conversation, - - 127 
 
 VI. To a good man the day of death preferable to the day 
 ofbirth, 141 
 
 VII. The recompense of the Saints in Heaven, - - 158 
 
 VIII. On Slander, 172 
 
 IX. On Redeeming time, - - - - -191 
 
 X. The giving of the Law on Mount Sinai, - - 209 
 
 XI. A discourse on the guilt and folly of being ashamed of 
 religion, _.-_-. 222 
 
 XII. A discourse on the nature and danger of small 
 Faults, - - 241 
 
 XIII. On Charity, 259 
 
 XIV. Paul pleading before Agrippa, _ . . 282 
 
 XV. Desire of the apostle to depart and be with Christ, 296 
 
 XVI. Religion necessary to National Prosperity, - 314 
 
 XVII. The Original Trial and the Fall of Man, or the first 
 sin and its consequences, - . - - 337 
 
 XVIII. On the Love of praise, 354 
 
 XIX. On Ruling Sin, 384 
 
AN ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 REV. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D. D. L. L. D 
 
 Late President of Princeton College. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
AN ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 REV. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH, D. D. L. L. D, 
 
 Late President of Princeton College. 
 
 Samuel Stanhope Smith, late President of Prince- 
 ton College, was born on the sixteenth day of March, 
 in the year of our Lord 1 750, at Pequea in the town- 
 ship of Sahsbury and county of Lancaster, in the then 
 colony and at present, state of Pennsylvania. His fa- 
 ther, the Rev. Robert Smith, an emigrant from Ireland, 
 was a celebrated preacher and eminent divine of the 
 Presbyterian church, and for many years superintend- 
 ed a respectable academy, established by himself, and 
 under his care many pious and worthy clergymen of 
 that church were reared. His mother, was Elizabeth 
 Blair, daughter of the Rev. Samuel Blair, and sister of 
 those distinguished divines, Samuel and John Blair, than 
 the former of whom the church has seldom possessed 
 a more judicious and profound Theologian, or a more 
 fervent and successful Minister of the Gospel than the 
 latter. He was initiated into the elements of his own 
 language by his mother, who was a woman of an ex- 
 
4 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 cellent native understanding, adorned with the softest 
 and most pleasing manners. His parents, being en- 
 couraged by the prompt parts and virtuous dispositions 
 of their son, whicli began very early to display them- 
 selves, determined that no exertions should be wanted 
 to the assiduous cultivation of them ; and that he should 
 enjoy all the advantages of a liberal education, which 
 his country at that time afforded. — At the age of six or 
 seven he commenced the study of the learned languages 
 in his father's academy, which besides a general su- 
 perintendence by his father, was. entrusted to the care 
 of instructors who had come out from Ireland, and 
 brought with them those rigid notions of scholastic 
 discipline, and that minute accuracy in the system of 
 teaching, which were prevalent in their native coun- 
 try. It was the custom of this school, to require the 
 pupils, not merely to dip into the Latin and Greek 
 classics, or pass in rapid transition from one to another, 
 by which means a very superficial knowledge of any is 
 obtained, but when once they had commenced an au- 
 thor, to read carefully and attentively the entire work. 
 Besides this laudable and beneficial custom, the scho- 
 lars of this academy, were stimulated to exertion by 
 being brought into frequent competition, and by having 
 conferred upon the successful candidates for distinction 
 such honours as were calculated to awake their boyish 
 emulation, and to quicken their diligence and atten- 
 tion. Latin was the habitual language of the school, 
 and after the pupils had passed through a few of the 
 elementary works, as the Colloquies of Corderius and 
 the fables of iEsop, any error which they committed 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. $ 
 
 in grammatical propriety, either in addressing the teacher 
 or in speaking with one another, was punishable as a 
 fault. One literary exercise in the school was contest- 
 ed with more than ordinary emulation. When any 
 class had advanced in its course beyond the Metamor- 
 phoses of Ovid and the Bucolics of Virgil, the mem- 
 bers of it were permitted to enter into voluntary com- 
 petitions for preeminence. On alternate Saturdays 
 eight or ten of the better scholars from different clas- 
 ses, were allowed to try their skill in the languages in 
 the presence of the principal teacher. Each competitor 
 was suffered to select a sentence within a certain com- 
 pass, of one or two hundred lines, consisting of not 
 more than six or seven hexameter verses. On this se- 
 lected portion, he was the sole examiner, and was per- 
 mitted to inquire about every thing with which he could 
 make himself acquainted, by the most diligent previous 
 investigation; such as, the grammatical construction of 
 the sentences, the derivation of words, their composi- 
 tion, relations and quantity, the history or mythology 
 referred to in the passage, the beauty and pertinence 
 of the figures and allusions, together with the taste and 
 delicacy of sentiment displayed by tlie poet. After the 
 whole contest, which usually lasted several hours, was 
 concluded, rewards were bestowed by the master upon 
 those who discovered the greatest address and ingenui- 
 ty in conducting it. Competitions of this nature with 
 his school-fellows, were all that diversified the early 
 life of Mr. Smith, and on these occasions, he is said to 
 have discovered remarkable adroitness and intelligence 
 for a lad of his age, generally sui'passing those who 
 
6 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 were much older than himself; although, as Dr. John- 
 son is reported to have had a Hector, who, in this kind 
 of academical warfare, rivalled and vanquished him; 
 so our scholar found in a young man by the name of 
 Dunlap, a formidable competitor, who often wrested 
 from him the palm of victory. 
 
 At this early age Mr. Smith not only discovered that 
 the sentiments of religion had taken deep root in his 
 heart, by publicly joining the communion of the Pres- 
 byterian church, but evinced a strong predilection for 
 that sacred profession, which he afterwards adopted, 
 and in which he so eminently excelled. Taking little 
 pleasure and aspiring to no distinction in the gymnastic 
 exercises and sports of his school-fellows, he was re- 
 marked even at this early period to be prone to sober- 
 ness and reflection. At church he was unusually at- 
 tentive to the services and the sermon, and at his re- 
 turn home would give his father an accurate account 
 not only of the text, and the general distribution of the 
 parts, but oftentimes of the most minute subdivisions, 
 together with the striking illustrations and remarks. In 
 the absence of his father from home, he seemed to take 
 great pleasure, in turn with his pious and excellent 
 mother, in performing divine service in the family; and 
 on some occasions, forming the semblance of a pulpit, 
 and collecting his little brothers and companions round 
 him, he would go through, with great gravity and earn- 
 estness all the exercises of pubHc worship. 
 
 From his father's academy he was transferred in his 
 sixteenth year to the college at Princeton, in the state 
 of New Jersey. The President of that Institution, the^ 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 7 
 
 Rev. Dr. Samuel Findlay, having lately died, and the 
 president elect, the Rev. Dr. John Witherspoon, not 
 having yet arrived from Scotland, the College at this 
 time was under the direction of the Rev. Dr. Blair, pro- 
 fessor of theology, Mr Joseph Periam, professor of ma- 
 thematics, and Mr. James Thompson, professor of lan- 
 guages. Here those talents which had just begun to 
 unfold themselves in his father's school, were display- 
 ed on a wider and more conspicuous theatre of action. 
 Commencing with the studies of the Junior year, which, 
 in that seminary, was devoted, for the most part, to 
 mathematics and natural philosophy, Mr. Smith main- 
 tained throughout the whole of his collegiate course, 
 distinguished reputation both for capacity and exem- 
 plary deportment. Before the conclusion of the first 
 year, he was publicly presented by the faculty in the 
 presence of his class, as the reward of his preeminent 
 success in his studies, with the mathematical works of 
 the professor of that branch of science, in the Univer- 
 sity of Oxford in England. Similar testimonials of re- 
 spect were bestowed upon him by the professors dur- 
 ing the different stages of his progress, both before and 
 after the arrival of Dr. Witherspoon, who at this period 
 entered upon the duties of the presidency; and in the 
 eighteenth year of his age, he took his first degree in 
 the arts under circumstances of distinction and supe- 
 riority in a high degree gratifying to his ambition. 
 
 During his residence in Princeton as an undergra- 
 duate, he had been consigned more especially to the 
 care of Mr. Periam, who had rendered himself distin- 
 guished in the institution and his country, by a profound 
 
8 LAfe of Dr. Smith. 
 
 acquaintance with mathematics and natural philoso- 
 phy. Accustomed to the study of abstract sciences, 
 Mr. Periam, it appears, had not confined himself ex- 
 clusively to the cultivation of the branches which it was 
 his province to teach; but had extended his inquiries 
 to metaphysics also, and became infected with the fan- 
 ciful doctrines of bishop Berkeley, which consist, as is 
 generally known, in denying the existence of a mate- 
 rial universe, and converting every object of the senses 
 into a train of fugitive perceptions. How this profes- 
 sor, who had been habituated to the hardy pursuits of 
 mathematical science and the inductive philosophy, 
 could ever have brought himself to embrace such a vi- 
 sionary theory, a theory so repugnant to common sense, 
 and rather an object of ridicule than of serious consi- 
 deration, it is difficult to explain, unless it be upon the 
 principle, that having been accustomed in those depart- 
 ments of science which he cultivated, to require the 
 most conclusive proof of every thing before he as- 
 sented to its truth, he so far misconceived the subject, 
 as to imagine that he must have arguments drawn from 
 reason, to convince him of the existence of an exterior 
 world, before he would admit the reality of it; and this 
 surely is an evidence which nature would deny him, as 
 she rests the proof of it solely and entirely upon the 
 simple testimony of the senses. However this may 
 have been, certain it is, that Mr. Periam had address 
 and ingenuity enough, to infuse the principles of the 
 bishop of Cloyne into the mind of Smith, and he be- 
 gan seriously to doubt whether there were in the world 
 such real existences as the sun, moon and stars, rivers^ 
 
Life of Dr. Sinith. 9 
 
 mountains and human beings. So sincere and zealous 
 did he become, at this time in the maintenance of im- 
 materiahsm, and so confident of the sufficiency of the 
 proofs by which it is supported, that he was ever ready 
 to enter the hsts in a controversy on the subject; inso- 
 much that his venerable father is said to have disco- 
 vered no small share of solicitude and apprehension, 
 lest his principles should be vitiated from this source 
 with the fatal taint of scepticism and his understanding 
 be perverted by false science. 
 
 Mr. Turgot, comptroller general of the finances of 
 France, under Louis the sixteenth, we are told by his 
 biographer, was in the habit of saying, with that fond- 
 ness for point and paradox, which indicated that the 
 fraternity of self-styled philosophers who lived in his 
 time in France, were as depraved in their taste as they 
 were unsound in their politics, impious in their religi- 
 ous opinions, and addicted to a miserable jargon in 
 philosophy; "that the man who had never considered the 
 question respecting the existence of an external world 
 as a difficult subject and worthy of engaging our cu- 
 riosity would make no progress in metaphysics.'^ Is 
 not this to assert, that in order to commence metaphy- 
 sicians, we should be affected with the symptoms of a 
 rising insanity.^ Surely from such an%uspicious begin- 
 ning we could not reasonably hope for any thing better, 
 as the final result, than confinement in a mad house. 
 Such idle and paradoxical declarations are as unfound- 
 ed in truth, as they are disgraceful to philosophy, and 
 are calculated to bring the noble science of metaphy- 
 sics into utter disrepute and contempt, by impressing 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
10 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 upon the minds of reflecting men the opinion, that in 
 order to be initiated into its mysteries, they must be 
 bereft of their senses. — Would it not be as well found- 
 ed in truth and right reason to assert, that he who does 
 not perceive a difficulty in the axioms of mathematics 
 can make no progress in mathematical science? There 
 is as good reason for disputing the first truths in ma- 
 thematics, as there is for disputing the first truths in 
 that science which rests upon experience and observa- 
 tion, and which by a very apt and beautiful figure, has 
 been denominated, by Lord Bacon, the interpretation 
 of nature. And surely among all those truths which 
 are regarded as elementary and incontrovertible in this 
 latter science, none has a higher claim and more ve- 
 nerable and prescriptive right to be considered as ele- 
 mentary than the existence of an external world. The 
 grounds upon which rest the truths of mathematical 
 and experimental science, are different in kind but 
 equally solid and immoveable; mathematics having its 
 foundations in intuitive certainty, and experimental 
 knowledge in what may be aptly denominated sensi- 
 tive certainty, or tne evidence of the senses. If, there- 
 fore, it be allowed to have been aproof of perspicacity 
 and genius, as it undoubtedly was, in Mr. Smith at his 
 early age, and i#\skilled as he must have been in the 
 grounds of human knowledge, to perceive a real diffi- 
 culty in proving by arguments derived from reason the 
 existence of' a material universe, or, in other words, 
 inferring by necessary consequence the real existence 
 of the objects ot our perception, from our having per- 
 ceptions of them; yet it must be admitted, at the same 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 11 
 
 time, that the knowledge of that man must be extreme- 
 ly hmited in the science of the human ujind, who does 
 not readily perceive the method by which he can ex- 
 tricate himself from that difficulty, and arrive at un- 
 doubted certainty from the testimony of the senses of 
 the real existence, in renim natura, of external objects. 
 Accordingly, Mr. Smith, although captivated, at first, 
 by the specious fallacies of the bishop of Cloyne, had 
 too much sober sense and penetration to be long held 
 in bondage by the silken chains of such a fantastic 
 theory. Dr. Witherspoon arrived from Scotland, and 
 bringing with him, we are told, the recently broached 
 principles of Reid, Oswald and Beattie, furnished him 
 with a clue by which he was conducted out of the dark 
 labyrinth into which he had been betrayed by bishop 
 Berkeley and his disciple, professor Periam. From the 
 cloudy speculations of immaterialism, he was now 
 brought back to the clear light of common sense. Na- 
 ture was again reinstated in her rights, and the exter- 
 nal world, which had been banished for a while, re- 
 turned and resumed its place in creation. This pro- 
 gress in the understanding and opinions of Mr. Smith 
 will appear natural, when it is recollected that the pow- 
 ers of his mind were as yet immature, that he was mis- 
 led by the guidance of a revered instructor, and that 
 the utmost maturity of the intellectual powers is, in all 
 cases, necessary to enable us to detect the errors and 
 comprehend the abstruse subjects of metaphysical 
 science. In an understanding ingenious and inquisi- 
 tive, as was his, and prone to the pursuits of philoso- 
 phy, the first tendencies, perhaps, uniformly are to ex- 
 
IS Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 pect by argument to prove every thing, forgetting that 
 in all the branches of human knowledge there are some 
 principles and maxims that must be taken for granted, 
 and upon which as a foundation we must erect our 
 various superstructures, otherwise, as Aristotle has long 
 since remarked, we must suppose the human mind ca- 
 pable of an indefinite advancement in the pursuit of 
 elementary truths. If mankind had refused to cultivate 
 the science of mathematics until they had proved the 
 truth of its axioms and definitions by arguments drawn 
 from reason, that interesting branch of human know- 
 ledge had remained until this time, barren and uncul- 
 tivated. In like manner if we refuse our assent to the 
 truths which have been established in the experimen- 
 tal sciences, under which head are included the science 
 of mind and that of matter, until we have demonstra- 
 ted by strict ratiocination the existence of an external 
 world, we shall forever remain involved in doubt and 
 uncertainty. — After the pubHcation of the incompara- 
 ble treatise of Mr. Locke upon human understandmg, 
 in which, with wonderful accuracy, he has traced the 
 progress of the mind in the acquisition of knowledge 
 from its simplest perceptions to its sublimest combina- 
 tions, while, at the same time, with the most masterly 
 skill and address he has ascertained and settled the 
 grounds of all human knowledge, or the foundations 
 upon which rest all kinds of truth and certainty, it 
 would seem strange, indeed, that any persons could be 
 found professing an acquaintance with his system, who 
 could allow themselves to be misled by the philosophi- 
 cal reveries of a Berkeley or a Hume. Such persons 
 
Ufe of Dr. Smith. IS 
 
 cannot have studied and understood the writings of Mr. 
 Locke. They must be wanting either in the capacity 
 or the pains to enter into his views or thor6ughly to 
 comprehend his meaning. Never could any refutation 
 of errors be more complete and satisfactory, than that 
 which may be drawn from the works of this illustrious 
 metaphysician, of the principles of Berkeley and Hume. 
 The Scotish metaphysicians above mentioned, are en- 
 titled to their share of praise, inasmuch as they have 
 drawn the attention of the pubHc to a subject which, 
 important as it is, is by no means alluring, as they ap- 
 pear also to have been inspired with becoming senti- 
 ments of indignation and abhorrence of that abomina- 
 ble scepticism and atheism, introduced by .Mr. Hume, 
 and to have set themselves with so much zeal in oppo- 
 sition to them. Had they limited their pretensions to 
 the humble sphere of becoming the expounders of the 
 doctrines of Mr. Locke, and the preceding philoso- 
 phers, and making a skilful application of them to the 
 discomfiture and overthrow of scepticism, their merit, 
 as far as it extended, would have been acknowledged, 
 and their claims acquiesced in by all succeeding ages. 
 But when we find them assume to themselves a credit 
 to which they are not entitled, laying claim to disco- 
 veries, of which Mr. Locke was the author, arrogating 
 to themselves the merit of having been the first who ap- 
 plied the true method of philosophising prescribed by 
 lord Bacon to the science of mind, when, in this very 
 circumstance, consisted the discriminating merit of the 
 great English metaphysician; accusing all the philoso- 
 phers, who preceded them, of being duped by hypothe 
 
14 lAfe of Dr. Smith. 
 
 ses, and hoodwinked in their pursuit of truth, by an 
 ideal and fanciful theory, unfounded in nature, and de- 
 structive to common sense; when we see them main- 
 taining that the scepticism of Berkeley and intellectu- 
 al fooleries of Hume, were legitimate inferences from 
 the principles of that sublime philosophy, whose foun- 
 dation was laid by the Stagyrite, and whose structure 
 was carried on and completed by Des Cartes, Malle- 
 branche, and above all, Mr. Locke, who may empha- 
 tically be styled the great metaphysician of human na- 
 ture; we crave leave to enter our protest against the 
 admission of such magnificent pretensions, and our 
 most decided reprehension of such egregious misstate- 
 ments. All that has been done in the science of meta- 
 physics, that is of any importance to the interests of 
 truth and mankind, has been accomplished by Locke, 
 Butler, Clarke and the Philosophers who preceded 
 them. Not a single doctrine has been taught, or a sin- 
 gle discovery made in this branch of science, which is 
 not to be found in their writings. It was the precise 
 purpose of Mr. Locke, and a purpose which he fully 
 accomplished, to apply the method of investigation re- 
 commended by Bacon to the science of mind, as New- 
 ton applied it to matter, and with equal justice and 
 force he might have declared with Newton, hypotheses 
 non Jingo. His theory is founded in nature, and in its 
 great outlines, or fundamental principles, will remain 
 entire as long as the human mind shall retain its pre- 
 sent properties, be governed by the same laws, and ex- 
 hibit the same phainomena. Dr. Reid, indeed, through- 
 out his voluminous works indulges himself very freely 
 
Life of Vr. Smith, 15 
 
 in strictures upon the principles of Mr. Locke. — In 
 more than half the instances in which he supposes him- 
 self combating his errors, he is, in truth, maintaining 
 his doctrines, and fighting with phantoms of his own 
 creation ; and wherever he has departed from the track 
 marked out by the illustrious Englishman, he has wan- 
 dered from the truth. The very ideal theory itself, the 
 grand heresy of which he accuses all the philosophers, 
 from Plato to Mr. Hume, and out of which, as a foun- 
 tain, he supposes their errors to have flowed, was un- 
 known to the system of Aristotle, Des Cartes and 
 Locke, although it undoubtedly tinctures the doc- 
 trines of father Mallebranche. It appears to have been 
 the offspring of the schoolmen, those miserable inter- 
 preters and egregious falsifiers of the opinions of Aris- 
 totle, whose crude brains were sufficiently productive 
 of metaphysical monsters; and although for sometime 
 after the revival of learning, while the school philosophy 
 remained in vogue, the phraseology prevalent during 
 its continuance was still used in scientific works, yet 
 no one has more completely thrown off the trammels 
 of that system than Mr. Locke or more heartily des- 
 pised its verbal contests and idle gibberish. 
 
 It is a little singular that Dr. Reid should have so 
 frequently repeated as an accusation against Mr. Locke 
 what that writer blamed Mallebranche for having at- 
 tempted, that is, to explain the manner of perception. 
 — To explain the manner of our perceiving external 
 objects, it is asserted, all the philosophers agreed in 
 having recourse to the ideal theory; but we venture to 
 'asser.t that when this matter shall have been thorough- 
 
IQ Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 ly sifted, it will be found to have been falsely ascribed 
 to the best of them, and as to Mr. Locke, he repeated- 
 ly and unequivocally disclaims all attempts to explain 
 the manner of perception. 
 
 But to proceed from this short digression, with our 
 account of the hfe and writings of the subject of these 
 memoirs. — After taking his first degree in the arts, Mr. 
 Smith returned to his father's family. — Here we find 
 him perfecting his knowledge of the Latin and Greek 
 classics by assisting his father in his school, and at the 
 same time extending his acquaintance with science and 
 literature by the perusal of the best writers with which 
 the library of the family supplied him. The works of 
 Pope, Swift and Addison, which were now read with 
 avidity, served to form his taste upon the best models 
 and imbue his mind with the principles of polite lite- 
 rature, while those of Locke, Butler, Warburton and 
 Edwards exercised and strengthened the hardier pow- 
 ers of the understanding, and introduced him to an 
 acquaintance with the more abstruse subjects of' me- 
 taphysics and divinity. — To the circumstance of his 
 having thus accidentally become familiarized to excel- 
 lent models of writings may, in 'all probability, be as- 
 cribed that delicacy and correctness of taste which are 
 perceptible in all his productions. In cultivating the 
 more elegant fields of the Belles-Lettres, he seems, 
 however, to have taken the greatest pleasure, and to 
 this species of exertion, his intellectual powers appear 
 to have been best adapted by nature. Inspired by the 
 natural ardour of youth and wrought up to enthusiasm, 
 he occasionally, at this period, attempted to give v.eut to 
 
Life ofDw Smith. 17 
 
 his feelings in poetic effusions, and a sonnet, an ode, or 
 an eclogue was the result. But discovering in himself 
 no native impulse prompting to such pursuits or pro- 
 mising much success from tendencies of this nature, he 
 soon relinquished all efforts to cultivate the muses and 
 directed his attention to objects more suited to his ge- 
 nius. 
 
 During his continuance at Princeton as a student, 
 his talents and assiduity had not passed unnoticed by 
 that able divine and nice observer of men and things, 
 Dr. Witherspoon; and accordingly, a vacancy occur- 
 ring in the offices of the college, Mr. Smith received 
 from him a pressing invitation to return to the institu- 
 tion with the view, as expressed in the letter written 
 on the occasion, of taking under his immediate charge, 
 the classical studies of the college, while he should 
 assist also in cultivating among the students a taste for 
 the Belles-Lettres. In this station he spent the two 
 next years of his life, performing, with acknowledged 
 ability, the duties of his office in the institution, and at 
 the same time prosecuting his theological studies, as he 
 had now determined, as well from the dictates of his 
 understanding as the impulse of his feelings, to devote 
 himself to the church. As soon as he had finished the 
 usual course of reading prescribed to students of di- 
 vinity, he left Princeton, and was licensed to preach the 
 gospel by the presbytery of New Castle in Pennsylvania. 
 Having impaired his health by his application to his 
 studies, and labouring for some time under the attacks 
 of an intermittent fever which long held his life in sus- 
 pense, he determined in order to restore his health and 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
l^ Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 at the same time, contribute to the utmost of his 
 power, towards the advancement of that sacred cause, 
 in whose interests he was now enlisted, to spend some 
 time, before his settlement in any parish, in voluntarily 
 officiating as a missionary in the western counties of 
 Virginia. He found, upon his arrival in this country, 
 a people lately removed from Ireland, among whom 
 were many pious and intelligent persons, attached to 
 the principles of the presbyterian church, who received 
 him with Irish hospitality, and gave that warm and 
 cordial encouragement to him in his labours which a 
 pious people scarcely ever fail to bestow upon a worthy 
 clergyman. Here he spent some time during two suc- 
 cessive missionary tours performed in the same year, 
 in giving catechetical instruction to the young, in preach- 
 ing the gospel at every opportunity, and in grounding 
 the people in the principles of the christian faith. In 
 all these labours he was eminently successful in the 
 cause of his Divine master. As a preacher or pulpit 
 orator he was universally regarded by them with the 
 highest admiration. There were many circumstances 
 in the church of Virginia, at this time, that prepared 
 the way for his favourable reception, facilitated his 
 success in the ministry, and soon enabled him to rear 
 and establish for himself the most distinguished repu- 
 tation as a preacher. The people of Virginia gene- 
 rally belonged to the established church of England. 
 Whether it was owing to culpable neglect and inatten- 
 tion on the part of the English bishops in sending out 
 clergymen to supply the parishes in this colony, or to 
 the circumstance that they were too much occupied at 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. li> 
 
 home with their numerous and arduous duties to be 
 able to pay that attention to an affair of this kind, 
 which their own sense of duty as well as interest 
 required; it is certain, that the clergy who were des- 
 patched from England and placed in possession of the 
 hvings in this state, were, in too many instances, most 
 egregiously defective in all those moral qualifications 
 which would have fitted them to become faithful pas- 
 tors and spiritual teachers and guides to their flocks. 
 The deficiences and even gross immoralities of many 
 of them, were flagrant and notorious. Violent contests 
 often arose between the incumbents and their parish- 
 ioners, which were maintained with equal bitterness 
 and perseverance on both sides, and which sprang out 
 of the disgust of the people at a ministry whose hves 
 were at variance with their doctrines, and during the 
 controversies maintained about the temporalities of the 
 church, its spiritual concerns were entirely disregard- 
 ed or forgotten. Even among those of the clergy who 
 were best fitted from their piety, talents and learning 
 to become able shepherds of the flock of Christ, the 
 style of preaching which prevailed, was by no means 
 alluring to the great body of the people. That cold and 
 didactic manner which, in order to avoid the excesses 
 of puritanism, had become fashionable in England, 
 from the time of Charles the second, however suited 
 it may have been to congregations brought up in the 
 immediate vicinity of a polished capital, enjoying the 
 advantages of a finished education and the enlightened 
 intercourse of a court, and who, of consequence, would 
 be more under the influence of their understandings 
 and less under that of their feelings, was little suited to 
 
20 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 affect and interest the simple and untutored inhabitants 
 of the country. This was the style of preaching ge- 
 nerally prevalent among the clergy of the church of 
 England at this time in Virginia. It was oftentimes, 
 indeed, sensible, judicious and even profound, but al- 
 together without power to influence the will or reach 
 and affect the heart. On the other hand, the mode of 
 preaching which prevailed among the other denomina- 
 tions of christians, who did not belong to the establish- 
 ed church, while it was more passionate, earnest and 
 vehement, and of course more attractive to the people, 
 went equally into the opposite and worse extreme. As 
 the preachers were, for the most part, uneducated but 
 pious men, their pulpit addresses too frequently dege- 
 nerated into mere empty declamation and vapoury effu- 
 sions, which wanting the v,^eight of sound sense and 
 solid learning to recommend them, produced little ef- 
 fect that was permanent and were offensive to the in- 
 telligent and reflecting part of the community. In this 
 state of things, it is little to be wondered at, if Mr. 
 Smith soon gained among them the highest reputation 
 as a pulpit orator, and awoke no common interest in his 
 favour. Having a mind already imbued with elegant 
 literature and a taste improved by familiarity with the 
 finest models of writing in the Latin, Greek, English 
 and French languages, and withal a genius that kind- 
 led into enthusiasm at the success of those celebrated 
 preachers, whose praises and whose triumphs of elo- 
 quence he had seen recorded in ecclesiastical history, 
 and above all a heart deeply touched and interested 
 with the great truths which it was his province to pro- 
 
Life of Ih\ Smith. 21 
 
 claim; the doctrines of the gospel were presented to his 
 hearers in a more attractive and imposing form than they 
 ever before had been able to conceive. In Mr. Smith 
 they found solid sense and deep learning recommend- 
 ing by their embellishments the simple and sublime 
 truths of religion, and the influence of the whole aug- 
 mented by all the graces of style, composition and de- 
 livery. The result was such as might have been an- 
 ticipated. The people flocked from all quarters to lis- 
 ten to the popular missionary. On the Sundays in which 
 it was known that he was to preach, the churches 
 within several miles of the one in which he was to offi- 
 ciate were deserted, and the several denominations for- 
 getting in the pleasure which they felt those differences 
 of opinions and forms of worship by which they were 
 separated from each other, assembled in the same place, 
 attracted by the charm of his fervid and impressive 
 eloquence. So strong at length, did the public senti- 
 ment in his favour become, that some gentlemen of 
 wealth and influence, who had long felt the want of a 
 seminary of learning for the education of their sons, 
 determined to avail themselves of this favourable op- 
 portunity of accomplishing so important an object, and 
 immediately set forward a subscription for the purpose. 
 His popularity and weight of character among them, 
 were now so great, that fifty thousand dollars were 
 soon subscribed for laying the foundations of a college, 
 of which it was contemplated that he should become 
 the president. No sooner was the plan projected and 
 the subscription list filled up, than those ardent and 
 enterprising men commenced the erection of the build- 
 
22 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 ings of that seminary which was afterwards chartered 
 by the legislature, and in compliment to those distin- 
 guished patriots of England, John Hampden and Al- 
 gernon Sidney, denominated Hampden-Sidney college. 
 Having now completed his missionary tour through 
 Virginia, thus voluntarily undertaken, during the time 
 in which the buildings were erecting for the contem- 
 plated institution, he returned to the northern states, 
 and connected himself to his venerable president and 
 preceptor by ties even more intimate and interesting 
 than those which subsist between the professor and pu- 
 pil, by marrying his eldest daughter, a lady of great 
 gentleness of disposition and amiable manners. Soon 
 after this event he returned to Virginia, to take upon 
 hitn the two-fold charge of principal of the seminary and 
 pastor of the church. In both these capacities he ac- 
 quitted himself with the greatest talents and address, 
 and fulfilled to those gentlemen who had reposed con- 
 fidence in him, their most sanguine expectations. His 
 reputation both as a pious and learned Divine, and an 
 eloquent and successful preacher every day increased, 
 and the attachment of his flock, and the students of 
 the college to his person, was sincere and unabated 
 during the whole time of his residence among them. 
 The frequency and vehemence of his mode of preach- 
 ing, however, added to his arduous duties in the semi- 
 nary, were too trying for a constitution which, although 
 naturally sound, was not robust, and in the course of 
 three or four years, his health was greatly impaired and 
 his expectoration immediately succeeding the pubhc 
 exercises of the church, became visibly tinctured with 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 23 
 
 blood. This appearance did not at first abate his zeal 
 or restrain his exertions, but at length he was found to 
 discharge blood in considerable quantities from his 
 breast, and it became necessary, that, for a time, he 
 should desist from repeating this painful and dangerous 
 experiment upon his lungs. In order to recruit his 
 strength and recover his health, it was thought advisa- 
 ble by his friends that he should retire for a season to 
 a watering-place among the western mountains of Vir- 
 ginia, known by the name of the Sweet-Springs, which 
 was just beginning to be held in great repute for the 
 salubrious qualities of its waters. On his way to these 
 springs an incident occurred to him which would not 
 be worthy of an insertion here, except as it exhibits 
 strongly to view the tenderness of that connection 
 which subsists between a good pastor and his flock, 
 and may serve as an encouragement to the clergy to 
 the cultivation of that species of intercourse with the 
 members of their communion which may lead to the 
 formation of attachments so honourable to both parties. 
 During his journey to the springs, he was one evening 
 passing by a dairy yard, where an elderly lady, the wife 
 of colonel Christian, so famous in our Indian wars, was 
 standing among her servants and cattle. As soon as 
 she saw him, she instantly stepped forward, asking 
 pardon for her intrusion, and begged to know if he was 
 in any way related to that most worthy of all men, as 
 she said, Mr. Samuel Blair, his maternal uncle. I con- 
 sider him, she continued, as my spiritual Father. Many, 
 many years ago, no man was more dear to me: and on 
 seeing you, as yoji were passing, so strong a resem- 
 
'U Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 blance of his countenance struck me, that I could not 
 resist the impulse, which induced me to make this ab- 
 rupt inquiry, however improbable or almost impossible 
 it may seem, to see any one of Mr. Blair's relations in 
 these remote ends of the earth. Mr. Smith informed 
 her that she was not deceived in the resemblance she 
 had traced, for that he was a near relation of Mr. Blair, 
 and then stated the connection that subsisted between 
 them. * Forgive me, my dear sir,' she continued, with 
 great earnestness, ' if my affection for that good man 
 constrain me to urge you to pass this night, as the day 
 is far spent, with my family. I cannot help hoping to 
 meet with his spirit in his perfect image. And let me 
 have reason to bless my God and Saviour for this un- 
 expected interview which strikes my mind as a special 
 act of his gracious providence designed for the conso- 
 lation of one of the most unworthy of his servants!' En- 
 viable tribute of regard and attachment! Whatever may 
 be the difficulties, and discouragements of the ministry, 
 such a testimony of respect and affection from one 
 pious woman, an affection too springing out of so pure 
 and sacred a fountain, amply compensates the pastor 
 for a life of toil. When placed in competition with a 
 sacred veneration of this kind for the memory of a good 
 clergyman, all the glory of the conqueror and tiie loud 
 applause of the thoughtless multitude, are but as the 
 dust of the balance! It embalms his memory, conse- 
 crates his ashes, and without producing the effects sup- 
 posed to result from his canonization, communicates to 
 him its happiest rewards by enhancing his enjoyment 
 in a future state of existence. 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 25 
 
 After remaining a few weeks at the springs above 
 mentioned, Mr. Smith found the effusion of blood from 
 his lungs to cease, and the slow fever which attended it 
 disappear. On his return to his family with recovered 
 health, new prospects opened to him in life and the way 
 had been paved for his entrance upon a theatre in which 
 the sphere of his usefulness would be extended, and 
 those extraordinary powers he possessed be more con- 
 spicuously displayed. Through the influence of Dr. 
 Witherspoon, who learned more justly to estimate the 
 talents of Mr. Smith in proportion to the intimacy of 
 his connection with him, a vacancy occurring in the 
 higher offices of the faculty of Princeton college, he 
 was invited to return to the seat of his former studies, 
 and appointed professor of moral philosophy, as it was 
 known that this was his favourite branch of science, 
 and one which he had cultivated with the greatest 
 diligence and success. In the year 1779, therefoie, 
 and ^yth of his age, he received this appointment, so 
 well suited to his v^ishes, and which introduced him 
 into that field of exertion in which he was eminently 
 qualified to excel. Leaving his brother, the Rev. John 
 Smith in whom he reposed entire confidence, and who 
 was worthy of it, to take charge of the infant seminary 
 reared under his care in Virginia, he removed to 
 Princeton, the place that was to become the scene of 
 his future labours. 
 
 Upon his arrival at Princeton to enter upon the duties 
 of his new appointment, the college was in a state of 
 ruin. The war which had raged for some years before 
 between the colonies and the mother country, had driven 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
^6 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 the president of the mstitution from the state of New 
 Jersey, dispersed the students and reduced the buildings 
 to a state of complete dilapidation. The whole inte- 
 rior of that noble edifice and of the church attached to 
 it, had been torn out and destroyed by the British and 
 American forces, who successively occupied it as bar- 
 racks for the soldiery, during their passing and repas- 
 sing through the state of New Jersey. The roof had 
 been made a field of sport for idle soldiers and vaga- 
 bond boys from the village, until its use as a defence 
 against the injuries of the weather was almost destroy- 
 ed. Its windows and doors were all shattered, and 
 many of them burnt, the plaistering had been wanton- 
 ly punched through with bayonets, and the lathing torn 
 off for the purpose of kindling their fires, and the floors 
 had been so generally cut by hatchets and axes, as to 
 be utterly unfit for use. Added to this unpromising 
 state of the building and the general dispersion of the 
 students, were the difficulties which arose from the in- 
 jury sustained by the funds of the institution from the 
 financial embarrassments of the nation, and the gene- 
 ral distress of the times. As the seat of the war had 
 now, however, been transferred from the north to the 
 south, and tlie nation, shaking off its despondency, be- 
 gan to look with confidence to the final establishment of 
 its independence, Dr. Witherspoon, determined to avail 
 himself of this favoui'able opportunity to revive the in- 
 stitution. Mr. Smith, in whose talents and address he 
 had now learned to place unlimited confidence, was 
 fixed upon, as the person to assist him in this under- 
 taking. Accordingly Mr. Smith was commissioned at 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 21 
 
 once to attend to the repairs of the building, and in con- 
 nection with the other teachers to superintend the in- 
 struction of the small classes that remained. And with 
 so much capacity, diligence and zeal did he devote him- 
 self to the interests of the seminary, that in a short time 
 the building was put into a condition to receive the pu- 
 pils who were beginning to assemble, and the usual 
 system of instruction set into operation. On this oc- 
 casion, that natural generosity, disinterestedness and 
 total disregard of pecuniary advantages, for which Mr. 
 Smith was distinguished, were strikingly displayed. 
 The funds of the college, from the causes belbre al- 
 luded to, being insufficient to defray the expense of 
 erecting the buildings, and at the same time contribut- 
 ing to the maintenance of the professors, he, with un- 
 usual liberality, devoted to these purposes considerable 
 sums of money which he received from Virginia, ac- 
 cruing to him li'om the sale of some lands which he 
 possessed in that state, and for which disinterested sa- 
 crifice of his own personal interests to those of the se- 
 minary, he never afterwards received any adequate re- 
 muneration. 
 
 In efforts of this nature commenced the labours of 
 Mr. Smith in one of the higher offices of the college, in 
 discharging the duties of which, together with what 
 was subsequently done by him, he performed a part 
 lor that institution, for which she can never feel her- 
 self too deeply indebted to him. For a considerable 
 portion of time too, it is to be remarked, that he had 
 to execute the duties of his office under circumstances 
 of pecuhar disadvantage and delicacy. The great in- 
 terests of the American nation which were at this time 
 
28 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 pending, requiring the collective wisdom of her citizens 
 to be brought into action for her welfare, Dr. Wither- 
 spoon, whose integrity, capacity and attachment to the 
 cause of patriotism had been sufficiently evinced dur- 
 ing the war, was chosen by the state of New Jersey to 
 represent herein congress. For several years he con- 
 tinued to perform his duty in congress while he still 
 held the presidency of the college, and during the time 
 of his absence from the institution, the whole weight of 
 his cares fell upon Mr. Smith, who was now placed 
 in the very delicate situation of one who had to exert 
 a vigilance and exercise an authority at all times of- 
 fensive to the governed and reluctantly submitted to, 
 without being invested with the dignity which com- 
 mands respect and renders acquiescence and obedi- 
 ence easy. This circumstance oftentimes rendered 
 the performance of his duties in the highest degree irk- 
 some. It must have been peculiarly painful to him to 
 impose the restraints and inflict the censures, as well 
 as exert that constant vigilance necessary in the go- 
 vernment of a large number of youth, in a subordinate 
 station, when the idea prevails among them that there 
 is a superior, although he seldom interferes, who is an 
 ultimate source of lenity and indulgence. For young 
 men are too apt to measure that indulgence by their 
 own wishes rather than by the standard of reason and 
 the laws. Nothing, however, could overcome the firm- 
 ness and perseverance of Mr. Smith. He had thus far 
 been the chief instrument in reviving the seminary, and 
 he was resolved to persist through all difficulties and 
 discouragements to the accomplishment of his object. 
 The superiority of his talents and the high respect 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 29 
 
 which the students could not fail to entertain for him, 
 enabled him to surmount all obstructions, linder his 
 care, supported by the character and influence of Dr. 
 Witherspoon, the college was rapidly advancing to pros- 
 perity, when an event occurred which had well nigh 
 deprived him of life, and the institution and the coun- 
 try of his future usefulness and eminence. So great 
 was his activity and devotedness to duty, that besides 
 his labours as an instructor, he had been in the habit 
 of officiating also as preacher to the students. — These 
 exertions, being above his strength and unsuited to the 
 natural delicacy of his constitution, occasioned a recur- 
 rence of the sjmptoms of his former complaint. One 
 evening in the beginning of November, 1782, the blood 
 burst forth apparently from the same part of the thorax, 
 or upper region of the breast, from w^hich it had for- 
 merly oozed in smaller quantities, but now with great- 
 ly increased violence. It resembled the spring of the 
 blood from a vein or minute artery which had been 
 punctured by the lancet. The first flow of this alarm- 
 ing rupture, for the blood spouted to a distance from 
 his mouth, was checked in a short time by bleeding in 
 the arm and feet, to fainting. The hemorrhage, how- 
 ever, returned the next evening about three quar- 
 ters of an hour later than the evening preceding, and 
 was again restrained by a still more free use of the lan- 
 cet. Evening after evening the same scene returned, 
 only at each successive recurrence being somewhat later 
 than on the preceding day, but with a stronger impulse 
 and circumstances more alarming. — On this occasion, 
 when death seemed inevitable, the resignation of Mr. 
 Smith to the will of God, his confidence in his just and 
 
30 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 righteous providence, and firm reliance on the merits 
 of his Saviour, demonstrated that he was not merely 
 a public teacher of the doctrines of rehgion, but that 
 he deeply felt its power. While he was tranquil, self- 
 collected and humbly resigned to the will of Godj his 
 presence of mind and nice discernment, in marking 
 the progress of his disorder, and suggesting the best 
 expedients by which to obtain relief, are well worthy 
 of remark and even admiration. — Learning from the 
 experience of several anxious days, that the flux of 
 blood returned at stated intervals, he proposed to the 
 physicians to endeavour to anticipate its approach by 
 opening his veins just before the time of its regular re- 
 turn. As such a large quantity of blood had been dis- 
 charged already, not less than two gallons in a few 
 days, the attending physicians were averse from mak- 
 ing so hazardous an experiment, declaring that by re- 
 peating the operation beyond the absolute necessity of 
 the case, they were only increasing the debility of the 
 system which would be done at the imminent danger of 
 fife. But Mr. Smith remarked in contradiction of their 
 theory, that although so much blood had been lost, his 
 arterial system, especially towards the approach of the 
 time in which the paroxysm took place, was unusually 
 strong, and the indication of its approach was a slight 
 rise of the pulse and a gentle titillation at the ruptured 
 spot. On the fifth evening, near the usual time of its 
 return, Mr. Smith, with uncommon fortitude and pre- 
 sence of mind, perceiving the symptoms, solicited one 
 of the physicians, who happened to be alone with him, 
 watching by his bed-side, instantly to open his vein. 
 
Life of Dr, Smith. 31 
 
 aud if possible to prevent the flux from his breast. The 
 good doctor, deterred by his own theory, refused to 
 comply with Mr. Smith's urgent request, and while he 
 was proceeding with his argument to justify his re- 
 fusal, the blood released from the bandage which ob- 
 structed it, spouted into his face, at the same time run- 
 ning in a small stream from his mouth. Frightened at 
 his own mistake, as soon as he could recover from his 
 surprise he promoted its flow as much as possible, by 
 increasing the stricture upon the superior part of his 
 arm and opening another vein. When by these means 
 the diseased flux from the mouth was arrested for the 
 time, Mr. Smith, somewiiat impatient at the objections 
 of his physicians, and their delay in resorting to what 
 he conceived to be the only remedy that was hkely to be 
 effectual in his critical situation, earnestly solicited the 
 doctor to leave a lancet with him. He believed that 
 urged by a sense of danger, he could summon resolu- 
 tion to perform the operation on himself; and thought 
 that, guided by the symptoms, he could prevent the re- 
 turn of the disease, when a bleeder might not always 
 be present to afford his aid. He thought moreover, 
 that by daily anticipating the period in which the 
 blood flowed from the diseased part, he might so far 
 check the impulse of the fluid on that part as to allow 
 the sides of the wound to unite and heal, since the cur- 
 rent in the veins might be preserved in that calm and 
 temperate motion which would not again force them 
 asunder. The physician, after much persuasion, con- 
 sented at last to resign the lancet to him, trembling 
 lest he was putting the life of his friend at great ha- 
 
S2 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 zard. Mr. Smith, however, confident of the correct- 
 ness of his own views, resokitely but cautiously opened 
 a vein the next day, somewhat earlier than the usual 
 time of the paroxysm, a person holding him up in bed 
 while he performed the operation on himself He drew 
 from his arm nearly if not quite the quantity which had 
 been found necessary since the accident took place, 
 which, according to his calculations, prevented the 
 eruption for that day. Extravasated blood however, 
 which had been collected in large quantities in the ca- 
 vities of the thorax and coagulated there, excited a 
 slight disposition to cough, and it was computed that 
 from six to eight ounces must have been expectorated 
 by him during as many hours. This appearance, though 
 alarming, did not discourage his cool and reflecting 
 mind from repeating the experiment which had been so 
 successful on the preceding day, although he was ap- 
 parently almost exhausted even of the small quantity 
 of blood requisite to maintain the functions of hfe. The 
 experiment was now completely successful. The vio- 
 lence in the action of the system abated. Day after 
 day the same course was pursued with the same result. 
 He was now, indeed, reduced to a state of extreme de- 
 bility and decay, insomuch that he was unable to move 
 a limb, could not speak to his attendants except in 
 whispers, could not be raised in bed without fainting, 
 and truly appeared to be rapidly approaching the peri- 
 od of his dissolution. But his Heavenly Father thought 
 proper to determine otherwise, and to raise him from 
 the valley of the shadow of death, to become a chosen 
 instrument of usefulness to his church, a blessing to the* 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. o3 
 
 seminary, and an ornament to his country. He was 
 raised from the bed of ilhiess. Before the conjplete 
 reestablishment of his health, so great was his soHcitude 
 about the prosperity of the college, and so deep his 
 sense of duty and responsibility, that for some time he 
 was in the habit of attending to the recitations of his 
 class in his own room before he was able to appear in 
 his place in the institution. Being able now to walk 
 and ride out, as the vernal season approached he was 
 soon restored to his usual health and able to attend to 
 his duties as a professor, but was obliged for some 
 years to abstain from all exertions in the pulpit, except 
 occasionally and with great caution, and under much 
 restraint. During his future life it is said to have been 
 his constant practice, when he felt any symptoms of a 
 tendency to his old complaint or any unusual action in 
 his system to resort to the lancet for relief, which he 
 had learnt to use for himself without difficulty or ap- 
 prehension; and contrary to the opinion usually enter- 
 tained on that subject, he did not find the necessity of 
 resorting to it increase but diminish during his advan- 
 cing years. 
 
 Thus was this eminent servant of God once more 
 restored, by a benignant providence, to his family and 
 usefulness. He had still the same difficulties before- 
 mentioned to contend with, during the hfe of Dr. Wither- 
 spoon, whose time was occupied at first with his duties 
 in congress, and afterwards at the instance of the board 
 of trustees, in paying a visit to England on the hope- 
 less errand of endeavouring to collect money to replen- 
 ish the exhausted funds of the college. — Soon after this 
 
 VOL. I. F , 
 
34 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 event also that venerable man was afflicted with totai 
 blindness, and many infirmities which almost deprived 
 him of power to attend to his duties, so that the whole 
 weight and responsibility of the president's office de- 
 volved upon Mr. Smith. Like all men of real talent, 
 however, his powers only became more conspicuous, 
 as they were called into more vigorous exertion. The 
 trustees of the seminary becoming every day more sen- 
 sible of his capacity and distinguished usefulness, added 
 to his titles and dignities in the institution, besides the 
 one of professor of moral philosophy, those of professor 
 of theology and vice president of the college. Nor was 
 hisreputation any longer confined to the college alone. — 
 He was beginning to attract the attention and respect 
 of the literary public. In 1785, he was elected an ho- 
 norary member of the American philosophical society 
 in Philadelphia, the first institution of that kind in our 
 country; and which comprised among it members, men 
 of the highest distinction in science and literature. As 
 his reputation, both as an orator and scholar, began to 
 be justly appreciated, he was appointed this same year 
 by that learned body to deliver their anniversary ad- 
 dress. On this occasion, it was, that he chose for his 
 subject, to explain the causes of the variety in the figure 
 and complexion of the human species and estabhsh the 
 identity of the race. This masterly treatise, so well 
 selected for the occasion, was published in the philo- 
 sophical transactions of the society, and obtained for 
 its author deserved reputation as a philosopher both in 
 his own and foreign countries. This same treatise has 
 since been enlarged and improved by him, and together 
 
Life of Br. Smith. oO 
 
 with some strictures upon the principles of lord Kaims, 
 Mr. White of Manchester, &c. published in a separate 
 volume. In the year following the publication of this 
 work, while attending a commencement at Yale college 
 in the state of Connecticut, he was unexpectedly to 
 himself honoured with the degree of doctor in divinity, 
 as some years afterwards he received from Cambridge 
 in the state of Massachusetts, that of doctor of laws. 
 His reputation as a philosopher, a divine and pulpit 
 orator, was now established. Whenever he appeared in 
 the pulpit, he excited universal approbation and ap- 
 plause. In the ecclesiastical councils to which he was 
 sent, he shone as a distinguished luminary. With a 
 mind inured to close thinking, by habits of application 
 to the study of those authors the most remarkable for 
 profound thought and extensive erudition, an imagina- 
 tion, which, to its natural fertility, had added the riches 
 of all that it could cull in imagery from the finest pro- 
 ductions in poetry and prose, and withall a ready and 
 commanding eloquence, which he had cultivated from 
 early life, he could not fail to become distinguished in 
 debate. Accordingly it is said by those who knew him 
 best, to have been no small enjoyment to listen to him 
 in those discussions, which took place in the synods 
 and general assemblies of the pi-esbyterian church. The 
 confidence which his church reposed in him was evin- 
 ced by her uniformly putting his talents anct learning 
 into requisition, when any important measures w^re 
 proposed or any interesting objects accomplished. In 
 the year 1786 he was among the number of that com- ^^ 
 mittee, who w ere directed to draw up a system of go- 
 
36 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 vernment for the presbyterian church in America. Be- 
 sides himself, this committee consisted of Drs. Wither- 
 spoon, Rogers, M'Whorter, Sproat, Duffield, AlHson, 
 Ewing and Wilson, of the clergy, together with Messrs. 
 Snowden, Taggart, and Pinkerton, ruling elders; a list 
 of divines in a high degree respectable, and some of 
 whom would have done honour to any age or nation. 
 In pursuance of this appointment was prepared and 
 digested that judicious and excellent form of Presby- 
 terial government by general assemblies, synods, and 
 presbyteries, which prevails at this time in our coun- 
 try. 
 
 In 1794 Dr. Witherspoon finished his earthly course, 
 and in the following spring. Dr. Smith was appointed 
 his successor, and entered upon the dignity of that of- 
 fice, the duties of which he had long before fulfilled. 
 His talents, like all those which are genuine, shone 
 more brightly in proportion to the elevation to which 
 he was raised. The dignity of manners mingled with 
 .a respectful attention to their feelings which, on all oc- 
 casions, he discovered in his deportment towards those 
 students, who devoted themselves to their duty, and 
 were obedient to the laws; the clearness, comprehen- 
 sion and force of style which he displayed as an in- 
 structor to his class, the manly and impressive eloquence 
 which he exhibited on all public occasions, when he 
 appeared in the pulpit, rendered him the pride and or- 
 nament of the institution. The period in which he 
 was to preach became an era in the college, for at this 
 time a pastor, had been provided for the church at 
 Princeton, and the students on such occasions repaired 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 37 
 
 with alacrity and delight to the place of divine worship. 
 Never did they return from the church on such occa- 
 sions, without feeling a degree of enthusiasm in favour 
 of the preacher and having a sensible effect produced 
 upon their conduct by his eloquent and solemn ser- 
 mons. The writer of this feeble tribute to his memory, 
 can bear testimony to his success as a pulpit orator, as 
 the effect produced upon his mind by the able and 
 searching addresses of his venerable president will never 
 be obliterated. They were the first that ever exhibited 
 to him, that quickening power which the doctrines of 
 the gospel are capable of exercising, when recommend- 
 ed by the ornaments of style and composition, and all 
 the arts of a persuasive eloquence. The addresses which 
 he delivered to the senior class, which according to a 
 laudable custom, took place in Princeton college, on the 
 Sunday before the day of their public commencement, 
 were generally executed in his best style, and delivered 
 in his most impressive and happy manner. These ad- 
 dresses annually delivered to his graduates became at 
 length so celebrated that persons of the first distinction 
 in our country went from considerable distances, even 
 from Philadelphia and New York, to listen to them. 
 The people of Trenton, in New Jersey, will long re- 
 member the effect produced upon them by his oration 
 upon the death of General Washington, an occasion on 
 which eloquence could exercise her highest powers, 
 and eulogy lavish her most hyperbolical encomiums, 
 without any apprehension of degenerating into extra- 
 vagance or excess. About this time, he published one 
 
38 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 volume of sermons, which was well received both in hib 
 own and in foreign countries. 
 
 While the affairs of the college were thus prosper- 
 ously advancing, under the auspices of a president and 
 professors of acknowledged ability, for Dr. Smith had 
 the happiness of having associated with him, first Dr. 
 Walter Minto, one of the most distinguished mathema- 
 ticians of his age, and afterwards. Dr. John M'Lean, 
 who, for clearness of understanding and largeness of 
 comprehension, had few equals in those branches of 
 science to which he devoted himself; an event happen- 
 ed which for a time overwhelmed with despair the 
 friends of this institution. From some cause which, 
 to this day, has not been completely explained, the col- 
 lege buildings were burnt to the ground. This con- 
 flagration was, at first, supposed to be the work of some 
 incendiary among the malcontent students, and several 
 of them suffered in their character, from the strong 
 suspicions which were entertained of their guilt; but 
 after a full investigation of the matter, it appears rather 
 to have been the effect of accident than design. From 
 w^hatever cause the effect may have been produced, we 
 can more easily conceive than describe the sensations 
 of Dr. Smith, when he saw that edifice, which he had 
 been so instrumental in rearing after the ravages of the 
 war, and which had been for some time past filled with 
 young men, many of whom were ardently engaged un- 
 der his care in the pursuit of knowledge, one heap of 
 ruins. Sickened, however, as his heart was at the 
 sight, his mind fertile in expedients, did not long hesi- 
 tate as to the course which it was necessary to pursue 
 
Life of Dr. SmUL 39 
 
 m this critical conjuncture. The board of trustees was 
 immediately summoned, and a plan proposed of setting 
 forward throughout the United States among the friends 
 of the seminary a subscription, for the purpose of 
 raising a sum of money sufficient to repair the injuries 
 which had been sustained. In the execution of this 
 plan, the influential members of the board were request- 
 ed to exert all their power in collecting subscriptions 
 in their several districts, w^hile the president was di- 
 rected in person to travel through the middle and 
 southern states, where the supporters of the institution 
 principally resided, with the same views. Such was 
 the success with which these exertions were attended 
 that, in a short time, the building arose like a phoenix 
 from its ashes; a larger library than the college before 
 possessed was purchased, and more ample and conve- 
 nient accommodations were provided for the students. 
 For some years after this event, tlie number of the pu- 
 pils was augmented beyond what had ever before been 
 known in it. Thus was Dr. Smith a second time, the 
 principal instrument in rearing this literary institution. 
 From this period no important event happened bejond 
 what are usual in similar places, until the year 1812, 
 when after repeated strokes of the palsy, he found him- 
 self unable to attend to his duties in college, and ac- 
 cordingly, at the next commencement, to the great re- 
 gret of the students and all the friends of the college, 
 he pubhcly resigned his presidency, and retired to a 
 house allotted to him by the board of trustees, while, 
 with a liberality that does that respectable body of men 
 no small credit, the greater part of his former salary 
 
40 Uife of Dr. Smith. 
 
 was continued to him during his life. From this period 
 although only in his sixty-second year, the paralytic 
 strokes, with which he had been visited, had so far 
 weakened his constitution, as to render him utterly in- 
 capable of any of his ordinary exertions of body or 
 mind. Even in this enfeebled state, however, his na- 
 tural ardour and activity in the prosecution of learning 
 still continued. He spent a portion of his time incor- 
 rectmg his works, and prepared for the press, and pub- 
 lished that system of moral philosophy, which for more 
 than twenty years he had delivered to the classes, and 
 which is certainly among the best productions of this 
 kind extant. Conscious of the extreme debility of his 
 system, he was obliged at length to rehnquish all those 
 pursuits, to which he had become accustomed, and de- 
 voted himself solely to the enjoyment of his family cir- 
 cle and those numerous friends whose attachment to 
 him became strengthened, by the near prospect which 
 presented itself of so soon being deprived of him for- 
 ever. The fervour and sincerity of his piety, appear- 
 ed more conspicuous now that it was brought to the 
 test. With a mind conscious of the most unsullied 
 purity, and uprightness of intention; the retrospect of 
 a well spent life, and an entire trust in the mercy 
 and goodness of God, he seemed to await, in unruffled 
 tranquillity the summons of his heavenly Father, that 
 should transport him to a better world. Divested of all 
 the passions which disturb and embitter the intercourse 
 of those who are engaged in the conflicts of ambition, 
 living separate from the world, and under the sure pros- 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 41 
 
 pect of a speedy dissolution, he appeared, in the lan- 
 guage of the poet, 
 
 To walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore 
 Of that vast ocean he must sail so soon — 
 
 For some weeks before his death, his strength be- 
 came visibly decreased, and on the 21st Augusl, 1819, 
 the 70th year of his age, he died almost without a strug- 
 gle, conversing to the last with his family, exhibiting 
 entire composure and resignation, and discovering even 
 an anxiety to be released from that weight of feeble- 
 ness and infirmity, which for some years before had 
 borne down his spirit, and cut him off from those en- 
 joyments, in w4nch his active mind found its greatest 
 happiness. His funeral was attended by an unusual 
 concourse of his fellow citizens, assembled, even from 
 remote distances, to avail themselves of this last op- 
 portunity of testifying their respect for a man so much 
 honoured and esteemed. His body was deposited by 
 the side of the other presidents of the college, and the 
 usual monument is now erecting over his ashes. He 
 had the misfortune to lose his wife some years previ- 
 ous to his own death, by whom he had nine children, 
 five of which number only have sui'vived him. 
 
 We shall now proceed to state his claims as a phi- 
 losopher, a president of the college, a writer, a pulpit 
 orator and a man. Dr. Smith, from the earliest period 
 of life, devoted himself exclusively to the cultivation of 
 science. His pretensions as a philosopher do honour 
 to his country. In all his works we discover great just- 
 
 VOL. I. <5 
 
4^2 ' Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 ness and profoundness of observation, extensive ac- 
 quaintance with science and literature, together with a 
 liberal and philosophical cast of thinking. His Princi- 
 ples of Natural and Revealed Religion, his Moral Phi- 
 losophy, his Lectures upon the Evidences of Christi- 
 anity delivered to the students in college, his Treatise 
 upon the Figure and Complexion of the human spe- 
 cies, and lastly, his Sermons, consisting of three vo- 
 lumes, two of which are now given to the public; are 
 the works upon which his reputation is built, and they 
 are all written with the hand of a master. In his Prin- 
 ciples of Natural and Revealed Religion, he has given 
 a concise but neat and perspicuous view of the doc- 
 trines and rites of the christian religion, as they are re- 
 ceived and practised in the presbyterian church. His 
 views are decidedly calvanistic, but couched in terms 
 of so nmch moderation and liberality, that in his hands 
 they are rendered as little offensive to those who have 
 embraced a different creed, as it is possible to make 
 them. In this treatise he has comprised within a small 
 compass, a great variety of theological learning and 
 useful and interesting disquisition, expressed in a lan- 
 guage at once neat and elegant, while his doctrines are 
 recommended by profound reflections and happy illus- 
 trations. His Moral Philosophy is certainly among the 
 best productions of this kind at present in the posses- 
 sion of the literary world. As a book for the use of 
 colleges and schools, it is liable to fewer objections than 
 any that can be obtained. The treatise of Dr. Paley 
 on this subject, although perhaps as a work of genius 
 superior to any other, and characterised by all those 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 43 
 
 excellencies usually discoverable in the productions of 
 that amiable moralist and elegant writer, is well known, 
 and I believe, generally admitted to be most materially 
 defective in tracing the foundations of moral duty. The 
 excellent work of Hutcheson, is too abstract and dif- 
 fuse for the use of schools, and that of Dr. Beattie 
 rather an inferior production, and without that body of 
 interesting matter which we have reason to expect in 
 an elementary treatise intended for the instruction of 
 youth. It is a common objection against this work of 
 Dr. Smith, that he has introduced into it many topics 
 which are irrelative to the subject of moral and politi- 
 cal philosophy; and, perhaps, it is, in some degree, lia- 
 ble to an exception of this kind. But even this cir- 
 cumstance which may be admitted to be a real imper- 
 fection in the work, when estimated as a production of 
 genius, may be of service to it, when received into our 
 colleges as a manual of instruction in the education of 
 youth. The variety of subjects discussed serves to 
 open, and expand the faculties of youthful minds, to 
 extend the sphere of their acquaintance with science 
 and literature, and at once to gratify their fondness for 
 novelty, and to strengthen and invigorate their intel- 
 lectual powers. His Lectures upon the Evidences of 
 the Christian Religion, hold a respectable rank with 
 the works of Stillingfleet, Grotius, Paley, and the nu- 
 merous writers who have undertaken the discussion 
 of the same subject, and his volume of sermons is 
 one of the best on the subjects of practical divinity, 
 which issued from the press during the last century. 
 The treatise, however, upon which, if he had written 
 
44 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 no other, he might found a high and well merited re- 
 putation as a philosopher, is that upon the variety of 
 figure and complexion in the human species, which is 
 among the first and best of his productions. It was at . 
 first published as delivered to the philosophical society 
 of Philadelphia, and of course much less m size than 
 it now appears in a separate volume, but it may rea- 
 sonably be doubted whether by introducing into it a 
 greater accumulation of matter, although that matter 
 be of a very interesting and useful kind, and undoubt- 
 edly contributes to the information and amusement of 
 the reader, he has not upon the whole weakened the 
 impression, which the argument produces upon the 
 mind. However this may be, in its present form, it is 
 indisputably a masterpiece of philosophical writing, and 
 such as would have done honour to any man that ever 
 lived. He who contributes to the detection and expo- 
 sure of error and the establishment of the great prin- 
 ciples of tmth and duty, who exhibits important doc- 
 trines in science, morals or religion in new and interest- 
 ing points of light, recommends them by original embel- 
 lishments of fancy and all the graces of style and compo- 
 sition, may, alike with him who has the happinessto make 
 great discoveries in philosophy, be regarded as one of the 
 benefactors of his race. In efforts of this kind lies the 
 merit of Dr. Smith, in the treatise of which we are 
 now speaking. If he had not the honour of conceiving 
 the original plan upon which the varieties in the race 
 might be explained, which it is conceded had been 
 sketched out by the philosophers of Europe, he is en- 
 titled to the still higher merit of having reduced what 
 they had only conjectured, or feebly supported, to a 
 
Lnfe of Ih\ Smith. 45 
 
 finished and conclusive argument amounting to the 
 highest degree of moral certainty. His object in this 
 treatise, is to show that all that great variety exhibited 
 among our race in their stature, complexion and fi- 
 gure, commencing from the Tartar and Simoide in the 
 north of Europe, including the fair complexion and 
 regular features of the temperate zones, the copper- 
 coloured Indian, the deep olive of the Moors, and ter- 
 minating in the indeUbly black of tropical Africa, to- 
 gether with the other peculiarities of that nation, may 
 be explained from the united action of climate, the 
 state of society, and manner of Hving. Besides that 
 this doctrine would seem to be evidently deducible from 
 the account given in the Sacred Scriptures of the ori- 
 ginal of our race, which is there traced, in the first in- 
 stance to Adam our great progenitor, and in the next, 
 •to Noah and his sons after the deluge, by whom the 
 whole earth is said to have been overspread, it would 
 appear equally to result by unavoidable inference from 
 the maxims of a sound philosophy. No more causes 
 of things are to be admitted than are both true and suf- 
 ficient to explain the phenomena, is a maxim which, 
 ever since the days of Newton, has been held as unde- 
 niable. That admirable simplicity, which runs through 
 all the adjustments and operations of nature, would 
 seem to indicate that the Creator, in accomplishing the 
 purposes of infinite wisdom, would resort to no more 
 expedients than are absolutely necessary to the attain- 
 ment of his ends. If, therefore, from, a single pair, or 
 from the family of Noah, in the natural course of pro- 
 pagation, the whole globe would be speedily peopled 
 
46 Life of Dr. Smith, 
 
 and the purposes of the Creator in replenishing it with 
 inhabitants be accompHshed, it would be against all the 
 principles of a just philosophy to resort to the supposi- 
 tion of a diversity of origin, in order to account for the 
 varieties which exist. Nothing can be imagined more 
 unphilosophical and less founded in fact and experience, 
 than the opinion of those who, with Voltaire, imagine 
 different races to be produced, suited to their various 
 situations, like vegetable productions springing out of 
 the soils to whicli they are severally adapted. Such a 
 crude and unconcocted theory as this could have arisen 
 only out of a wanton spirit of hostihty to religion. How* 
 completely would the scene displayed in this affair have 
 been reversed, had the Sacred Scriptures contained an 
 account of the original of the human race, and the first 
 settlement of the globe, conformable to the views of 
 those who now undertake, by this indirect means, to 
 invalidate their claims to credit.'^ Had they informed 
 us, that progenitors for the different nations sprang up, 
 hke mushrooms, suited to their conditions upon the 
 globe; what sage lessons would have been read to us 
 by the same men who are now maintaining these ab- 
 surdities, about the simplicity of nature in her opera- 
 tions, the necessity of being guided in all our inquiries 
 by the strictest rules of philosophising, which require 
 us to assign no more causes of things than are abso- 
 lutely necessary to explain the phenomena, and since a 
 single pair would be all that would be necessary to the 
 population of the earth, it would be contrary to the 
 principles of right reason, to suppose that the Supreme 
 Being would have originally created more? This me- 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 47 
 
 thod of reasoning would at least be more consistent 
 with their usual course of procedure in attacking the 
 doctrines of religion or the authority ot revelation, than 
 the one to which they have resorted in the present case, as 
 they generally wish to conduct their operations against 
 us, if not with the genuine and authentic arms of phi- 
 losophy, at least, with those which counterfeit her vene- 
 rable image and superscription. Complaint has been 
 made on this subject, that the advocates of the identity 
 of the race, by attempting to enlist revelation on their 
 side, would wish to extinguish the lights of philosophi- 
 cal investigation or stifle the voice of free inquiry. But 
 might not the same complaint be made with equal just- 
 ness and apphcation, in reference to any other doc- 
 trines inculcated upon the authority of revelation? 
 Might not the Sacred Scriptures be considered as liable 
 to a similar reprehension, because they establish the 
 truths that there is a God, a future state of rewards 
 and punishments, an immortal existence intended for 
 the souls of men, and all the other tenets of the chris- 
 tian faith, and no longer allow a license to the erring 
 reason of men, to subject them to the trial of vain and 
 doubtful disputations.^ Far be it from us to feel any 
 inchnation to check the progress of free inquiry, or set 
 limits to that full and ample range which we would al- 
 low to philosophy while she confines her researches 
 within those tracts, over which God and nature have 
 assigned her a just and lawful dominion. We are sen- 
 sible of no tendency to partake of that spirit of bigotry 
 and intolerance, which led to the persecution of Roger 
 Bacon and Des Cartes, exposed Gallileo to confine- 
 
48 Life ofDr, Smith. 
 
 ment, and put his life in jeopardy for his philosophical 
 discoveries; but we cannot conceive why what is un- 
 doubtedly revealed in the word of God or deducible 
 from it by unavoidable inference, should be withheld 
 or not boldly maintained, and pertinaciously adhered 
 to, from an apprehension of checking reason in her 
 range, or stifling the voice of free inquiry. We enter- 
 tain no fears that after a full and complete investiga- 
 tion, the doctrine inculcated in Sacred Scripture on this 
 or any other topic will be found at variance with the 
 conclusions of a just philosophy. The experience of 
 the church in the case of Gallileo, if she had not been 
 taught many other lessons of a similar nature during 
 the course of her history, should have put her on her 
 guard, not to be too sensitive or over-jealous in points 
 of this kind, or allow her fears to be too easily alarm- 
 ed, for the safety of that precious treasure of divine 
 truth, entrusted to her keeping; but, to repose in entire 
 confidence upon the conviction, that the same God 
 who has endited his holy word, will not allow it to be 
 invalidated or falsified by his works, when rightly in- 
 terpreted. As far as the parallel has been hitherto 
 run, between the word of God and his works, as dis- 
 closed to us by the discoveries of science, the accord- 
 ance, or correspondence traced between them has been 
 strict and wonderful, and it is not hkely, that any fu- 
 ture investigations of science, will be found to set them 
 at variance with each other. This observation has been 
 still more strikingly verified in the present instance. Dr. 
 Smith has shown, in the treatise, whose merits we are 
 now canvassing, that the inference to which we should 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 49 
 
 be naturally led from the representations of sacred scrip- 
 ture, in regard to the identity of the human race, is the 
 same which we should deduce from the principles of 
 philosophy. We cannot but be of opinion, that any one 
 who shall take the trouble, not only to read, but to 
 study and comprehend this work, will find that by his 
 able and learned argument upon the subject, he has 
 fairly brought it to a conclusion, and supplied us with 
 an evidence, as satisfactory to the understanding as the 
 nature of the case admits. To all the objections, which 
 have been alleged against his system, commencing 
 with those of that elegant writer and profound critic 
 lord Kaims, and terminating in the efforts of some later 
 authors, who have had the presumption to controvert 
 his principles, without taking the trouble to comprehend 
 them, we consider him as having furnished satisfactory 
 refutations. That his doctrine will ultimately triumph, 
 and that all future discoveries of science will contribute 
 to its support and confirmation, we entertain not the 
 smallest doubt; nor that the work in which it is main- 
 tained, will, by all those who are capable of judging, 
 be regarded as a valuable accession to the stock of hu- 
 man knowledge, and remain a lasting monument of his 
 genius. 
 
 From his pretensions as a philosopher, we proceed 
 to those which he sustained as the president of the col- 
 lege. His talents, it is true, were rather of the con- 
 templative than the executive kind, and he was more 
 fitted for researches and speculations of the closet, than 
 for the prompt exertions, the quick perception of the 
 best expedients to accomplish ends, together with the 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
50 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 ready and vigorous prosecution of them, which are in- 
 dispensible quahfications in conducting to successful 
 issues, the affairs of active life. To cool contempla- 
 tion, or the calm pursuits of mild philosophy, rather 
 than to the tumult and heat of action, he seems to have 
 been formed by his habits, which were those of study 
 and reflection. But, on important occasions in which 
 his feelings became engaged, and his sense of duty pro- 
 pelled him to exertion, no man discovered more promp- 
 titude, decision and energy of character, or more firm- 
 ness and perseverance. He entered upon the duties 
 of the presidency in the college at a conjuncture, in 
 which they had become peculiarly delicate and arduous. 
 The French revolution which had just taken place, at 
 the same time, that it uprooted the very foundation of 
 the ancient monarchy of that nation, and threw the 
 state into confusion and wild misrule as well as delug- 
 ed it with blood, did not confine its effects to the hmits 
 of that single kingdom, but extended its influence to 
 many of the contemporary nations. In no country was 
 this effect more sensibly felt than in our own, as was 
 natural, on account of the severe struggle from which 
 we had just released ourselves in the establishment of 
 our independence, and the train of feelings and opinions 
 to which that struggle gave rise. It awoke among the 
 citizens of this republic an enthusiasm in favour of the 
 civil rights of mankind, which had an immediate ten- 
 dency to extravagance and excess, and which extend- 
 ed itself throughout all the departments of civil and so- 
 cial life. If our people were not prepared to consider 
 all government useless and oppressive, they were at 
 
Iflfe of Dr. Smith. 51 
 
 least not in a condition to bear with tameness and ac- 
 quiescence any thing that bore the semblance of a re- 
 straint upon their liberty. From the members of the 
 republic this infection spread itself among our youth, 
 who strange to tell, carried these false notions of liber- 
 ty along with them into our seminaries of learning, and 
 the same cause that gave rise to all the uneasiness of 
 our Washington, the stay of the federal government and 
 the guardian genius of his country, and which on more 
 than one occasion shook to its foundation the noble fa- 
 bric he had reared, extended its action also into the 
 colleges and schools of our country. The spirit of in- 
 subordination, which showed itself amongst the stu- 
 dents, and their unceasing tendency to tumult and re- 
 volt against the exercise of just and lawful authority, 
 was the spring out of which flowed all Dr. Smithes anxi- 
 eties and difficulties, in discharging the duties of his high 
 and responsible station. From this fruitful source, storm 
 after storm succeeded in the institution, which required 
 all the address, influence and knowledge of human na- 
 ture, which he could summon to his aid, to prevent from 
 leading to its utter ruin. On these occasions, his readiness 
 of resource, his firmness and decision of character, his 
 commanding powers of eloquence, and all those talents 
 that constitute real greatness, as it is capable of being 
 exhibited in active life, conspicuously appeared. The 
 dignity of his presence overawed disaffection and re- 
 volt. Never did he address himself in vain to the stu- 
 dents under his care. His eloquent appeals to their 
 understandings, their pride of character, and their sense 
 of duty were always irresistible. Armed with his pow- 
 
62 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 evs, the authority of college never failed to triumph. 
 Confusion and wild uproar heard his voice and was 
 still. Severe as were the contests he had thus fre- 
 quently to sustain with the students, they never ceased 
 to regard him with the highest respect, and to enter- 
 tain for his person undiminished affection. Of all those 
 young men who were successively under his charge, I 
 very much doubt whether a single one could be found 
 who does not cherish for his memory the highest vene- 
 ration. Never, perhaps, did any president of a college 
 receive from his pupils a more flattering proof of atten- 
 tion and respect, than he received from his, when, after 
 the conflagration of the college-buildings, he was tak- 
 ing his journey through the middle and southern states, 
 in order to make up subscriptions to defray the expense 
 of repairing the injuries which had been sustained. The 
 gentlemen in the several districts through which he pass- 
 ed, who had graduated under his care, met together to 
 consult not only about the best method of paying their 
 respects to him by waiting upon him in person, but also 
 for the purpose of anticipating, in the way the most grate- 
 ful to his feelings, the object of his visit. To save him 
 from the task, at no time agreeable, of making appli- 
 cation iu person to the men of wealth in the places 
 through which he went, they not only presented him 
 unsolicited the several sums which they themselves 
 subscribed, but voluntarily undertook the office, of so- 
 liciting in his stead the contributions of others. An act 
 of complicated virtue, by which they at once discharg- 
 ed the obligation of gratitude which they owed to their 
 venerable preceptor, exhibited an example of the most 
 
JUfe of Dr. Smith. 53 
 
 delicate courtesy to the object of their esteem, and ful- 
 filled an important public duty. 
 
 As a writer he is entitled to a very distinguished 
 rank. He had a mind which was, indeed capable of 
 comprehending the abstruse and penetrating into the 
 profound, but which following its natural impulses, 
 chose rather to devote itself to the acquisition of what 
 is elegant and agreeable in science and hterature. If 
 his natural parts did not prompt him, with Locke, 
 Clarke and Butler, successfully to fathom the depths of 
 that vast ocean of truth an4 certainty presented to us 
 in metaphysics and divinity; with Addison, Pope and 
 Swift, he found a high degree of mental enjoyment in 
 exploring the more flowery fields of the Belles-Lettres, 
 and all that part of knowledge which comes under the 
 denomination of polite learning. With this kind of 
 literary treasure his mind was richly stored, and he 
 was at all times able to give vent to it in a correct and 
 elegant style of writing. He was versed in the Latin, 
 Greek, French and Hebrew languages; and his style of 
 writing was remarkably neat and chastened, when com- 
 pared with that which is now becoming every day more 
 and more prevalent. In his works we find none of 
 those meretricious ornaments, that perpetual splendour 
 of diction, those studied efforts to dazzle by brilliant 
 thoughts, and pompous expressions, which are now 
 becoming but too common, and are always sure indi- 
 cations of a corrupt taste. His periods, it is true, are 
 generally well turned, and harmonious, and he disco- 
 vers no disinclination to receive legitimate embellish- 
 ments of fancy, when they come to him unsought. His 
 
54 Life of Dr. Smith, 
 
 style is full, flowing and polished, but never glitters 
 with gaudy ornaments. If there be any fault that is 
 worthy of being noticed, it is the want of ease, grace and 
 that artless simplicity which give to the productions of 
 some writers an irresistible charm. Whatever defects, 
 however, a scrupulous criticism might descry in the 
 compositions of this writer, they are compensated by 
 his uniform perspicuity, strength and elegance, the 
 most indispensible requisites in fine writing. Circum- 
 stances elicit the powers of authors, as well as the ta- 
 lents of those who perform their parts upon the active 
 scenes of life, and are called upon to gain the ear of 
 listening senates or sway the rod of empires. Had Dr. 
 Smith lived at the time of the reformation, or at any 
 critical and interesting period in the history of the 
 church, when great interests were at stake and import- 
 ant controversies maintained, he would have been found 
 one of the ablest champions that ever espoused a cause. 
 In the days of Luther, Calvin and Cranmer, when all 
 his powers would have been excited into strenuous ex- 
 ertion, we very much overrate his talents, if he would 
 not have approved himself a worthy coadjutor to those 
 illustrious men, and entirely equal to that sublime un- 
 dertaking on which they had embarked. 
 
 As a pulpit orator he would have done honour to any 
 age or nation. There was a dignity and even majesty 
 in his person and appearance in the pulpit, as well as 
 in his conceptions and style of speaking, which excited 
 involuntary respect and commanded the most unremit- 
 ted attention. He seems to have formed himself upon 
 that imaginary model of a perfect pulpit orator, which 
 
lAfe of Dr. Smith. 55 
 
 Dr. Blair in his excellent lectures upon rhetoric has 
 so well delineated, in whose sermons and mode of ad- 
 dress there should be transfused into the sound sense 
 and masterly argument of the English preachers, the 
 spirit, fire and vehemence of the French. To a certain 
 extent, it must be admitted, that he carried into exe- 
 cution what his mind had conceived. In his sermons 
 there was always contained a large body of judicious 
 and interesting matter, wrought with the highest art, 
 and the whole animated with the glow of passion and 
 imagination. Adorned by his genius the pulpit was 
 converted into a fountain at once of light to illuminate 
 the understandings of his hearers, and of heat to warm 
 and fructify their hearts. We have often listened to 
 preachers who, at times, would produce a more power- 
 ful effect upon their audience and awake more sensa- 
 tion ; but we have never heard one who throughout the 
 whole of his address afforded them a richer and more 
 delightful repast. His discourses were always con- 
 structed with exquisite art and address, commencing 
 with a regular exordium and exciting a deeper interest 
 as he advanced through their different stages, and such 
 was the earnestness and pathos of his mode of delivery, 
 and his masculine eloquence, that the attention seldom 
 flagged until he arrived at the conclusion. His oratory 
 was a gentle stream that flowed, for the most part 
 equably and smoothly, but which at times could swell 
 into the force, impetuosity and sublimity of the torrent. 
 His voice was clear, full and harmonious, his enuncia- 
 tion distinct, his gestures few, but significant and impres- 
 sive, his whole appearance dignified and imposing, and. 
 
56 Life of Dr. Smith. 
 
 on some occasions, when he was more than usually excit- 
 ed by passion, every feature spoke, and tiiat fine expres- 
 sive eye, which nature had given him, became lighted 
 up with a fire which penetrated every heart. In him 
 we perceived no frothy declamations, no little arts to 
 captivate the vulgar, none of the tricks and flourishes 
 of eloquence, with which the discourses of those 
 preachers who aim at popularity are too frequently 
 disgraced. All was sober, chastened and dignified both 
 in his matter and manner. A vein of ardent but ra- 
 tional piety ran through his discourses that warmed 
 every bosom, and kept the devotional feelings in a state 
 of agreeable and wholesome excitement. No one re- 
 turned from the church in which he had officiated 
 without being sensible his heart had been made better, 
 his understanding furnished with useful aliment for re- 
 flection, and his moral feelings softened and improved. In 
 his private qualities he was no less distinguished than 
 in his public character. His person was somewhat 
 above the ordinary size, his limbs well proportioned, 
 his complexion fair and delicate, the features of his 
 countenance which were regular, remarkably hand- 
 some, and strongly marked with the lines of thinking, 
 were crowned by an open and manly forehead and a 
 large blue eye, in a high degree expressive and pene- 
 trating, and v»^hich, when any thing interested him, 
 kindled with intelligence and spoke the language of an 
 ardent and noble mind. To a person thus well pro- 
 portioned, he added an agreeable and insinuating ad- 
 dress and an ease and urbanity of manners, that would 
 have adorned the most polished circles and given grace 
 
Life of Di\ Smith. 67 
 
 and dignity to a court. His principles were all of a 
 high and honourable kind, and bore the stamp of great- 
 ness and of the sternest integrity. No man had a deep- 
 er destestation of vice, or would more instinctively have 
 shrunk from any act that would have cast a blemish 
 upon the purity of his character. Slander did, indeed, 
 as usual, fabricate against him her calumnious tale and 
 essay to tarnish his reputation, and that envy which 
 could not reach his excellence endeavoured to bring 
 him down to its own level, but the uniform tenor of his 
 life, answered and refuted the aspersions of his detrac- 
 tors. In domestic life his manners were amiable, af- 
 fable and engaging. As a husband, parent and mas- 
 ter, no one could be more gentle, affectionate and leni- 
 ent in the exercise of disciphne. To his family he was 
 indulgent even to a fault. Arduous as were his public 
 duties, and devoted as he was to the pursuit of science 
 and literature, he found time to assist in the education 
 of his own children, daughters as well as the only son 
 that lived beyond the state of infancy; and after repeat- 
 ed strokes of the palsy had disqualified him from his 
 attendance on the duties of the college, we find him 
 spending the last remains of his strength in educating 
 his little grand children, two sons of a favourite daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Prevost, whom he had the misfortune to lose 
 some years after her marriage. With politics he never 
 publicly interfered, after the conclusion of the revolu- 
 tionary war, although at its commencement in his youth, 
 he is said to have assisted by his eloquent sermons, in 
 exciting among the people in the state of Virginia a 
 spirit of resistance to the measures at that time pro- 
 
 VOL. I. 1 
 
58 Life ofIh\ Smith. 
 
 posed and adopted by the parliament of England. He 
 was a warm and decided friend to rational liberty, but 
 a determined enemy to that democratic rage, which 
 would level all those distinctions so necessary to the 
 existence of society, pull down authorities and powers, 
 and under the sacred name of liberty, give rise to a 
 general insubordination and licentiousness, incompati- 
 ble with the existence of a just and equal government. 
 Under these impressions, he was a warm supporter of 
 the administration of Washington, and ranked among 
 those who, amidst the party distinctions of the times, 
 were denominated federalists. As a friend and com^ 
 panion, he is not so highly to be commended as for his 
 domestic qualities. There was a coldness, reserve, 
 and even stateliness in his demeanor, arising probably 
 from his habits of abstract reflection and close appli- 
 cation to study, which threw a damp at first upon the 
 efforts of those who were desirous of approaching him 
 on terms of intimacy and friendship. Upon more fa- 
 miliar intercourse, however, this reserve was laid aside 
 towards those wiiom he esteemed, and his natural frank- 
 ness, cordiality, and susceptibility of the tenderest at- 
 tachments, appeared. Upon one thing his friends might 
 calculate with perfect confidence, that he would never 
 deceive them by false appearances. He professed no re- 
 gard which he did not feel, and where he made over- 
 tures of esteem and friendship, it was always done in 
 candour and sincerity. His generous and noble mind, 
 was infinitely superior to all dissimulation, disguise 
 or artifice. He was equally above all intrigue and 
 management to promote his own elevation. The ho- 
 
Life of Dr. Smith. 59 
 
 nours which were conferred upon him, came to him 
 unsought and unsoHcited. To the advantages and 
 splendour which are derived from wealth, he appeared 
 to be entirely indifferent. Of these his own intrinsic 
 worth and real greatness prevented from ever feeling 
 the want, while his religion taught him to elevate his 
 views and affections above them. His piety was ge- 
 nuine and sincere, without being obtrusive, deep and 
 heartfelt without being gloomy, ardent but not noisy, 
 active but not ostentatious. His uniform integrity and 
 uprightness of conduct, his sedulous devotion to all his 
 moral and religious duties, his unabated zeal for the 
 promotion of the temporal and spiritual interests of his 
 fellow-men, the readiness and alacrity with which he 
 entered into all plans of usefulness, and above all, his 
 calm, composed and happy exit from the world, show- 
 ed, as far as such matters can be exhibited to the view 
 of men, that he had a good conscience, and that the 
 fear of God reigned in his heart, and was the ruling 
 spring of all his actions. He has gone to his great ac- 
 count, and we doubt not, that his works of piety and 
 virtue will follow him, and through the mercy of his 
 Creator, will render his futurity as blessed as his life 
 was exemplary, and his death tranquil. The peace of 
 Heaven be with his spirit— 111 ustrions man! A pupil 
 who once revered thee as a preceptor, and whom thou 
 afterwards didst honour with thy friendship, would 
 erect to thee this frail monument, as a momento at 
 once of his gratitude and attachment. By the efforts 
 of thy genius thou hast reared for thyself, an imperish- 
 able monument. Long shall thy memory be cherished 
 
60 lAfe of Dr. Smith. 
 
 by the friends of science and virtue, of religion and thy 
 country, of which thou wast so bright an ornament. 
 May thy mantle fall upon thy successors in the pulpit, 
 and thy spirit and eloquence be caught, in promulging 
 the doctrines of thy Divine Master. Taught by thy 
 great and good example, may future divines and orators 
 of the pulpit, place their chief glory in the triumphs of 
 their sacred eloquence over the vices and passions of 
 mankind, and in conducting them by the charm of a 
 virtuous and pious life in the ways of peace and salva- 
 tion. 
 
SERMONS. 
 
SERMONS. 
 
 FELIX TREMBLING BEFORE PAUL. 
 
 " And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment to 
 come, Felix trembled." — Acts xxiv. 25. 
 
 Christians! you see in the apostle Paul before the 
 tribunal of the Roman governor, the example, at once 
 of a great orator, and a faithful minister of Jesus 
 Christ. Accused by the high priest and elders of the 
 Jewish nation of being a seditious disturber of the pub- 
 lic peace, and of profaning their holy temple, and the 
 sacred mysteries of their religion, he defended himself 
 with the simplicity and energy of truth, and with the 
 generous fervour of conscious innocence, against all 
 the arts of that mercenary orator by whom they at- 
 tempted to support their charges. Leaving to Tertul- 
 lus those base flatteries which were only designed to 
 gain the ear of corrupted power; Paul, in his noble 
 and manly defence of himself, although always respect- 
 ful, as became a prisoner to the magistrate before 
 whom he was arraigned, seemed never once to forget 
 his dignity as a man, or his authority as an apostle. 
 Felix, charmed with his eloquence, and, probably hav- 
 
64 Felix trembling before Paul. 
 
 ing his curiosity excited to learn something more cer- 
 tain concerning that new religion which, under such an 
 able advocate, was beginning to make the most impor- 
 tant revolutions in the state of society and of public 
 opinion, desired to hear him again on this interesting 
 subject. It was with a view apparently so just and 
 honourable, that he came with great pomp to the place 
 of their judicial assemblies, accompanied by his nomi- 
 nal wife, the object of a criminal passion, to whom he 
 desired to give the pleasure of hearing so celebrated an 
 orator upon questions which were then agitating all 
 Judea and the world. 
 
 The apostle, with the faithfulness which became a 
 minister of God, spoke concerning the faith in Christ, 
 and unfolded to him those sublime and astonishing doc- 
 trines which distinguish the gospel from all the systems 
 of Pagan theology; — the descent of the Son of God 
 from heaven, — the great oblation which he offered for 
 the sins of the world, — the resurrection of the dead, — 
 an immortal existence beyond the grave, and the ever- 
 lasting retributions which await the righteous and the 
 wicked. When, in the progress of his discourse, he 
 came to treat of the moral precepts of the gospel, with 
 great address he turned the force of his eloquence to 
 illustrate and press those virtues chiefly, for the viola- 
 tion of which his illustrious hearer was most culpable, 
 and had even become infamous throughout Judea. 
 These topics he appears, from the effects produced on 
 the conscience of Felix, to have urged with irresisti- 
 ble energy. He spoke of righteousness, or justice, the 
 basis of all our social relations; and of temperance. 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. Q5 
 
 «r the moderation of all our appetites and passions, the 
 foundation of personal purity and perfection, before a 
 governor who was equally detested in his province for 
 his iniquities, his cruelties, and his voluptuousness. The 
 discourse of the apostle began at length to reach his 
 inmost feelings; he searched his heart with the awful 
 light of truth; he held up to him the mirror of his life; 
 and while he depicted the beauty of virtue, the tranquil- 
 lity and peace which it imparts to the innocent and up- 
 right breast, and the glory and the honest fame with 
 which it surrounds the humane prince, he presented 
 to him, in the strongest colours, the iniquity and the 
 horrible consequences of his past crimes. Never, 
 perhaps, before had he seen himself in his true charac- 
 ter, and he now began to be agitated with unusual in- 
 quietudes. But when the holy and fervent preacher 
 came, at length, to denounce the vengeance of heaven 
 against such iniquities, and disclose to his view the 
 terrors of a judgment to come, Felix, unable any longer 
 to contain his emotions, trembled on the throne on 
 which he sat. Admirable force of truth! that could thus 
 penetrate a heart grown old in vice, inflated by the in- 
 cessant flatteries of parasites, dazzled with the splen- 
 dours of power, and rendered obdurate by the enormi- 
 ty of his crimes. It arrested the prince, and convert- 
 ed the judge into the criminal. lie trembled before 
 Paul, who had been brought a prisoner, loaded with 
 chains, into his presence. 
 
 My object in the present discourse is briefly to re- 
 view the subjects of the apostle^s reasoning, and to 
 point out, 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
66 Felix trembling before Paul 
 
 1. In the first place, the reference which they bore 
 to the history and character of the Roman governor, 
 and, 
 
 2. In the next place, the application which may he 
 made of them to our own state. 
 
 1. Righteousness, or justice, of which St. Paul lirst 
 reasoned, comprehended, according to the ideas of the 
 ancients, and the distribution of the virtues made in 
 their schools, the duties both of equity, and of benefi- 
 cence. The faithful execution of all our civil functions, 
 our domestic duties, the equity which we owe to others 
 in our commerce with them, the compassion which we 
 should extend to affliction and want; in a word, all the 
 charities of life were embraced under this name; and, 
 perhaps, not without reason. For every act of benefi- 
 cence which the miseries of our fellow-creatures re- 
 quire, every kindness and comfort which they need, 
 and which it is in our power to bestow, is strictly an 
 office of justice due from man to man. jigainst this 
 duty, in every branch of it, Felix was a high offender. 
 In the exercise of his government, he was equally un- 
 just and unfeehng, avaricious and cruel: vices which 
 so often are found together in corrupt rulers. The an- 
 nals of Judea and of Rome, inform us that he sported 
 with the lives and liberties of the people of his govern- 
 ment. Under the most frivolous and iniquitous pretences 
 he robbed the wealthy, and caused the innocent to be 
 put to death. His troops, accustomed to blood, he often 
 employed in the most wanton acts of violence and 
 carnage. Prompted at once by avarice and prodigality, 
 he plundered his province to enrich himself; the deci- 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 67 
 
 sioiis of his tribunals were always at auction; he ex- 
 pected money of Paul to restore him to that liberty 
 which the laws of Rome, and of human nature entitled 
 him to enjoy. A Roman historian* has said of him, 
 that he exercised the power of a prince with a base 
 and mercenary soul. And, when he returned to the 
 seat of empire, public accusers, and the universal com- 
 plaint of his province followed him to the presence of 
 the emperor; and nothing but the powerful interposi- 
 tion of his brother, who happened to be, at that time, 
 a favourite in the palace, preserved him from suffering 
 the merited punishment of his crimes. Such was the 
 character of this famous governor before whom the 
 great apostle was called to plead the cause of justice 
 and humanity. After tracing these virtues to their 
 sources in the principles of human nature, in the great 
 interests of society and mankind, in the will of God; 
 after exhibiting in strong and beautiful colours, the 
 dignity and worth of an upright character, the glory 
 of a prince who presides with justice over his people, 
 the amiability of the humane and benevolent feelings, 
 those powerful cements of the order and felicity of the 
 great family of man, that he might aggravate the pic- 
 ture of iniquity and inhumanity which he intended to 
 draw;— how, may we suppose, would he depict the 
 crime of trampling, by his injustice and violence, on 
 the laws of God and man; of rending asunder the 
 peaceful bonds of society.'^ of violating that happy se- 
 curity of the citizen in his condition which the laws 
 were intended to protect.'^ and, instead of presiding, 
 
 * Tacitus. 
 
68 Felix trembling before Paul. 
 
 like a guardian angel, over the public prosperity, for 
 which purpose alone power was entrusted to his 
 hands, carrying desolation and terror throughout the 
 nation, and invading with rapine, lust, and blood, the 
 recesses of domestic happiness? With what energy 
 would he address the heart; what appeals would he 
 make to the conscience of his judge? — 1 seem to see 
 the fervid and indignant preacher call up to his awa- 
 kened imagination the spectres of so many murders 
 which had been conmiitted by his orders; surround his 
 tribunal with the cries of widows and of orphans, 
 whose husbands and fathers he had caused to be drag- 
 ged to prison and to death, — besiege his heart by the 
 groans or the silent griefs of whole families reduced 
 to beggary and despair for imputed crimes, and ruined 
 by the enormous sums at which they were obliged to 
 purchase a precarious justice; or given up to plunder 
 because they refused or were unable to purchase it. 
 These images presented with all the strength of co- 
 louring which the eloquence of so great a master would 
 give them, could not fail to disquiet the heart of his 
 guilty hearer. His busy and disturbed fancy would re- 
 call to him, ill one moment, all the iniquities of his life. 
 Conscience shook him with its awful power: and, though 
 surrounded by his guards, and by a magnificent retinue 
 which would awaken all his pride, he was seen to trem- 
 ble in the presence of his humble prisoner. 
 
 2. The apostle treated, in the next place, of temper- 
 ance; a term of more extensive signification in the ori- 
 ginal language, than in our tongue, comprehending not 
 only moderation in the pleasures of the table, but the 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 69 
 
 due government of all our senses, appetites, and pas- 
 sions. This topic of the apostle's discourse, not less 
 than the former, came home to the bosom and experi- 
 ence of his illustrious hearer. 
 
 Felix, whose province was equal to kingdoms, and 
 whose rank was superior to that of the tributaiy prin- 
 ces of the Roman empire, lived in all the splendor of 
 Asiatic luxury, and abandoned himself to that shame- 
 less intemperance in meats and wines which, at that 
 period, so often disgraced the conduct of the imperial 
 lieutenants, who enjoyed and abused the opportunity 
 of raking the wealth of nations into their private cof- 
 fers. But, intemperance in wine was to him only the 
 fuel of intemperate lust, which rank and power gave 
 him the means, and the imaginary privilege of indulg- 
 ing without restraint and without shame. Of this, 
 Drusilla, who sat by his side at that moment, afforded 
 an example which could not fail to strike every spec- 
 tator. She was the daughter of the first Agrippa, and 
 the lawful wife of the king of Emesa. But, seduced 
 by the licentious arts of the Roman, flattered with the 
 splendor of imperial favour, and of a station exalted 
 above that of kings, and burning herself with a dis- 
 graceful passion, she causelessly broke the holy tie 
 which united her to her husband, and, deserting his 
 palace, plunged into the bosom of corruption in a new 
 and infamous connexion. 
 
 Drusilla was a princess of the Jewish nation; and 
 the high priest daring, with a manly fortitude, to repre- 
 hend such a violation of their holy law, and of common 
 
70 Felix trembling before Paul. 
 
 decency, Felix procured the courageous and upright 
 pontiff to be assassinated. 
 
 What a field would these enormities open to the 
 apostle, to display the guilt, and the horrible conse- 
 quences of his licentious appetites, and unbridled pas- 
 sions? Not to speak of the degradation of a reasonable 
 and immortal nature wallowino- in the low excesses of 
 the table, not to speak of the madness and fury of a 
 tyrant inflamed by wine, and his utter abandonment, 
 in that state, of all the principles of humanity; with 
 what lioly ardor and indignation would he dwell on 
 the fatal consequences of that lust, the victim of which 
 he saw before him on the throne withFehx? To what 
 disorders in society, to what crimes has it not given 
 birth? What dark jealousies, what insidious plots, 
 what worse than barbarian cruelties have sprung from 
 a passion which claims, at the same time, to be the 
 softest in the human breast? What humiliation, what 
 shame, what unceasing tears has it created to inno- 
 cence seduced and ruined? For an instant of guilty 
 pleasure, what cold, what joyless what disconsolate 
 hours must succeed of neglect and self-reproach! or, 
 if tempted to extinguish feeling in a life of profligacy, 
 what infamy! 
 
 But, on this subject, and in the presence of such an 
 audience, would not the faithful apostle turn the prin- 
 cipal force and point of his discourse on the sacred- 
 ness of the conjugal tie? on the peace and harmony of 
 families? on the relation of this holy union to the pub- 
 lic morals? on the cruelty of robbing a worthy man of 
 the pure affections of a virtuous wife? the villainy of 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 71 
 
 introducing distrust and shame, and all the exquisite 
 miseries of disappointed affection and tarnished hon- 
 our, into those peaceful mansions, that sweet asylum 
 of human happiness, where love and chastity only 
 should reign? In what strong and glowing colours 
 would he not represent the superior guilt of those who, 
 sitting in the seat of the law, are the first to violate its 
 justice and order? who, having the peace and purity of 
 domestic manners under their protection, carry into 
 them nothing but pollution? who, having the supreme 
 charge of the public morals, give every where the 
 most open and scandalous examples of pubhc vice? 
 Felix, conscious of the point and application which all 
 these truths bore to himself; condemned by his own 
 reason, by his reflections, by the light flashed upon 
 him by the eloquence of the apostle, seems to have felt 
 each moment increase the compunction which had al- 
 ready seized him, the fears which had already begun 
 to agitate him. 
 
 3. His confusion seems to have been completed, 
 when the sacred orator proceeded to expose to his 
 view the tremendous certainty, and awful retributions 
 of a judgment to come. Amidst all the errors and fol- 
 lies of Paganism, in which Fehx had been educated, 
 some vestiges were still preserved of this sublime doc- 
 trine, although obscured, and weakened in its influ- 
 ence on the mind, by the fables of the poets, and the 
 doubts of the philosophers. The law of God written on 
 the heart, and the inextinguishable voice of conscience, 
 preserved so high and important a principle of morals 
 from entirely perishing; and offered to the apostle a 
 
12 Felix trembling before Paul. 
 
 foundation on which to erect the superstructure of his 
 reasoning. And, when he exhibited to FeHx the na- 
 ture and perfection of the Supreme Deity, so awful to 
 guilt, his eternal being, his almighty power, his infinite 
 holiness, his inflexible justice, which will reward in 
 terrible righteousness the iniquities of sinners; when he 
 turned his attention inward to the dictates of that judge 
 which God has placed in our own breasts, and showed 
 him how those dictates point to a supreme tribunal, 
 and the fearful decisions of eternal justice: these ideas, 
 so consentaneous to reason and nature, were calcula- 
 ted to take a deep hold on the heart even of a pagan, 
 who, by his crimes, had roused upon him all the force 
 of his conscience. 
 
 The apostle having so far gained the attention of 
 Felix, to truths which appear to have their foundation 
 in the most certain principles of nature, would be pre- 
 pared to declare to him those awful circumstances of 
 the final judgment which transcend the discoveries of 
 nature, and can be made known to man only by the 
 holy spirit of inspiration. With what majesty, then, 
 would the herald of heaven announce to the iniquitous 
 governor, and to that vast assembly which had come 
 together on this occasion, that God hath appointed a 
 day in which he will judge the world in righteousness; 
 wherein every man shall receive according to the works 
 that he hath done, whether they have been good, or 
 whether they have been evil? With what grandeur and 
 terror would he paint to their imagination the heavens 
 on fire, and wrapt together as a scroll, — the sun and 
 moon extinguished in their orbits, and the earth, and 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 7S 
 
 the elements melting with a fervent heat! would he re- 
 present the judge descending with the voice of the arch- 
 angel, and the trump of God, assembling before him 
 all the nations of the dead and of the living, and erect- 
 ing his tribunal on the flaming ruins of the universe? 
 Would he display to their view that fearful gulf of fire 
 destined for the punishment of the impenitent; and un- 
 cover before him, as it were, the smoke of their tor- 
 ments, which ascendeth forever and ever? Would he 
 depict the consternation of sinners, the terrors of guilt, 
 and the utter impotence of all human power to resist 
 the decrees of omnipotent justice! — Yes, that sovereign 
 judge hath erected a tribunal before which shall appear 
 princes as well as the meanest of their subjects; the 
 great and noble of the earth, as well as the dependant 
 and the poor; I your humble prisoner, and Cassar your 
 lord and mine. There, not rank and fortune, but cha- 
 racter and conduct shall form the great distinctions 
 among mankind. There shall be judged with equal 
 justice, the prince w ho here was above the law, and 
 the friendless wretch who was its victim. And the 
 crimes which now awaken in the bosom of guilt so 
 many anxious forebodings, shall there be seen to sur- 
 round the sinner as terrible witnesses against him in 
 the day of judgment. The horrible revellings of intem- 
 perance shall convert their brutal pleasures into instru- 
 ments of torture. The tears of violated innocence, the 
 sighs of those unhappy victims who have been first se- 
 duced from virtue, and then abandoned to shame and 
 wretchedness, the injuries of ruined families, the blood 
 of those who have perished by the injustice of power, 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
74 Felix trembling before Paul. 
 
 will cry from the earth for vengeance on the head of 
 guilt. Felix, convinced, penetrated, condemned by 
 his own heart, felt, in a moment, all his courage for- 
 sake him. The imperial governor trembles! his pride 
 cannot support him, his legions cannot protect him. 
 He trembles in the face of his guards, and of that vast 
 concourse assembled on such a public and interesting 
 occasion. 
 
 The Roman orator once made the instrument of 
 condemnation drop from the hand of Csesar: but here 
 the criminal favourite of Caesar, a prince only inferior 
 to the emperor himself, in magnificence, in power, and 
 pride, is made to write his own condemnation, in the 
 terrors depicted on his countenance, in the strong agi- 
 tations of his whole frame, in his haste to dismiss the 
 penetrating preacher. Oh! to have been witness, said 
 an ancient father of the church, to those divine strains 
 of eloquence which flowed from this great apostle! 
 
 My brethren, let us, instead of indulging a vain re- 
 gret at no longer enjoying the pleasure of admiring and 
 being edified by those divine talents which shall never 
 more appear upon the earth, rather set ourselves to in- 
 quire into those practical lessons of morality and duty, 
 those reproofs and admonitions, which we may de- 
 rive from this portion of sacred history. 
 
 2. This was the second object of our discourse. 
 
 Not invested with the power, we have neither beeH 
 exposed to the temptations, nor enjoyed the opportuni- 
 ties of becoming so criminal as this Roman prince. We 
 may even think, as Hazael, while he yet remained in 
 an humble station, that we are incapable of the same 
 
Felix trembling hefor$ Paul. 75 
 
 enormities. But, if we carefully examine our hearts, 
 we may, perhaps, find there the seeds of the same ini- 
 quities, which require only the sun of prosperity to ri- 
 pen them into act. Often do the smallest ebullitions 
 of turpitude and vice even in our most unguarded ac- 
 tions, betray a hidden fountain of impurity within, 
 which is ready, whenever external obstructions are re- 
 moved, to overflow with the waters of foulness and cor- 
 ruption. Do we see a man void of sensibility for the 
 miseries of his fellow-creatures? Do we see one who 
 is ever ready to extort from penury its last farthing.^ 
 Who, absorbed in his own interests, shuns the view of 
 distress and want, lest it should make some unwelcome 
 claim upon his charity.'^ We see the principles of all 
 the iniquities which naturally spring from pride and 
 selfishness, from avarice and inhumanity exalted to 
 power? 
 
 The crimes of Fehx, indeed, appear with the high- 
 er aggravations, because his power and rank at once 
 gave force to his passions, and enabled them to move 
 in a wider and more destructive sphere. But do we 
 not perceive the same unrighteous spirit continually 
 operating throughout society, according to the extent 
 of its opportunities and its means? What iniquitous 
 transactions in commerce are often covered by a spe- 
 cious fraud! What a horrible abuse have we seen 
 made of the confidence of friends, involving them, with 
 cool deliberate cruelty, in the ruins of a falling fortune! 
 What project of speculation, which are at least of 
 doubtful honesty; what hazardous enterprises in trade; 
 what a style of luxury in living, which no means of 
 
76 Felix trembling hefme Paul. 
 
 fairness and integrity can support, are plunging, not 
 the culpable alone, but all who are connected with 
 them, into the deepest distress, if not into absolute ruin! 
 Good faith is betrayed, friendship is sacrificed, families 
 are hurled from affluence and respectability into the 
 abyss of affliction; and the guilt of the destroyers as- 
 cends to heaven, loaded with the sorrows of so many 
 unhappy victims. And, how frequently, alas! have we 
 lately beheld fraud, grown great on the spoils of un- 
 suspecting faith, display, with insolence, its fastuous 
 equipages in the view of the misery which it has crea- 
 ted, and rear the scandalous edifices of its vanity on 
 the sighs and tears of those whom it has plundered! 
 
 But descending from such great enormities to those 
 narrow plans, those low tricks of dishonesty which of- 
 ten take place among the inferior classes of fortune; — 
 is not that spirit of extortion which is ready to exact 
 upon the necessities of a neighbour; that low cunning 
 which studies to overreach his candoaror inexperience 
 in a bargain; that pitiful deceit which would detract an 
 inch from the measure or an ounce from the weight 
 of the smallest articles of your commerce, a crime in 
 your sphere equivalent to the greater robberies of ini- 
 quitous power? Shall I count him pure, saith God, with 
 the wicked balances, loith the bag of deceitful weights? — 
 No; the Supreme Judge of heaven and earth beholds, 
 and will punish the iniquities of the heart, however they 
 may be laid, by the force of circumstances, under re- 
 straint in their operations. They want only power and 
 a theatre, to exhibit themselves in all the enormities of 
 rapine and oppression which disgraced the tyranny of 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 77 
 
 Felix. God beholds in these elements of iniquity, if I 
 may call them so, the crimes to which, without the 
 restraints of his providence, they would grow; and will 
 cast them out with abhorrence from the presence of 
 his glory, in the light of which no unrighteousness can 
 dwell. 
 
 In the next place, you have seen this illustrious sin- 
 ner giving an unbridled indulgence to all his licentious 
 appetites. You have seen him in his career of intem- 
 perance, and of the bold and unblushing violation of all 
 the laws of chastity and decency, which have attracted 
 upon him the reproaches and execrations of succeed- 
 ing ages. But, in looking round this assembly, do I 
 see none before me, who, with shameful obedience to 
 the impulses of a gross appetite, daily offer up their 
 reason at the shrine of intemperance and debauchery? 
 What effect would the fortunes and the power of Felix 
 have on such persons, but only to enable them more 
 completely to destroy in their hearts all the nobler af- 
 fections of human nature.'' Husbands! who sacrifice by 
 intemperance the peace and comfort of those delicate 
 females who, by a mistaken affection, have put their 
 happiness in your power; — Parents! who neglect the 
 culture, the honour, the protection of those unfortunate 
 children, to whom you have been the cause of giving 
 existence, only to leave them afterwards a prey to ig- 
 norance and vice; — Debauched sons! who pay no re- 
 gard to the fond hopes, the anxious solicitudes of pa- 
 rents, whose secret prayers and vows continually as- 
 cending to heaven for you, who are callous equally to 
 their admonitions and their tears, who can wound their 
 
78 Felix trembling before Paul 
 
 tenderest feelings, who, in order to obtain the means 
 of your own criminal indulgence, can undutifully im- 
 pose, by false tales, upon their unsuspecting affection 
 — behold in yourselves, crimes which, in their princi- 
 ple, vie in malignity with those of this guilty ruler who 
 trembled at the development of their enormity by the 
 holy apostle. Ah! the sighs of those parents, the shame, 
 the vices of those children forsaken by you, or corrupt- 
 ed by your example; the griefs of that wife who finds 
 in you no friend, no companion, whose soul is wasting 
 away under your barbarous neglect, or your insulting 
 cruelty, shall call down from heaven the vengeance of 
 eternal justice. Such are some of the crimes of that 
 intemperance which perverts, corrupts, and eventually 
 destroys all the best powers of human nature, and the 
 best affections of the human heart. 
 
 The character of this degenerate Roman affords an 
 additional point of comparison, in the excesses to which 
 he indulged a licentious passion, whence another in- 
 structive and practical lesson may be drawn. 
 
 No passion more debases and contaminates the soul; 
 none renders it more gross in its enjoyments, and more 
 incapable of tasting the pure pleasures of virtue and 
 piety; none more certainly excludes it from the man- 
 sions of a holy and eternal love. Could I represent to 
 you in the glowing colours, and with the generous in- 
 dignation of that divine preacher who made Felix trem- 
 ble, the gulf into which it sinks the soul; could I depict 
 its scenes of pollution, and the multiphed and exquisite 
 miseries which often spring thence; could I present to 
 you the bosom of chaste love wounded and bleeding in 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 79 
 
 secret; the shame, the remorse, the eternal tears of be- 
 trayed and ruined innocence; the jealousies, the rage, 
 the crimes of a passion, as cruel as it is effeminate and 
 dissolute, its infamy and guilt would flash with horror 
 upon the heart! 
 
 But, what though you do not riot in all the voluptu- 
 ousness which countless and iniquitous treasures ena- 
 bled him to purchase, or despotic power enabled him to 
 command? Yet, if you are faithful to yourselves, and 
 to truth, may you not find in your hearts the seeds of 
 all those passions which pierced even his callous con- 
 science with remorse? 
 
 But I will not offend the ears of this assembly by 
 speakingof their grosser pollutions, which it is difficult 
 even to reproach with decency. Are there not lower 
 degrees of these vices in which a sensual heart will of- 
 ten indulge itself without restraint, and which it will 
 employ all the sophistries of a corrupted reason to jus- 
 tify and defend? Do you delight to amuse the fancy 
 with those loose images which a remaining modesty, 
 perhaps, still restrains you from realizing in a dissolute 
 practice? Do you permit yourselves to abuse the free- 
 dom and gayety of conversation by indelicate allusions, 
 and double meanings? Do you attend with pleasure, 
 and even seek for opportunities to attend those exhibi- 
 tions which are calculated to inflame the passions and 
 corrupt the modesty of youth? Do you love to stimu- 
 late an impure imagination by those indecent pictures, 
 those licentious odes, which a shameful abuse of the 
 arts has employed to infect the manners of society? 
 Ah! God, who beholds the consequence in the princi- 
 
80 Felix Iremblhig before Paul. 
 
 pie, sees, in these elements of vice, the essence of those 
 crimes into which it is to be feared that time, and op- 
 portunity, and habit, will at length ripen them; — crimes, 
 which made an illustrious and most obdurate offender 
 to tremble on his own tribunal, and will cause him, 
 one day, to tremble more horribly before the tribunal 
 of a higher judge. To that awful bar, at which we, and 
 all men must stand at last, permit me for a moment, 
 in the close of this discourse, to direct your thoughts. 
 Nothing, perhaps, will serve to impose a more effectu- 
 al check upon the disorders of the heart, and of the 
 life, than the serious remembrance that God hath ap- 
 pointed a day in which he will judge the world in righ- 
 teousness. It is a fearful consideration to guilt, that, 
 /(W' every idle word, and for every idle thought, we shall 
 render account to God. In this judgment all the depths 
 of the soul shall be searched by a severe and omniscient 
 eye. God shall judge the secrets of all hearts. Actions 
 which had been long forgotten, actions which had been 
 studiously concealed from the world, which self-love 
 had endeavoured to conceal from itself, shall there be 
 recalled from their darkness and oblivion, and exposed 
 in the dreadful light of eternity. Under the impression 
 of these solemn and awful truths, frequently re-enter 
 your own breasts, and judge yourselves with the same 
 spirit with which you shall be judged. Ah! sinners of 
 every grade; — unjust, intemperate, Hcentious — avari- 
 cious, envious, selfish — proud, haughty, disdainful — 
 hard-hearted, unkind, uncharitable — slanderers, back- 
 biters, disturbers of the harmony of society — impious, 
 disloyal, undutiful! look up to that tribunal where no 
 
Felix trembling before Paul. 8 1 
 
 sill shall escape its just condemnation; where no veil 
 shall conceal it; where no sophistry shall protect or 
 palliate it; and where, also, that witness, that serpent 
 within shall wring the heart with undescribable an- 
 guish. Thence cast your eye down to that fearful abyss 
 of everlasting darkness and fire, ready to receive the 
 reprobate children of wrath: and, as they descend into 
 it, listen to the shrieks of their despair ^vhich add aug- 
 mented horrors to the last groans of the universe!— 
 But alas! when I would represent to you the terrors of 
 that judgment, the holiness and majesty of that tribu- 
 nal I feel the impotence of my own powers! Oh! that 
 Paul himself, glowing with the inspiration of Heaven, 
 could address you with the same voice which made the 
 tyrant of Judea tremble! But thou, most blessed, and 
 Holy Spirit! thou canst give effect even to the feeble- 
 ness of our words! — Strike! penetrate our hearts! and 
 make the sinner tremble at the terrors of thy justice 
 only that he may flee to the refuge of thy mercy! 
 Amen. 
 
 VOL. I. w 
 
THREE SERMONS. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL SON, 
 
 1st On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 And not many days after, the younger son gathered all tog-ether, and took 
 his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riot- 
 ous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in 
 that land, and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself 
 to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. 
 And he would fain have filled hfs belly with the husks which the swine 
 did eat: and no man gave unto him. Luke XV. 13 — 16. 
 
 What a striking image is here presented by»our bles- 
 sed Saviour, of a prodigal who, from the impulse of his 
 own unbridled passions, or the seduction of other sin- 
 ners, has forsaken the path of virtue, and plunged into 
 the excesses of vice and dissipation. The youth, im- 
 patient of his father's control, listening only to the calls 
 of appetite and pleasure; without experience, and with- 
 out prudent forecast, enters into the world. From a 
 parent's indulgence, he solicits, and obtains that ample 
 provision w^iich might have procured him a virtuous, 
 and happy independence; but which, misapplied, be- 
 came the incentive of every criminal passion, and the 
 fatal instrument at length of his shame and ruin. Home, 
 which was the svi^eet asylum of his first years, and the 
 iaappy scene of his simple and regulated habits, becomes 
 
 I 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 83 
 
 a prison to his unchained desires, and the reverend pre- 
 sence of his father, which was a source of happiness in 
 the period of his innocence, becomes irksome to an ex- 
 travagant youth bent on the gratification of his unlawful 
 passions. As long as the sentiments of filial piety were 
 not entirely extinguished in his heart, the eye of a pa- 
 rent whom he was accustomed to revere, imposed some 
 restraint upon his errors. Wishing, therefore, to de- 
 liver himself from the reproach of his looks, he sought 
 a far country in which he might dare to give unlimited 
 scope to his inclination. In this scene of fancied plea- 
 sure, his excesses soon reduce him to indigence and 
 misery; and he finds a wide difference between the 
 pleasing pictiu-es to which his youthful imagination had 
 given its warm colouring, and the sad realities, in which 
 all its illusions, are found to terminate. Instead of 
 those scenes of perpetual gayety, those eternal raptures 
 of which he had suffered his fancy to dream, you see 
 him discontented, anxious, filled with bitter recollec- 
 tions, overwhelmed with his own reproaches, and, in 
 the end, left destitute of the common comforts of life, 
 and obliged' to share with filthy swine their miserable 
 offal. A picture more humiliating, could hardly have 
 been drawn of the abandoned situation of an unhappy 
 young man, in that region where swine were viewed 
 with pecuHar abhorrence, not only as the most obscene, 
 but regarded by their religion as the most profane of all 
 animals. 
 
 I shall not wait to present to you the different inter 
 pretations which have been made of this beautiful and 
 instructive allegory, or the various applications which 
 
84 On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 have been given to its instructive moral. It is suffi- 
 cient that it depicts in striking colours, the unhappy 
 consequences of the errors and excesses of a young, 
 and headstrong profligate; and points out the infe- 
 licities which pursue, in the end, a course of sinful 
 pleasures. It is calculated, in the next place, to display 
 the deep repentance to which these several corrections 
 are often made to lead the sufferer under the gracious 
 direction and influence of the spirit of the Most High. 
 And, finally, to exhibit the benignity and compassion 
 of Almighty God, who often extends his mercy to the 
 humbled penitent in his deepest affliction; and often 
 comes to his succour in the moment of his despair. 
 
 The whole parable, contemplated in this view, would 
 open too extensive a field to be embraced in a single 
 discourse; I limit myself, therefore, at present, to ex- 
 hibit the errors and excesses of the prodigal, purpos- 
 ing to pursue, hereafter, the remaining subjects in their 
 order. 
 
 His first error, and the fatal introduction of all which 
 followed, was his precipitate endeavour to elude the 
 inspection of his father's eye, and escape from the con- 
 trol of his reverend presence. Give me, says the un- 
 happy youth, that portion of goods which falleth to me: 
 and when he had received them, he went into afar coun- 
 try. He could no longer endure the observation of 
 that countenance, which he had been accustomed to 
 venerate, and which appears to have derived an awful 
 majesty from the lustre of virtue and religion which 
 beamed in it; he dreaded the importunity of his remon- 
 strances. Some remaining sentiments of duty still ex- 
 
On tJw Excesses of the Prodigal 85 
 
 isted in the midst of his folHes, which rendered it irk- 
 some to know that that good man was acquainted with 
 his disorders. He hastened, therefore, to escape from 
 the restraints of an authority, a veneration for which, 
 his vices had not entirely extinguished in his heart. 
 He went into a far country. — We have in this image 
 an aifecting exhibition of the thoughtless career of the 
 prodigal who, in the pursuit of his criminal passions, 
 studies only to forget, and in forgetting, hopes to elude 
 the inspection and judgment of Almighty God. It is 
 perhaps, impossible habitually to recollect his holy pre- 
 sence and, at the same time, to abandon the heart to 
 its criminal pursuits. It is only when his awful holi- 
 ness, when the majesty of his perfection, when all his 
 relations to us as our Father, our judge, and the aven- 
 ger of our crimes are forgotten, or pushed from our 
 thoughts, that conscience is rendered silent, that the 
 fears of guilt are laid asleep, and reason dares to be- 
 tray its sacred trust, and become the pander of lust, or 
 the advocate of passion. When God is not in all 
 our thoughts^ the world, and its images alone fill the 
 heart. Let us then contemplate the prodigal, thus re- 
 leased in his career from all control. — Just now mas- 
 ter of his fortune, freed from every inconvenient re- 
 striction which the presence of a venerable parent still 
 imposed upon him, flourishing in the vigour of Jiealth. 
 which his excesses have not yet impaired, he fancies 
 that he has now entered on a path which will ahvays 
 be strewed with flowers. Headlong he rushes into 
 the pleasures before him, with no other study but 
 how perpetually to vary them. He is engaged in a 
 
86 On Hie Excesses of the ProcUgal 
 
 whirl of folly which hardly leaves his intoxicated heart 
 one moment for reflection. All appears smiling round 
 him, and he seems to himself to be in the morning of 
 a fair and beautiful day that will never be obscured by 
 a cloud. Ah! he has no suspicion of the tempests which 
 will agitate its noon, or of those dark storms which are 
 gathering to overcast its evening! His substance he 
 wastes; riot undermines his health; debauch destroys 
 the faculties of his mind; profligacy of manners, by 
 degrees, lays waste the conscience; excess exhausts 
 the powers of enjoyment, and renders him at once in- 
 capable of true pleasure, and yet incapable of living 
 without that withered and barren form of it, which a 
 constitution, worn out in the service of sin has left him. 
 Every sensation is blunted, at the same time, that ha- 
 bit increases the demand for pleasures \\hich he is no 
 longer able to enjoy. Thus he destroys the noble pow- 
 ers of nature, and dissipates the goods which his hea- 
 venly Father has bestowed upon him. His imagina- 
 tion, his reason, his affections, all the energies of na- 
 ture are absorbed and sunk in folly. The talents of 
 the mind, the vigour of the body, the advantages of for- 
 tune, which should all have been consecrated to the 
 glory of God, have been perverted and abused in the 
 infamous servitude of vice. 
 
 But these are not the only wastes of this unhappy 
 prodigal, -Not to speak of the diseases, the premature 
 old age, the impotence of enjoying even lawful plea- 
 sures, which intemperance and sensuality create, what 
 becomes of the fond hopes of parents, the expectations 
 and proud predictions of friends, that appeared to be 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal 87 
 
 justified by the talents and the amiable dispositions 
 which the dawn of life had begun to unfold? disap- 
 pointed, and blasted, they leave them perhaps to grief 
 and shame which embitter the remainder of their days. 
 What becomes of that peace of mind, that sweet sere- 
 nity of heart, that conscious worth and self-respect 
 which are the companions of innocence and virtue? 
 They are lost in the gulf of the passions, supplanted 
 by remorse, and sunk in the humiliating conviction of 
 the lost esteem of the world. The means of know- 
 ledge, and of moral and religious culture, which he once 
 enjoyed, and which should have early planted in his 
 heart the principles of religion, now serve, to increase 
 his hostility to all good, and precipitate his downward 
 course to ruin. 
 
 After the substance of the prodigal is wasted, his 
 folly appears in stronger colours. 
 
 A famine arises in that land to which he had retired, 
 far from virtue, and far from the presence of his fa- 
 ther; and he begins to be in want. He who had been 
 master of superfluous wealth, is forced to seek a 
 shameful subsistence by selling his services to the 
 most infamous employments; he, who had revelled in 
 the bosom of so many delights, is constrained to asso- 
 ciate only with the swine which he is commissioned to 
 feed; he seeks to devour along with them their filthy 
 husks; but they are not sufficient to satisfy the crav- 
 ings of his hunger. Behold, a new image of the vile 
 slavery to which his ungoverned passions have, at last 
 reduced the profligate, the brutality into which they 
 
S8 On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 often sink him, and the misery in which they finally 
 leave him. 
 
 Do you see an unhappy youth who has sacrificed 
 honor, interest, duty, his own convictions, the hopes 
 and happiness of his family to the demon of pleasure? 
 Straightway he goeth after her as an ox to the slaughter, 
 or as a fool to the correction of the stocks. She imposes 
 upon him her cruel chains. She drags him at her 
 chariot wheels; often, indeed, a wilhng slave, but often 
 also, a '^eluciant captive. The reproaches of his own 
 heart, the reproaches of the world, the loss of private 
 chat"acter and honor; the tears of his friends stand in 
 the way of his guilty career, but the power of his cor- 
 ruptions urges him on to the consummation of his dis- 
 gi'ace. He sinks a slave to the most abject principles 
 of his nature. Well have they been represented by 
 herding with swine, and being nourished only with the 
 vile husks which form the food of the filthiest of all 
 animals. By the same figure, only improved by the fic- 
 tions of poetry, does the prince of heathen poets depict 
 the companions of Ulyses metamorphosed into swine 
 by the malignant power of Circean pleasure. 
 
 At last, even these miserable and polluted streams fail 
 him. He had once rioted in abundance. Now, he seeks 
 only to glut himself with the veriest offal of his filthy 
 herd. Deprived of every pure, rational, and manly 
 source of happiness, he drains every filthy puddle in 
 his way; but their foul and poisonous waters, instead 
 of quenching his raging thirst, serve only to inflame it. 
 An immortal soul cannot be satisfied with brutish en- 
 joyments. In spite of the impure propensities of vice, 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 81^ 
 
 it pines for a felicity more worthy of its celestial nature. 
 What in the gross corruptions of a mortal body, can 
 have any congeniality with its heavenly origin? Nothing 
 but the consciousness of having fulfilled its duty; no- 
 thing but the pleasures of piety and virtue; but the 
 heauty of holiness; but God in Christ reconciling the 
 world to himself, can completely satisfy the tastes of 
 immortality. All things else are barren, and leave the 
 soul famished, for want of its proper nourishment. 
 The libertine wanders from object to object. Disap- 
 pointment meets him at every step; but far from cur- 
 ing his folhes, it only stimulates him to new and alas! 
 successless efforts. Each object pleases for a moment, 
 and, he is ready to say, surely the happiness for which 
 I seek is here. Hardly is it tasted, till, like all the rest, 
 it writes vanity upon its own shallow stream, and leaves 
 nought behind, but the painful void of folly, or the sting 
 of conscious guilt. Whenever he returns upon him- 
 seltj he is unhappy. The levity of youth, the ardour 
 of pleasure may, for a time, suspend reflection. But 
 the decays of nature, the strokes of divine providence, 
 or the disastrous consequences of his crimes, will force 
 conviction at last upon his reluctant heart. A consti- 
 tution broken by vice, a family, perhaps, reduced to 
 distress by extravagance, the griefs of friends, the 
 reproaches of the world, or personal affliction will some 
 time or other speak to the conscience with a voice 
 which cannot be stifled or misunderstood. Yes, af- 
 fliction will, sooner or later, such is the order of pro- 
 vidence, vindicate the rights of God, and of divine jus- 
 tice. The sinner will be made to feel the vanity of all 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
90 On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 his projects of happiness, which leave the soul famish- 
 ed, and bereft of its true good; dissatisfied with the 
 world, yet incapable of the hopes of religion. Filled 
 with distressful apprehensions, when the hand of hea- 
 ven is pressing sore upon him, when his sins are pur- 
 suing him with their scorpion stings, will not conscience 
 terrified with gloomy forebodings, and despairing of 
 hope from the world, begin also to despair of that hea- 
 venly mercy which it has so long contemned and abus- 
 ed? 
 
 Yet, it is this despair, which yields to piety the ear- 
 liest dawn of hope for the wretched prodigal. The 
 vices and follies of mankind are often cured by the evils 
 which they bring after them; and the Holy Spirit not 
 rarely employs the severe corrections of diving provi- 
 dence to bring the first effectual convictions home to 
 the breast of sinners. 
 
 As long as this wretched youth could subsist on the 
 offal of swine, he thought not of returning to the best 
 of fathers. It was only the pressure of extreme cala- 
 mity which brought him to his senses. Ruined by his 
 own follies, he began to call to mind the security and 
 happiness, the pure and virtuous joys he had tasted, 
 the delightful moments he had passed in his father's 
 house: thither, therefore, he resolves in deep contrition 
 of soul to return, and seek there, if possible, an ulti- 
 mate refuge from calamities to which he sees no end. 
 And, in the holy and sovereign providence of Almighty 
 God, how often is the cup of salvation extended to sin- 
 ners on the rod of affliction? Almost all men require 
 many and repeated corrections to redeem them from 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal 91 
 
 the multiplied errors to which human nature is prone. 
 And certain it is, that a deep sense of the evil of sin, 
 and of the infehcity of a sinful course, is the first prin- 
 ciple of true repentance; the first step in the prodigal's 
 return to his heavenly father. But it is not my design 
 at present, to portray the penitent sentiments which 
 were at length awakened in the heart of this undutiful 
 youth. These I reserve to offer to your reflections on 
 a future occasion, that I may use your remaining time 
 to derive from the portrait of his follies which has now 
 been presented to you, some useful admonitions that 
 may be applied to our own peculiar circumstances and 
 state. 
 
 Does any hearer then secretly acquit himself to his 
 own heart, and put aside the mirror which I have en- 
 deavoured to hold up to him, because he has not pro- 
 ceeded to all the excesses of the prodigal in our gospel? 
 Let us advance the glass a little nearer, and see if it do 
 not reflect too faithful an image of ourselves. W hen 
 first this mistaken youth solicited the exclusive control 
 of his own fortune, he had probably no design, nor an- 
 ticipation of proceeding to that height of folly to w hich 
 he afterwards arrived. He became not completely de- 
 praved at once. Vice steals upon the sinner by insen- 
 sible approaches. In the commencement of his course 
 he would be startled at the proposition of crimes to the 
 commission of which he proceeds, at length, without 
 remorse or shame. It is only by degrees that he casts 
 off that modest reserve, and that delicate respect to the 
 observation of the world of which youth are often deep- 
 ly sensible in their first deviations from the path of Vir- 
 
92 On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 tiie. By frequently extinguishing the fears of inno- 
 cence and the blushes of modesty, the countenance be- 
 comes hardened. Irritated by reproach, by advice, or 
 even by the distant apprehension of public censure, the 
 sinner comes, at length, to set them at defiance. Seek- 
 ing a deceitful peace to his heart, he attempts to in- 
 volve himself in those fallacious folds which may hide 
 from his view the disorders of his conduct. He rejects 
 the cautious habits, and the prudent maxims of his ear- 
 lier years. He studies above all things to forget the pre- 
 sence of Almighty God his Creator and his judge, that 
 the awful consciousness of his inspection may no long- 
 er impose a check on his incipient career. For a time, 
 the principles of his education, or his respect for the 
 observation of the world, may lay a useful restraint on 
 the irregularities of his course, but if the habitual sense 
 of a divine witness, is removed, every barrier against sin, 
 every mound of duty is soon borne down by the violence 
 of passion or overleapt in the inconsiderate levity of 
 youth. — Guard, O young man! against the beginnings 
 of sin. /if is, saith the wise preacher, like the letting 
 out of water, which wears to itself a wider, and a wider 
 channel, till the impetuosity of the flood, at last, over- 
 comes all resistance. 
 
 Beware, not only of forgetting God, but of too early 
 affecting an independence on those whose wisdom, and 
 affection entitle them to direct your inexperienced 
 years. Remark how severely this unwise son suffered 
 for his temerity. Youth are flattered with the idea of 
 being their own masters; but their natural indiscretion, 
 renders that period of life a season of infinite hazard 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 93 
 
 to their inexperience. The world is full of secret 
 snares, of corrupting examples, and of allurements 
 dangerous to the passions of a bold and thoughtless 
 youth. The first draughts of pleasure intoxicate the 
 fancy and the heart. He sees nothing before him but 
 scenes of delight; he hears nothing but enchanting 
 sounds; but ah! he looks not to the gulfs which sur- 
 round the Syren, while the charms of her voice are 
 lulling him in a sweet delirium on the verge of ruin. 
 
 No lure to perdition is more certain. Ah! young 
 men! be not ambitious to deliver yourselves from the 
 control of the authority; from the direction of the wis- 
 dom and experience of those, who love you, and to 
 whom nature has wisely subjected your first years. 
 Happy, if their experience can become yours by a du- 
 tiful submission to their counsels; if it can preserve 
 you from the ten thousand unseen dangers which every 
 where encompass your footsteps. Happy beyond ex- 
 pression! if it can save you from the errors, and the 
 fate of the vain undutiful prodigal of our gospel, who 
 rashly hastened to deliver himself from the restraint of 
 a father's eye, and the importunity of a father's advice. 
 
 Would you, then, effectually guard against that fatal 
 progression in vice which terminated in the total cor- 
 ruption of the manners and morals of our young pro- 
 digal. Shun the first avenues which lead to its dan- 
 gerous declivity. Let your first prayer to Heaven be, 
 lead us not into temptation. No symptom is more 
 unpromising in the character of a young man, than 
 a defect of filial duty; than that most culpable love 
 of pleasure which is regardless of tlie convenience, the 
 
94 On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 advice, the happiness of parents; which is willing to 
 impose upon their love; which regards it in no other 
 light than as affording a facility of obtaining the 
 means of every criminal indulgence; which considers 
 as clear gain to itself all that it can elicit, or extort 
 from their tenderness and affection. Oh! the base 
 ungenerous spirit of sinful pleasure! The prodigal 
 commenced his career by wishing to make a father 
 subservient to his guilty purposes, and then to withdraw 
 himself from the authority of his observation, the ad- 
 monitions of his love. On the other hand, if you cher- 
 ish that filial duty, that lively sensibility to the comfort, 
 the hopes, the honest pride, the ardent prayers of a 
 worthy and affectionate parent which is the character 
 of ingenuous youth, it will hardly be possible to de- 
 part far from the path of virtue. It will prove the most 
 favourable introduction to the renewing and sanctifying 
 influences of the Holy Spirit. 
 
 But shun, as the surest road to the consummation of 
 a worthless character, the society of idle and vicious 
 companions. Idleness is the parent of almost every 
 other vice. Vicious companions inflame each other's 
 passions, assist each other's projects, and stimulate 
 each other's excesses. Ah! what pernicious princi- 
 ples in such societies, are first sported and then re- 
 ceived as maxims of conduct! What criminal projects 
 are first suggested, and then executed! What dis- 
 graceful vices, at first regarded as momentary levities, 
 are afterwards ripened into deliberate acts, and fixed 
 in inflexible habits! And have we not reason, alas! 
 from the same cause to lament, in too many examples, 
 
On the Excesses of the Prodigal. 95 
 
 age as well as youth perverted and destroyed by im- 
 proper associations. Once industrious arid sober, we 
 often see it, at length distinguished for frequenting the 
 places of idle resort. Business is given up for loiter- 
 ing, — the duties of a useful calling, for pernicious com- 
 pany keeping, — sobriety for intemperance. — Arrived 
 at this stage of profligacy, what an afflicting change is 
 perceived in the whole moral character of these devo- 
 tees of pleasure! Ask of their own breasts, where self- 
 respect, where serenity and peace, where conscious 
 worth have been long lost. Ask of their houses, filled, 
 perhaps, with dissolution; or of a wife and children 
 forsaken for the dearer society of profligate compan- 
 ions. Ask of their families in tears, perhaps, for their 
 absence, or trembling foi- their return. Ask of the 
 world which now loads them with its reproaches. — 
 Ah! deceived, mistaken men who dare to name the 
 name of Christ! Flee, if it be not yet too late, these 
 destructive monsters, which threaten to precipitate you 
 into irretrievable ruin. The multitude of unhappy 
 examples, which continually obtrude themselves upon 
 our view require, my beloved brethren, this urgency in 
 our public discourses. Can we see without deep con- 
 cern for the interests of piety, and the interests of our 
 country, the prevalence of crimes which are hastening 
 to extinguish every principle of virtue and every manly 
 and generous sentiment of the soul, — that are sinking 
 men into the gulfs of corruption, which open their fum- 
 ing mouths into the gulf of Hell.^ 
 
 Almighty God! we implore of thy mercy, to rescue, 
 even at this late hour, the miserable remnants of age 
 
96 On tJie Excesses of the Prodigal. 
 
 already exhausted in the service of sin! Arrest in the 
 commencement of their prodigal career, the dangerous 
 profligacy of youth, and turn them in this precious 
 season of life, to the obedience of thy holy will! where 
 lies their true happiness and their true glory! Amen!. 
 
THE REPENTANCE OF THE PRODIGAL. 
 
 Second Discourse upon the Parable. 
 
 And when he had come to himself, he said, how many hired servants of my 
 father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger. I 
 will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, father, I have sinned 
 against Heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to oe called thy 
 son: make me as one of thy hired servants. Aad he arose and went to his 
 father. Luke XT. 11— 20. 
 
 In the preceding discourse, I have presented to your 
 view the errors of the prodij^al, — his excesses, — and 
 the miseries in which a hfe of dissipation and folly had 
 involved him — miseries which, at length, forcibly ar- 
 rested his career, and brought him to serious reflection. 
 Pressed by misfortune, and penetrated with remorse, 
 he comes to the resolution of returning to his father's 
 house, and imploring his compassion and forgiveness. 
 I request your attention, therefore, to-day, while I of- 
 fer to your devout meditations, the repentance of the 
 prodigal. 
 
 1. He profoundly felt the wretchedness to which his 
 follies had reduced him. 1 perish with hunger. 
 
 2. He resolved to return to his father, with contrition 
 and confession of his sins; and soliciting his forgive- 
 ness, there to devote himself with renewed duty and 
 zeal to his loved family. — / ivill arise, and go to my 
 
 VOL. P. o 
 
98 Repentance of the Prodigal 
 
 father, and say unto him, father I have sinned against 
 Heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be 
 called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants 
 
 The sense of his miseries — and the resolution to for- 
 sake his errors, and to return to his father, form the 
 sum of his repentance. 
 
 1. When the intoxication of his passions had subsi- 
 ded, he found himself reduced to a state of the deepest 
 distress; — I perish ivith hunger. — He had now learned 
 from his unhappy experience how false and deceitful 
 are all the promises of unhallowed pleasure. The 
 scenes which imagination had pictured before him, and 
 the delights which the senses, while they were not yet 
 blunted by excess, had yielded, are all vanished, and 
 he wonders by what infatuation he could have been so 
 long misled and enslaved. Pleasure, while the appe- 
 tite is not sated by indulgence, has the power of re- 
 presenting all its objects in charming and beautiful co- 
 louring. When desire is cloyed, the enchantment is 
 broken. And the disgusted sense throws them back 
 upon us as the filth of human nature, and the scouring 
 of creation. With what different eyes does the prodi- 
 gal, when come to liimself, look back upon the scenes 
 of his folly. At every step in this humbling review, 
 something he sees to awaken remorse; something to 
 cover him w^ith confusion. Allied in his enjoyments to 
 the swine which he is feeding, he feels himself justly 
 condemned to herd with them as his companions. 
 And the joys which had once made him forget his 
 fathers house, and his own most precious interests, 
 have become like coarse and tasteless husks: or like 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 99 
 
 the apples of paradise which appeared fair and beau- 
 tiful to the eye, but tasted, werel"ound to fill the mouth 
 with dust and bitterness. 
 
 After a profligate career, in which this young man 
 gave full scope to his desires, and withheld not his 
 heart from any joy, he comes, at length, to taste the 
 bitter fruits of his follies, and sinks into want, disgrace, 
 and sorrow. In the painful retrospect of liie, the 
 memory of every sinful joy opens to his view a gulf in 
 which reason, conscience and his own happiness have 
 been whelmed. The recollection of his father's house, 
 with the innocence, and virtuous delights which reign 
 there, present images which fill him with regret. When 
 he turns his view inward, on himself, he meets only the 
 reproaches of his own heart; and when he attempts to 
 cast his eye. forward to his eternal being, darkness and 
 horror rest upon the prospect. The pleasures of sin 
 are made, in the righteous order of divine providence, 
 to punish their own follies, and avenge the rights of 
 God, of virtue and humanity. Within himself he 
 has no resource against the deep distress which has 
 overtaken him; the world aifords him none; he can 
 hope for none in a repetition of sins which have now be- 
 come the cause of his deepest affliction, and which he 
 cannot look back upon, but with profound horror. If 
 then, he has none from that benignant and gracious 
 parent, whom he has forsaken, hopeless indeed must 
 his condition be. — But iiom this quarter a ray of light 
 first breaks in upon his soul, through the darkness 
 which surrounds it. He was sinking in despair. But 
 when he thinks of his father's house, he conceives a 
 
100 Repentance of the Prodigal. 
 
 hope that he who has given him existence, will not 
 spurn his repentance. It is, at least, his refuge; and 
 into it he is resolved to flee. Ah, christians! how gra- 
 cious frequently is God in the sufferings which he in- 
 flicts! If this unhappy prodigal, could any longer have 
 found subsistence in that far country to which his 
 passions had driven him, still, perhaps, he would have 
 been willing to rest contented in his slavery, and to 
 wallow in the kennels of impurity. But a merciful 
 providence still pursues him with repeated strokes. 
 His own sins are made his tormentors. All his com- 
 forts have abandoned him. — Stripped of every hope on 
 which he had been accustomed to repose, he is left na- 
 ked to the buffetings of that dark storm which Heaven 
 has collected round him, and to that still more afflict- 
 ing tempest which conscience has raised within his 
 breast, till overwhelmed with grief, he yields to the full 
 conviction of his guilt. His supreme solicitude now 
 is, how he shall tread back his former steps, and re- 
 gaittj if possible, his father's forfeited love. Conscious 
 that he has no plea to make for the fatal errors of his 
 life, no ground on which to claim forgiveness, he re- 
 solves to cast himself absolutely on that mercy and 
 compassion which a repentant son never implores in 
 vain from an affectionate father. Such is the first step 
 of a sinner's return to God, — the first movements of a 
 sincere repentance. He is penetrated with a deep 
 sense of his miseries and his guilt, while yet, far from 
 God, his heavenly Father, he is ivithout God, and with- 
 out Christ in the ivorld. When smitten by divine pro- 
 vidence with severe affliction, or pierced by some ar- 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 101 
 
 row from the word of God, he is arrested in his career; 
 when he is forced to turn his reflections backward on 
 his actions, which in the whirl of his dissipations, he 
 had never seriously considered; or to enter into the re- 
 cesses of his heart, to which he has hitherto been a 
 stranger, in what new lights appears the whole scene 
 of life? What new sentiments oppress his heart? He 
 had flattered himself, formerly, with the innocence of 
 all his pleasures. He now sees in them nothing, but 
 unexpiated crimes. He is overwhelmed with fear, re- 
 morse, and conscious guilt. Instead of that countenance 
 of thoughtless hilarity which had marked the course of 
 his dissipation, you perceive his countenance clouded 
 with melancholy; for forward presumption, you see only 
 anxiety, and apprehension. Pride and arrogance are 
 tuined into humility and contrition; and he is ready to 
 say with Job, thou writest bitter things against me and 
 makest me to possess the iniquities of my youth. As all 
 objects assume the colour of the mind, the heavens 
 gather blackness over his head, — God, most merciful, 
 appears arrayed in terrors, and the majesty of his 
 throne is surrounded, only with the flames of a con- 
 suming justice. But to what quarter shall the con- 
 science of guilt have resource for relief? Shall he re- 
 turn to the world to find a comfort in its pleasures, 
 which he cannot find in his own breast? or a diversion 
 in its pursuits from his troubled thoughts? Alas! he has 
 tried the utmost that the world can yield, and found it 
 barren of true felicity. He has experienced its end, 
 and found it wormwood and gall. Shall I then, such 
 is his language, strive to forget the judge, the tribunal, 
 
102 Repentance of the Prodigal, 
 
 and the awful destinies of the eternal world? Oh! infi- 
 nite folly! does not that judge still behold me? does not 
 that tribunal still await me^ — Can I, by forgetting, es- 
 cape the judgments of God? — Nay, will not that terri- 
 ble day surely arrive, like the deluge on the inhabitants 
 of the old world; or like the fire from heaven on the 
 guilty cities of the plain, only the more terrible for not 
 having been expected? No, I cannot return to the 
 paths I have left. Alas! there is no source of conso- 
 lation open to a reasonable mind, out of religion. A 
 God in Christ is my only refuge. And, to me the uni- 
 verse is a comfortless void, till 1 am reconciled to my 
 heavenly Father. I feel the earth totter beneath my 
 feet. Eternity presents to my view an abyss of hor- 
 ror. To no quarter can i look for hope, but to the be- 
 nignity and compassion, the remaining tenderness which 
 I may yet find in the bosom of a justly offended father. 
 Yes, it is my last, my only hope. — I will go, — I will go 
 and cast myself upon his compassion. 
 
 2. It is the second consideration which presents it- 
 self to us in the repentance of the prodigal. He resolves 
 to return to his father. 
 
 This resolution is the consequence of his painful ex- 
 perience, and of that profound reflection on himself, 
 and his errors, which the Holy Spirit, taking advan- 
 tage of the calamities which his sins had brought upon 
 him, has awakened in his heart. I will go to my fa- 
 ther — here 1 perish. My folly and madness, now ap- 
 pear to me in the strongest lights^ and in the darkest 
 colours. But shall not a penitent son find kindness 
 with him who is kind even to the evil and unthankful? 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 103 
 
 Ah! if I could obtain his forgiveness, if I could regain 
 his favour, never, never, would I again renounce those 
 holy endearments, which, if I had been wise, I might 
 still have enjoyed in his presence, and is not this what 
 he supremely desires, my repentance and reformation? 
 Then may I not even yet hope for compassion from a 
 parent whom my ingratitude has so deeply wounded? 
 If I cannot deserve the affection of a son who has never 
 erred; may I not claim his piety, at least, as a suffer- 
 ing wretch that he may remember was once his son-^ 
 I think I see the good old man in the days of my wan- 
 dering, following me with his affectionate solicitudes, 
 with his anxious prayers; and will he not rejoice to 
 see me at last, rescued from the gulf into which my 
 headlong passions had precipitated me? It is, at least, 
 the only hope which remains. And I will pursue it, till, 
 if I must be driven to despair, it shall be by the stern 
 command of that father himself, the image of whose 
 goodness now lights up the last ray in my bosom, pe- 
 netrated with remorse and shame. The humblest 
 menial in his house possesses abundance and content- 
 ment. Amidst the easy service which he pays to so 
 gracious a lord, he enjoys a calm of mind, a self-ap- 
 proving conscience, a sweet serenity which, in all my 
 guilty pleasures, I could never find. — I will arise and 
 go to my father ' 
 
 But, in putting this resolution into practice, with 
 what sentiments, and with what language would a pe- 
 nitent son approach a father, whom he had so deeply 
 afflicted and offended? Would he come with excuses 
 or palliations in his mouth, in order to prepare a fa- 
 
104 Repentance of the Prodigal 
 
 vourable reception? Would he say, the levity and in- 
 consideration of youth, which should be regarded with 
 indulgence, hurried me away? Would he allege the 
 ardour of the passions at that age, the force of exam- 
 ple, the solicitations of pleasure, which it is difficult 
 for a young man in certain situations to resist? 
 But, in the midst of all my errors would he add, my 
 heart was still good? I still thought with kindness of 
 the parent whom I had forsaken ; and excepting the tor- 
 rent that bore me along, I would, in other things have 
 been willing to regulate my actions by his counsels? 
 Would he hope to advance his plea by throwing such 
 softenings over his faults? No, he would be too much 
 humbled to hold this deceitful language. No, in the 
 depth of his contrition, he would see only his guilt, not 
 its excuses. He would dwell upon its aggravations, not 
 upon its palliatives. He would delight, such is the spi- 
 rit of repentance, to take a certain revenge upon him- 
 self for his ingratitude and folly, by the depth of his 
 contrition, and the humility of his confessions. I will 
 go to my father, if an unworthy but penitent son, may 
 yet dare to address him by that tender title, and will 
 say to h\m, father I have sinned against Heaven, and 
 before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. 
 Against Heaven. — For, in breaking the ties of nature, 
 I have violated the most sacred laws of God, my hea- 
 venly Father. I have forgotten that holy and awful 
 presence which would have imposed a check upon my 
 infatuation, which duty to an earthly parent was una- 
 ble to restrain. I have sinned before thee, my father, 
 who didst foster me with so much indulgence; before 
 thee, whom every law of nature, and of duty, whom 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 105 
 
 ten thousand acts of kindness and endearment should 
 have taught me to love; — before tlwe, whose consolation 
 in the decline of life I should have proved; but whose 
 peace I have wounded, whose soul I have filled with 
 bitterness and anguish. Yes, / artt no mone ivorthy to 
 be called thy son. That holy privilege which, by my 
 bitter experience, I have been at length taught so high- 
 ly to estimate, I have most justly forfeited. But if I 
 cannot be restored to that prerogative which, like Esau, 
 I have shamefully sold for the gratification of my low 
 appetites, may I not be permitted to behold, to serve, 
 to reside near thee, whom I have learned to love, when, 
 alas! I no longer deserve to be beloved. Make me as one 
 of thy hired servants, till I have proved by my dutiful 
 zeal that I am not altogether unworthy thy compas- 
 sion. 
 
 Such are the simple expressions of the prodigal's re- 
 pentance, extorted from a heart profoundly penetrated 
 with its folly: such also are the sentiments which pene- 
 trate a convinced and penitent sinner, conscious of the 
 enormity of his offences against God his heavenly Fa- 
 ther. When first he turns his eyes towards the throne 
 of the heavenly grace, will not the same grief for his 
 transgressions, the same shame of his follies, the same 
 humiliating sense of the evil of his sins mark his peni- 
 tent confession of them before Almighty God.'* He em- 
 ploys no palliations to soften their guilt, he studies no 
 concealment, or disguise to hide their number, or ma- 
 lignity from his own view.^ His acknowledgment is 
 frank and sincere, universal and unqualified. Hardly 
 can he find words sufficiently strong to express his al> 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
106 Repentance of the Prodigal. 
 
 horrence of their evil, his sense of his own unworthi- 
 ness, or the depth of his self abasement. The holy 
 Psalmist in his affliction, speaks the genuine language 
 of repentance; — Against thee only have I simied, and 
 in thy sight done this evil. Mine iniquities are gone 
 over my head. They are too Jwavy for me to bear. And 
 the convinced publican gives a just and affecting exam- 
 ple of the humility, and conscious shame of a sin- 
 cere penitent, when he could not lift up so much as his 
 eyes unto heaven, but smote upon his breast, saying, God 
 be merciful to me a sinner! He has no plea in his 
 own merits to offer to God his father and his judge; no 
 justification in his own good intentions, no excuse in 
 the violence of temptation. He lays open his inmost 
 soul to the inspection of his judge. He justifies the 
 .sentence which condemns him; he condemns himself. 
 — / have sinned against Heaven, and before thee. 
 
 This confession implies deep, unfeigned sorrow for 
 his manifold sins and offences against Almighty God; 
 for the dishonours offered to the glory of his heavenly 
 Father, and to the purity of the law of eternal recti- 
 tude. Is it for his own miseries that he is grieved.^ 
 For the pains which vice brings after it in the order of 
 divine providence.^ Or even for the eternal sufferings 
 to which, by the righteous judgment of heaven it is 
 doomed.'' No, it is simply for the evil of his sins; for 
 the vileness of his ingratitude, that he is overwhelmed 
 with repentant sorrow. For when his sins are most 
 freely forgiven, and the sense of that pardon most gra- 
 ciously sealed to his heart; when most encouraged to 
 hope in the divine mercy, his fears are all extinguished 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 107 
 
 in the blood of the everlasting covenant, it is then that 
 his griefs flow most copiously. It is then that a sense 
 of his ingratitude opens new sources of sorrow in his 
 bosom. It is then that, with David, he wets his couch 
 with his tears; or with Peter, when the cock summoned 
 his sleeping conscience to its duty, and the compassionate 
 look of his master melted his heart, that he goes out 
 and weeps bitterly. God may forgive him ; but he knows 
 not how to forgive himself 
 
 When the penitent prodigal has resolved to return 
 to his father, one of the most decisive proofs of his 
 sincerity, is the promptitude with which he ^executes 
 his dutiful resolution. Does he then, remembering with 
 too fond an attachment, pleasures which he must now 
 part with forever, study to procrastinate the moment 
 of separation .^ Does he find difficulties in accomplish- 
 ing his purpose too powerful for his virtue.'^ Does the 
 distance of the road deter him? Does the strength of 
 dissolute habits overcome him.^ Does the shame of 
 his own appearance, all squalid and in rags, withhold 
 him from the presence of his father? Does he fear 
 the ridicule of his companions? Or shrink from the 
 austerity of the manners he must now assume? No, 
 he has suifered too much from his follies to be recon- 
 ciled to them again; or to hesitate about renouncing 
 them with holy indignation. His ingratitude has too 
 deeply penetrated his soul to suffer him to waver in his 
 purpose. The returning tide of his affections is too 
 strong to be resisted. He waits not to deliberate. He 
 makes no nice calculation of difficulties. His zeal 
 
108 Repentance of the Prodigal. 
 
 bursts through every obstacle; and he hastens to throw 
 himself at the feet of bis father. 
 
 Here is another analogy which strongly represents 
 the case of a penitent sinner in forming his first reso- 
 lutions of duty. Many difficulties meet him in enter- 
 ing on a new course of hfe. The self-denials of re- 
 pentance, and the duties of religion present to him a 
 face of gloom before he has yet tasted the divine con- 
 solations which flow^ from a sense of the presence, and 
 the most gracious favour of his heavenly Father. Can 
 I, at once, and entirely, break my connexions with the 
 world, with which I have been so intimately associa- 
 ted.^ Can I, at once, make such an entire change in 
 all the habits of life? Shall I be able to bear the re- 
 proaches, the sneers, the coldness of companions whose 
 party I must now forsake? Can I hold myself up as 
 a spectacle for the observation and remarks of the 
 world, which never remarks with candour? Will not 
 a gravity and seriousness of deportment, an abstraction 
 from all the little follies, and even the innocent gayeties 
 of society be expected from me that I cannot support? 
 
 Ah! w^hen the soul which has hitherto been the slave 
 o>f sin, is about to break its chains, and enter on a new 
 life, all the remains of corruption in the heart, will rise 
 up to oppose the change, and present to the imagina- 
 tion every difficulty, most calculated to deter a young 
 convert from taking an open and decided part in favour 
 of religion. But if, with the repenting prodigal, he is 
 truly sensible of the evil and depth of his iniquities 
 against Almighty God, of the infelicities of his state, 
 of the vanity of all his past projects of happiness: — if 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal. 1 OJJ 
 
 pricked in his heart, with the hearers of the apostle 
 Peter, on the day of Pentecost, it is his soHcitous in- 
 quiry, men and brethren! ivhat shall T do? If, hke the 
 penitent and beheving disciples, looking up to Jesus 
 Christ, he is compelled to exclaim; — Lord, to wliom 
 shall I go, tlwu hast the words of eternal life — all diffi- 
 culties will vanish before the views of eternity which 
 will then open upon the soul, — will be overborne by the 
 torrent of feelings which will then . deluge his heart. 
 Shall I sacrifice my eternal interests, may he say, to a 
 false shame? Shall any pleasure of my own, if the 
 world could now afford me pleasure, come in compe- 
 tition with the boundless obligations of gratitude and 
 lo\'c which 1 owe my Creator and Redeemer. Shall I 
 shrink from ridicule and scoffing, if it be necessary for 
 his glory, who did not shrink from shame and mocking 
 and from the agonies of the cross for me? Does the 
 world whisper me that the change which I am about 
 to make, is too great and sudden to be supported with 
 consistency, by those who would, at the same time, 
 maintain any reputation in society? And therefore 
 does it advise me to break my connexions with it only 
 by degrees? Ah! false and insidious deceiver! How 
 shall % who am dead to sin, live any longer therein? 
 How shall I, who am alive only to the feehngs of duty, 
 delay one moment, to cast myself before the mercy seat 
 of my heavenly Father? — Does the pride and error of 
 a corrupted heart insinuate that I ought first to prepare 
 for myself a favourable reception, before approaching 
 into the presence of his hohness, by the merit of a pre- 
 
110 ^Repentance of the Prodigal. 
 
 vious course of duties. Alas! what merit is there in 
 those outward, and heartless services which I vainly 
 call lyiy duties? What merit can a sinful mortal pre- 
 sent before the throne of divine mercy? Is not the 
 whole system of my salvation a system of absolute 
 grace? How can a penitent sinner appear most ac- 
 ceptably befui e r,od, but as a humble suppliant, re- 
 nouncing all confidence in his own righteousness, and 
 relying solely on the gracious promise of Almighty 
 God, through the righteousness of Jesus Christ? Yes, 
 unworthy as I am, and without any plea to offer, but 
 my miseries, I will not postpone my return to a father 
 to whom penitent misery, will be always welcome; — 
 who has invited the weary and heavy laden to come to 
 him; — who offers to the hungry and tlie thirsty, nine 
 and milk without money and without price; — and who 
 has declared to those who believe, though your sitis he 
 Wee scarlet, they shall be as ivool; though they be red like 
 crimson, they shall be tvhite as snoiv. In one word, who 
 proclaims to the ivretched, the miserable, the blind and 
 the naked ^ to sinners of every grade, him that cometh 
 to me, I will in no ivise cast out. Yes, when the con- 
 vinced and penitent prodigal is brought to this point, 
 neither the menaces, nor the blandishments of the 
 world; neither the example, nor persuasions of other 
 sinners; neither the fear of man, nor the seductions of 
 pleasure, can delay or divert his firm and holy resolu- 
 tion of returning to God his heavenly Father. His 
 heart is full of his father's goodness. — 7 ivill arise and 
 go to my father. 
 
Repentance of the Prodigal 111 
 
 penitent souls! who may be forming this wise and 
 pious resolution, may Almighty God, in his infinite 
 mercy, grant you those abundant aids of his grace 
 which are requisite to enable you to fulfil your wise 
 and holy purpose! Amen! 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 PRODIGAL TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 Tlie third discourse on this Parable. 
 
 liut, when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compas- 
 sion, and ran, and fell upon his neck aad kissed him. And the son said 
 unto him; Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and 
 am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his ser- 
 vants, bring forth the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his 
 hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; 
 and let us eat and be merry: for this my son was dead and is alive again; 
 he was lost and is found. And they began to be merry. Luke XV. 20-2 L 
 
 Christians! you have followed the prodigal through 
 the errors of his youth; you have seen him plunged in 
 the deepest affliction. Overwhelmed with miseries in- 
 duced by his own misconduct, he reproaches his folly; 
 he turns his view wistfully back on his former happy 
 state; he recalls to mind the goodness of his father 
 whom he had so grievously offended, and now peni- 
 tently resolves to return and implore his forgiveness. 
 The benignity with which his father receives him; the 
 joy with which he embraces a profligate son restored 
 to a sense of his duty; the image of the divine com- 
 passions towards penitent sinners, is the interesting 
 matter which still remains to be considered, and which 
 now claims your serious attention. 
 
Return of the Prodigal 113 
 
 Let us then contemplate the affecting images pre- 
 sented to us in this beautiful allegory, that we may de- 
 rive from them an encouragement for every sincere 
 penitent, to hope in the mercy of his heavenly father, 
 notwithstanding his manifold.offences. 
 
 The anxious father had never withdrawn his affec- 
 tionate solicitudes from this unduiiful son, even after 
 he had abandoned his family. His fond hopes had 
 still anticipated his return to viitue: his fervent pray- 
 ers were continually addressed to Heaven, that some 
 merciful correction in the dispensations of divine pro- 
 vidence, might restore his lost child to himself: to the 
 reflections of wisdom, and to the sense of his duty. 
 Often he turned his eyes to that quarter where the un- 
 happy youth, in departing, had vanished from his sight, 
 and from which, if he ever should again behold him, 
 he expected his return. He was the lirst, therefore, to 
 perceive the young man^s approach. Though covered 
 with rags, squalid with disease and filth, and emacia- 
 ted with want, yet a father's affection was able, under 
 all these cruel disguises, to discern the traces of an 
 image which love had indelibly inipressed on his heart; 
 and when, yet a great way off, he recognized his son. 
 He saw him trembling, overwhelmed with shame, he- 
 sitating in his approach, and doubtful of his reception. 
 The good old man dissolved in tenderness at the sight; 
 hastens to console, and reassure the afflicted penitent. 
 And in tbe tumults of his joy at again seeing him, and 
 seeing him returning to his family, and his duty, he 
 could no longer restrain himself; — he ran, he fell upon 
 his neck, he kissed him, and carried to his heart the 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
114 Return of the Prodigal. 
 
 seal of his pardon, by the ardour, with which he em- 
 braced him. 
 
 What a moment for the prodigal, who was approach- 
 ing almost without liope! Covered with confusion, and 
 oppressed with his own recollections, his heart swells 
 with a thousand emotions, which, for a time, suspend the 
 power of utterance, and break from him only in sobs 
 and sighs. At length, he recovers himself so far as to 
 begin his affecting confession; — Father, I have sinned 
 against Heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy 
 to he called thy son, lie would have added, make me 
 as one oj thy hired servants! — but the impatience of his 
 father's eager sensibility on the occasion prevented him; 
 and, before he could fmish the sentence which was in his 
 mouth, orders are already given to array him with the 
 best robe; to efface all the marks of his former servi- 
 tude and wretchedness; and to invest him with the 
 customary pledge in the east, of his being restored to 
 his rank and honour as a son, by putting a ring on his 
 hand. Let it be a jubilee in my family! pVepare a feast! 
 invite my friends! let all partake in my joy! — for this 
 my son was dead, and is alive again, was lost, and is 
 found! 
 
 In this beautiful and touching group of images, you 
 have presented an interesting picture of the compas- 
 sion and benignity of our heavenly Father towards his 
 guilty and offending children, who return to him by; 
 sincere repentance. 
 
 1. Then his patience and forbearance with the sin- 
 ner during his errors. 
 
Return of the Prodigal. 115 
 
 2. The readiness with which he meets and reassures 
 the penitent. 
 
 3. And lastly, the joy with which he receives an 
 exiled son, on his return to his family. There is joy in 
 Heaven, over one sinner that repenteth. 
 
 1. Let us contemplate, in the first place, the patience 
 with which this indulgent parent waits on all the er-- 
 rors of an undutiful son. 
 
 Instead of cutting him off from the privileges and 
 hopes of his house, in just displeasure for the abuse of 
 his goodness, his paternal kiudness never forsakes the 
 unhappy youth, amidst all the movements of his folly. 
 He waits, and hopes, and prays for his restoration, till 
 his excesses, and the sufferings which spring out of his 
 own misconduct, at last, bring him to a just sense of 
 himself, and an humble recognition of the beneficence 
 of a parent who had been so unworthily requitted. 
 With still greater benignity, my dear brethren, do we 
 not behold, in the whole order of divine providence, 
 the mercy and long-suffering of Almighty God waiting 
 upon sinners, while they are forgetful of his holy claims 
 upon their duty and love: nay, while they are boldly 
 setting at defiance his laws, and his almighty power.^ 
 If he does not cut them off in the pursuit of their sin- 
 ful pleasures, if he spares them in the midst of so many 
 folhes and crimes, is it because his holiness is not most 
 justly offended.'^ or, because his power cannot reach 
 them.^ Surely not. But our most merciful Father is 
 w^aiting the operation of those means, which, in the 
 benign, but corrective dispensations of his providence, 
 he is employing to bring them to repentance, and re- 
 
116 Return of the Prodigal. 
 
 store in their hearts the sentiments of obedience and 
 duty. Let me endeavour to carry this reflection home 
 to the bosom and feeHngs of every hearer. 
 
 Has not your own experience, my Christian brother! 
 afforded you the most affecting proofs of the forbear- 
 ance of Almighty God, the father of mercies, with your 
 manifold wanderings, notwithstanding the wastes, to 
 use the language of the parable, which you have made 
 of that portion of goods entrusted to your care; that is, 
 of your time, your mental talents, your active powers, 
 your temporal blessings, your spiritual privileges. Life, 
 which you have so often perverted from its proper 
 end, is still prolonged, to afford you the opportunities 
 of repentance. Mercies which, alas! have been so often 
 abused, are not yet withdrawn. The means of grace, 
 and the aids designed for the attainment of your sal- 
 vation are not only continued, but multiplied. The 
 voice of his providence, by which he would recall you 
 to himself, is continually becoming more distinct, more 
 frequent, and more loud. Impenitent prodigal! whoever 
 you may be, let me speak to you with plainness, and 
 let me intreat you to deal sincerely with your own 
 heart. Has not Almighty God, at some times, while he 
 seemed to snatch you from imminent death threatened 
 by disease, or other alarming accidents, carried to your 
 bosom, for a moment, the conviction that he had recal- 
 led you to life, only to repeat the invitations of his mer- 
 cy.^ Has he not on other occasions, by the disappoint- 
 ment of your hopes, by painful suffering, by the dis- 
 gusts which followed your excesses, made you a thou- 
 sand times feel the vanity of the world, and the infeli- 
 
Return of the Prodigal. 117 
 
 city of your pursuits, only that he might raise your 
 thoughts to higher and purer aims? When your sins, 
 perhaps, have been on the point of exposing you to 
 public shame", and overwhelming you in ruin, has he 
 not mercifully deHvered you from the abyss which you 
 had prepared for yourself, and that was already gaping 
 beneath your feet, only that he might impose upon you 
 new obligations of gratitude to his holy providence? 
 Has he not, by his most blessed spirit, often created 
 and cherished in your breast many serious resolutions 
 of duty, which have been again, alas! extinguished in 
 tlie cares or in the pleasures of the world? Has he not 
 even prompted, and by his grace, assisted you, to make 
 some feeble and tottering steps in your return towards 
 him? Has he not waited on your delays? Has he not 
 again and again renewed those serious impressions, 
 which you have as often hastened to efface? By multi- 
 plied mercies, he has graciously sought to attract you 
 to himself By afflictions he has called you; he has cal- 
 led you by the penetrating remonstrances of his word; 
 and by the secret suggestions of your own conscience; 
 and has he not sometimes called you by the most in- 
 teresting voices from the tomb, into which you have 
 seen your dearest friends descend before you? And 
 this day does he not come to repeat so many calls? 
 God! how rich is thy mercy! How astonishing thy 
 patience with worms of dust, who dare to insult thy 
 long suffering benignity! Thou hast not discharged on 
 their heads as thou justly mightest, the thunders with 
 which thy justice had armed thee; but thy mercy still 
 prolongs to them the season of heavenly grace! 
 
118 Return of the Prodigal. 
 
 2. You perceive, in the next place, the gracious rea- 
 diness with which our heavenly Father meets the re- 
 turn, and reassures the hopes of his prodigal but peni- 
 tent children. 
 
 This compassionate parent, the type of our heavenly 
 Father, recognized his son, while he was yet a great 
 way off. Love had impressed an ineffaceable image of 
 that dear, though undutifid youth upon his heart; and 
 parental affection preserved him ever attentive to re- 
 mark the first returning sentiments of piety and duty, 
 for which, notwithstanding all his errors, he never 
 could entirely cease to hope. He, accordingly, recog- 
 nized his abashed and trembling son, under all the dis- 
 advantages of his appearance, the first moment of his ,.. 
 arrival; and flew to meet him on the wings of parental | 
 love. 
 
 What a lively portrait is here traced of the benignity 
 and grace of our Father who is in heaven! For, is not 
 he who is the author of all beneficence and compassion _ 
 in the human breast, still more ready than an earthly 1 
 parent, to receive repentant sinners to his mercy, who, 1 
 notwithstanding all their follies, are still his children. 
 He looks with benignity on their first wishes to regain 
 his favour, he assists, by his grace, their first endea- 
 vours to return to their duty — he sees them with com- 
 passion, to pursue the image of the parable, while they 
 are yet a great way off, and hastens to embrace them, ij 
 From afar, from eternity, he prepared for them that 
 astonishing system of grace, which, in the fulness of 
 ages, was displayed in all its glory on the mount of 
 Calvary. He contemplated them with mercy, in Christ 
 
Return of the Prodigal, 119 
 
 Jesus before the foundation of the world. And is it 
 not he, at last who inspires them with the penitent sen- 
 timents of the returning prodigal, and the holy purpo- 
 ses and resolutions of sincere obedience? And have 
 you. not, in these acts of divine beneficence, the strong- 
 est demonstrations of his love, of his readiness to for- 
 give iniquity, transgression, and sin, and to receive the 
 returning prodigal to all the blessings of his heavenly 
 family? Penitent believer! your experience will speak 
 for God, and attest not only the compassion with which 
 he forgives your transgressions, but the grace with 
 which he anticipated your return, and, if I may speak 
 so, kindly urged and attracted you home. Is it to your 
 own wisdom, your own good dispositions, your own 
 just reflections that you ascribe the first movements of 
 repentance? Or was it not God himself, who, by some 
 powerful idea from his holy word, first touched your 
 heart; who. by some aflBicting, but merciful stroke of 
 his providence, first brought you to a pause in the 
 course of your iniquities: who, by some sudden thought, 
 the origin of which you could hardly trace, opened at 
 once upon your view your sins, and the imminent dan- 
 gers of your state, your neglected duties, and your eter- 
 nal interests? Even after you had formed the resolu- 
 tions of returning to your father's house, would you not 
 again, and again have fallen back into the vortex of the 
 worlds temptations, if he had not, by his blessed spirit, 
 assisted your infirmity, and kindled anew the holy pur- 
 poses of your soul? And when you were faithful to the 
 grace received, did not he increase its attractions, its 
 consolations, its holy constraints, till he had banished 
 
ISO Return of' the Prodigal 
 
 the fears of guilt, and perfectly assured your heart he- 
 fore him in peace? Yes, Christian, he sees the penitent 
 and returning prodigal while he is yet a great way off, 
 he meets him with the assurance of his love, he dis- 
 pels his apprehensions, he revives his flagging resolu- 
 tions, and reanimates his hopes when beginning to de- 
 spair; nor leaves him till he brings him home, and 
 makes him taste the ineffable joys of forgiveness and 
 reconciliation with God. 
 
 3. Finally, in this accumulation of tender -images, 
 our blessed Saviour would represent, not only the mer- 
 cy of God, to the returning penitent, but the holy joy 
 with which he embraces, and restores him to his hea- 
 venly family. 
 
 This benevolent father, who is intended to exhibit to 
 us an image of the highest human kindness, no sooner 
 beholds his humble and weeping son, overwhelmed 
 with the sense of his miseries, than h^ orders him to 
 be habited in the best robe; adorns his hands with rings, 
 the symbols of pecuhar favour; crowns his return with 
 feasts, and with every public demonstration of joy; and, 
 unable any longer to restrain his ecstasies on the occa- 
 sion, gives vent to them in the most affecting strains, 
 — My son was dead, and is alive again, was lost, and 
 is found. 
 
 In these figures you behold the sinner, though stain- 
 ed with many pollutions, cleansed in the blood, and 
 clothed in the righteousness of the blessed Redeemer; 
 — ^you behold him raised to the favour and the honours 
 which he had forfeited; you behold the joy that is in 
 
Return of the Prodigal i 2 J 
 
 Heaven over one sinner that repenteth. — Let us review 
 these ideas. 
 
 A sincere penitent, under the deep convictions of 
 his guilt, is ashamed and afraid to appear in the pre- 
 sence of his Creator and his Judge. He trembles, he 
 hesitates to embrace the offers of the free and abun- 
 dant mercy of the gospel. He doubts of the applica- 
 tion of that mercy to his peculiar case; for, in the true 
 spirit of repentance, he esteems himself among the 
 chief of sinners, and hardly dares to raise his hopes to 
 it. A righteousness, which completely fulfils the pre- 
 cept, and magnifies the justice of the divine law, is 
 the only habit of soul, in which he can appear with ac- 
 ceptance in the presence of infinite purity. But when 
 he reviews the past, and reenters into his heart, in 
 which are concealed the polluted springs of his actions, 
 he sees there the profound depths of his iniquities. He 
 perceives innumerable imperfections mingled with his 
 most holy services. In the spirit of the prophet, he 
 confesses that all his righteousnesses are like filthy rags; 
 and his iniquities like the winds have carried him away. 
 He is overwhelmed with confusion, before God most 
 holy, at the nakedness to which his sins have reduced 
 him. But, behold the condescension, the grace, the in- 
 finite love of his heavenly Father! He gives command- 
 ment to clothe him in the best robes. He covers all 
 his imperfections in the merits and righteousness of 
 Jesus Christ, ivho of God is made unto us imdom and 
 righteousness, and sanctification, and complete redemp- 
 tion. He cleanses him from all his impurities, and re- 
 moves the stains of his former crimes in that precious 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
122 Return of the Prodigal. 
 
 blood which was shed for the remission of the sins of the 
 world. In this beautiful imagery, the trembling peni- 
 tent enjoys a new source of consolation and hope, add- 
 ed to a thousand gracious promises inscribed in almost 
 every page of the word of God. 
 
 When this affectionate parent has arrayed his pro- 
 digal in pure garments, his next care is to restore him 
 to the dignity and honours of his family. And, in the 
 merciful constitution of the gospel of our salvation, is 
 not this grace attached to the repentance of sinners 
 that they should be called the sons of God? United to 
 Christ, they become incorporated with him into his 
 heavenly family; and, by virtue of their head, are made 
 heirs of glory and immmortality. Put a ring on his 
 hand, saith the father, the pledge of my love, and of his 
 complete restoration to the privileges and honours of 
 my house. In this precious symbol, what blessings are 
 conferred on the humble, and penitent believer! What 
 glorious reversions are pointed out to him beyond the 
 grave! Such as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor 
 hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. — Oh! 
 heavenly Father! graciously deign to receive the senti- 
 ments of our contrition! and make us, according to 
 thine infinite mercy in Christ Jesus, partakers of the 
 blessings of thy children redeemed from sin, and from 
 everlasting death! 
 
 But that which our blessed Saviour, in the view 
 which I have taken of this parable; may be supposed 
 chiefly to represent by the festivities, and all the de- 
 monstrations of joy with which this good father cele- 
 brates the return of his unhappy son, is the holy joy 
 
Return of the Prodigal. 123 
 
 with which Ahuighty God beholds the repentance of a 
 sinner. Nothing, Indeed, in the Divine mind, can re- 
 semble those transports which an affectionate parent 
 would feel on recovering a beloved and lost child. But 
 our heavenly Father, by employing such tender images, 
 exhibits, in the most lively forms to the human heart, 
 his infinite benignity, and affords the penitent sinner 
 the most affecting encouragement to repose his hope 
 in the promises of his grace. The Lord is merciful 
 and gracious, slow to anger, abundant in goodness and 
 truth, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin. Jis I 
 live, saith the Lord, T delight not in the death of a sin- 
 ner, but rather that he should turn to me and live. His 
 tender mercies are over all his works. And my beloved 
 brethren, do we not behold these most precious truths 
 shining in the whole structure of the universe, and in 
 the whole order of providence, in every part of which 
 infinite goodness presides along with infinite wisdom, 
 and infinite power for the happiness of his creatures. 
 
 But the most transcendent proof of the love of God, 
 and his joy,if I may speak so, at seeing his undutiful chil- 
 dren returning to his family, and to their own happiness, 
 you behold in the life and the death, the incarnation 
 and the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ. What brought 
 the Son of God, who inhabits the praises of eternity, to 
 this abode of frailty and misery.^ What led him to sub- 
 mit to the humiliation, and afflictions of this mortal 
 state.'* Why did he offer himself, for the guilt of hu' 
 man nature, to the stroke of eternal justice? Can in- 
 finite benevolence demonstrate by stronger prpofs, or 
 paint in colours more worthy of Heaven, that love 
 
12 4f Return of the Prodigal, 
 
 which passeth all understanding, that boundless com- 
 passion with which the Redeemer is ready to embrace 
 the repenting sinner, that divine and ineffable joy with 
 which he receives into his bosom the tears of their con- 
 trition, the pledges of their duty? Here, penitent souls! 
 behold your encouragement to flee to the refuge of his 
 mercy, from the denunciations of the law; from the cry 
 of the avenger of blood. Here behold the security with 
 which you may rest on the promises^ and the grace of 
 the gospel. 
 
 If God, who is the fountain of love, rejoices over 
 you; if the Saviour rejoices to see the fruit of his suf- 
 ferings and death, there is joy also in heaven above, and 
 in the church on earth over one sinner that repenteth.— 
 The servants, the whole household, the friends of the 
 happy father are all invited to partake in his happiness, 
 and do not all good men, who are animated with the 
 same spirit which breathed so fervently in their blessed 
 Master; do not the angels, those ministering spirits 
 who a*e sent forth to minister to the heirs of salvation, 
 indulge a holy triumph in seeing continually new ac- 
 cessions to the kingdom of grace, and new heirs to the 
 kingdom of glory? Yes, piety must ever rejoice in be- 
 holding the designs of divine love advancing upon earth; 
 and contemplating the progressive victories of evange- 
 lic truth over the kingdom of error and of darkness. 
 
 Oh! ineffable goodness and condescension of Al- 
 mighty God! His patience is not exhausted, his love is 
 not quenched, even by your iniquities! If pressed then, 
 by the calamities, the shame, the disappointments which 
 your follies liave brought upon you, in that far country 
 
Return of the Prodigal 125 
 
 to which you had impiously fled from his presence; if 
 urged by your convictions, and the reproaches of your 
 own heart, you have been brought to this pious and 
 wholesome resolution, I ivill ansa and go to my father; 
 behold he stands ready to embrace you; he runs to 
 meet you, while you are yet a great way ofl"; he is rea- 
 dy abundantly to supply your wants; he will clothe 
 your nakedness; he will raise you to honour; he will 
 acknowledge you as his son; he will rejoice over you 
 with immortal joy. 
 
 Suffer me now in the conclusion, to call your atten- 
 tion again to the gracious condescension of God our 
 Saviour. What accumulated proofs does he offer, not 
 only in this parable, but throughout the sacred scrip- 
 tures, to reassure and comfort the penitent soul op- 
 pressed with the sense of its guilt! The convinced con- 
 science, under a full discovery of its sins, is prone in 
 the first paroxysms of the humbling conviction, to dis- 
 trust the promises of divine grace as extending to an 
 object so unworthy. It ascribes a peculiar malignity to 
 its sins, as if they transcended the mercy of our hea- 
 venly Father, whose nature is love. The ever blessed 
 Redeemer, therefore, knowing the conscious timidity 
 of guilt, has multiplied the assurances, and examples 
 of his grace, in order to remove, if possible, every doubt 
 which its fears could suggest. Often the alarmed con- 
 science is prone to represent the limited season of the 
 divine mercies as entirely past. Never, penitent 
 soul! while the period of your probation is still prolong- 
 ed, and your heavenly Father is waiting to receive your 
 return; never, while the means of grace are offering 
 
126 Return of the Prodigal 
 
 you their aid, and the calls of the gospel are sounding 
 in your ears. — Never, while the Holy l^pirit is speak- 
 ing to your heart; while he is moving on the face of 
 the waters, to bring to order the chaos of corrupted 
 nature, and to compose your disordered affections. 
 Never, while he is awaking in your souls those desires 
 after salvation which demonstrate that he has not for- 
 saken you; desires, which he alone could create; which 
 he alone can satisfy; and which he thus rouses into 
 these holy actings, only that he may most abundantly 
 satisfy. 
 
 Fulfdl, 0, heavenly Father! our humble and fervent 
 desires! and receive to the arms of thy mercy, thy return- 
 ing prodigals! Amen! 
 
 I 
 
ON SWEARING IN COMMON CONVERSATION. 
 
 Above all things, my brethren, swear not. — James, V. 12. 
 
 An oath for confirmation is the end of all strife. And 
 in the administration of civil justice, the laws are often 
 obliged to appeal to that reverence of the Supreme Be- 
 ing, vs^hich nature has impressed upon the hearts of 
 men, to strengthen their natural respect for truth in 
 rendering testimony. This immediate appeal to Al- 
 mighty God, on proper occasions, so far from being re- 
 fused by religion, is sanctioned by its highest authority. 
 The only restriction v^hich it imposes is, that, in as- 
 suming an oath, thou shall not take the name of the 
 Lord thy God in vain. The indiscriminate and irre- 
 verent use of oaths had infected, in a high degree, the 
 common discourse of the pagan nations in the age of 
 the apostle. This profane abuse, on trivial occasions, 
 of names that were held sacred, is proscribed, in the 
 text with positive authority, and with a holy and indig- 
 nant zeal. The apostle would preserve the awful name 
 of the eternal, with the most sacred reverence only for 
 his solemn worship, or for the most important purposes 
 of society. In the same spirit does religion reprehend 
 all customary swearing, and inconsiderate imprecations 
 in the common intercourse of mankind with one ano- 
 
128 On Swearing. 
 
 ther. No vice admits of less palliation^ and none per- 
 haps, has become more audacious and unblushing in 
 f its exercise. Unhappily we see it, not confined to the 
 classes of ignorance and debauchery, it has become the 
 disgrace of those who boast a better education and 
 hold a higher rank in society. It seeks not conceal- 
 ment, as other vices do, nor does it attempt to bury its 
 shame in the shades of night; but is spreading a bane- 
 ful infection through our social manners, in which no 
 language should be heard that is not delicate and chaste, 
 and conformed to the rules of piety and virtue. It 
 would seem indeed, as if the peculiar sanctity of our 
 religion, by imparting more grand and awful concep- 
 tions of the Divine Nature, had only rendered unworthy 
 christians capable of a more frightful impiety. 
 
 To demonstrate the sinfulness of common and pro- 
 fane swearing, — its unreasonableness, — and its inu- 
 tility to those ends which men think to serve by it, is 
 the object of the present discourse. 
 
 1. The sinfulness of this practice, under which I in- 
 clude all oaths, execrations, and profane exclamations 
 in common discourse, all those light and frivolous in- 
 vocations of sacred names, so often uttered through 
 habit, or employed to give vent to the ebullitions of 
 passion, or of any sudden and silly surprise, will be 
 manifest on considering, for a moment, the disrespect 
 which it offers to God our maker — the evil which it 
 causes to men themselves — and the injury which results 
 from it to the best interests of society. 
 
 Above all things, saith the apostle, swear not; placing 
 this vice in the highest grade of crimes against the 
 
On Swearing. 129 
 
 purity of social intercourse, and that sacred reverence 
 which creatures owe to the supreme Creator. ^^ hat, 
 indeed, can strike the ear of piety with greater horror 
 than a light irreverent invocation of the name of Al- 
 mighty God, — of him who hath made the heavens and 
 all the Jwst of them by the breath of his month; at whose 
 look'the earth trembles, and the foundations of the ever- 
 lasting hills are moved? The law of Moses,^ which is 
 no other than the law of God, surrounds and guards this 
 holy name with the most profound veneration and awe. 
 The Jewish nation called it the unutterable name; and 
 never dared to pronounce it, but in the most serious 
 form, and on the most solemn occasions. To the praise 
 of some of the greatest men who have ever adorned 
 the annals of piety, or science, it is recorded, that they 
 never spoke of God, without preceding that holy name 
 by a serious pause, accompanied with a secret act of 
 mental adoration.* But why speak we of men ? The 
 angels of heaven are represented as veiling themselves 
 in deepest humility before the eternal, unable steadfast- 
 ly to look towards the throne of his holiness. Listen to 
 the noble rhapsody of the prophet Isaiah; — I beheld the 
 Lord upon a throne high and lifted up, and his train 
 filled the temple. Before him stood the Seraphim. Each 
 one had six icings — with twain he covered his face— 
 
 * This sacred revercuce for tlie name of God, is so conformable to every 
 pilnciple of reason, thai in the moral writings of heathen sages, «c fiud it 
 enjoined, as well as in the oracles of our holy religion. "The i ame of 
 the Divine Being," says Plato, " ought never to be employed on light and 
 trivial occasions." And another Greek moralist adds that the true way to 
 preserve that veneration which ought ever to be paid to the Divine Na- 
 ture, is to abstain from every irreverent use of his name. 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
130 On Swearing. 
 
 with twain he covered his feet — and with twain he did 
 fly. And one cried to another, and said, holy! holy! 
 holy! is the Lord of hosts! the ivhole earth is full of his 
 glory! And, is it for worms of the dust, whose breath 
 is in their nostrils, to insult that Being of Beings, who 
 made them by his power, who can consume them with 
 the breath of his mouth; but who still spares them in the 
 midst of dieir crimes, only to afford them the oppor- 
 tunity and the means of repentance. Is it for misera- 
 ble mortals, in their mirth, or in their cups, irreverently 
 to toss that holy and venerable name from their impure 
 mouths, and to make it the vehicle of their wrath, or 
 their sport? Oh impiety! oh blasphemy! — How are the 
 ears of piety wounded! how is reason revolted! It is a 
 crime, it would appear, without motive, without temp- 
 tation, without excuse; committed in the mere wanton- 
 ness of impiety. 
 
 Do men ever treat the respected characters of those 
 whom they revere or love, with the same indecent li- 
 cense? Would it not be deemed the last outrage of a 
 disciple on his master, of a dependent on his benefac- 
 tor, of a child on his parent, of a profligate wretch on a 
 man of worth? In what light then ought we to regard 
 it in a worm of dust towards the Lord of nature, our 
 Creator and our Saviour? God! how long will thy 
 forbearance spare the follies of impious mortals! Above 
 all, when they deal their execrations on their fellow 
 worms, or imprecate thy vengeance on their own heads; 
 holy and righteous God! will the thunders of thy jus- 
 tice forever sleep! Ah! profane sinner! if God should 
 blast thee in his wrath while thy mouth is filled with 
 
On Sweming. 131 
 
 cursing and bitterness, would not thy conscience, in 
 perishing, justify the rig;our of his judgment? Is God 
 eternal andmost holy; is Christ Redeemer of the world, 
 a name to be thrown from impious lips in anger, or li- 
 centious sports; with which to vent your ruffian rage, 
 or assist your buffoonery; to express your chagrin in an 
 unfortunate game, to dash with youi* drunken cups, or 
 to aid you in dragging to dishonour and ruin the delud- 
 ed^ictim of perfidious vows? Is it a name with which 
 to season impure discourse, to help out a miserable 
 jest among fools, who mistake profanity for wit, to stop 
 the gaps of conversation, and supply a wretched va- 
 cuity of head? A pious mind shudders at such pro- 
 fanation. Do you ask, then, if the same reproach is 
 to be passed on those inferior forms of swearing 
 which persons of vulgar taste are prone to blend 
 with their discourse, by certain saints, or heathen dei- 
 ties, and a hundred other silly, and unmeaning names? 
 If they do not strike the ear with equal horror, they 
 surely are not less worthy the deepest reproach Every 
 departure from the plain and dignified language of truth 
 proceeds from some wrong principle. Thou shall not 
 swear by heaven, nor by the earth, nor by any other oath, \ 
 When oaths and profanity form the common style of ^ \ 
 conversation, they detract from the respectability of 
 any character. They even tend to impair that confi- 
 dence in a man's veracity which a decent and well re- 
 gulated conversation, always weighed in the balances 
 of reason and virtue will naturally create. Assimilated 
 in his language to the lowest characters in society, we 
 are ready to ascribe to him the same grossness of mind, 
 and the same defect of virtuous sentiment, however it 
 
13:2 On Stvearing. 
 
 may, in some*instances, be more decently varnished by 
 the forms of civility. 
 •N. Saint Chrysostom, in a still warmer strain of indig- 
 nation, charges the habit with the foul stain of perjury. 
 He, says that holy and eloquent orator, tvho habitually 
 -swears in his discourse, both intentionally and inadver- 
 tently; on subjects on which he is ignorant, no less than 
 on those ivithin his knowledge, in jest, as well as in 
 earnest; just as he happens to be impelled, must fre- 
 quently be liable to the charge of perjury. What, in- 
 deed, is this obvious crime, but invoking Almighty God, 
 as the witness perhaps of a falsehood; of a threat that 
 will never be executed, of a promise that will never be 
 performed, of a fact that does not exist; or which in 
 the law of morality, is the same in its effect, of which 
 we have no certain ground of belief? Ah! how many 
 rash assertions must they, who indulge in this perni- 
 cious habit, unguardedly utter; attesting, at the same 
 time, the holy name of God, and imprecating on their 
 own falsehood his terrible damnation? Forgive me, 
 christians! this harsh language, which they so freely 
 employ against themselves to their great reproach an 
 the injury of their own souls. 
 
 Blasphemers of the name of your God! give to these 
 reflections your most serious attention. Ah! what is 
 it thoughtlessly, or falsely to obtest the living and eter- 
 nal God, the Creator of heaven and earth? What is 
 it to defy omnipotence, or, in the madness of our folly 
 to imprecate, upon our own souls, his curse, whose 
 wrath burns to the lowest Hell? 
 
 This vice merits, in the next place, the most pointed 
 
 i 
 
On Sifjearins:. 13S 
 
 "& 
 
 reprobation, for the injury it creates to the civil inte- 
 rests of mankind. He who weakens the rehgion and 
 sanctity of all oath, loosens the strongest bonds of our 
 political associations. The fear of God is the most 
 powerful principle of justice in the human breast; and 
 an appeal to God as the witness and judge of our sin- 
 cerity, is the surest pledge of truth to society. JV'o obli- 
 gation, says the great Roman orator, is more effectual 
 to secure the Jidelity of mankind than an oath. But 
 Cicero made this declaration when the simplicity of 
 Roman manners was not yet entirely corrupted. For, 
 afterwards, in the extreme degeneracy of the empire, 
 the Romans became liable to the same reproach which 
 a great historian has made to the Greeks, in conse- 
 quence of the introduction of an universal luxury of 
 manners, and the prevalence of an Atheistical philo- 
 sophy; that they could not he hound hy any oaths, or 
 pledges of their tnUh. And surely a customary pro- 
 fanation of the divine names and attributes, is the most 
 direct way to obliterate the fear of God from the minds 
 of those whose tongues, or whose ears have become 
 familiar with this unhallowed language. 
 
 I will not assert that every person who disgraces his 
 conversation by a thoughtless profanity, will not fear a 
 false oath when solemnly called to recollect himself, 
 and the presence of his Cieator, before a tribunal of 
 justice: but surely no habit more obviously tends to 
 this unhappy consequence, so dangerous to the interests 
 of our social union. Above all, when ignorance is 
 led by your example, lightly to pronounce, and violate 
 the most awful oaths, the most deteriorating eifects are 
 
134 On Siuearing.' 
 
 justly to be apprehended to our civil institution, to fol- 
 low in rapid succession. 
 
 II. After exhibiting the enormity of this vice, as in- 
 volving a direct offence against the duty of a creature 
 to his Creator, it might seem superfluous or improper 
 to argue against it on the ground of its indecency, were 
 it not that many men are still governed by certain sen- 
 timents of propriety, long after they have lost their re- 
 verence for religion. And may I not ask if this vice 
 is not a gross violation of that amiable and benevolent 
 character which every christian sh(*uld be peculiarly 
 solicitous to preserve, of a delicate attention to the feel- 
 ings of others, and endeavour to place them at ease, 
 and render them satisfied with themselves and with us? 
 Whatsoever things are lovely, saith the great apestle, 
 if there be any virtue, if there be any praise, think of 
 these things. It would be giving a darker picture of 
 the public manners, than, I presume, they yet deserve, 
 if we should not suppose that few companies can be 
 assembled, in which there are not some persons, and 
 those probably of the best taste, and of the most amia- 
 ble or respectable characters whom it deeply wounds 
 to hear the adorable names of their Creator, and Re- 
 deemer treated with a rude impiety. How unworthy, 
 I do not say, of a pious man, but of a man of cultivated 
 manners, to pay no regard to sentiments so worthy, to 
 feehngs so just and noble! If the modesty of these good 
 men, or their love of peace prevent them from expres- 
 sing the just indignation with which they are wanued 
 at the dishonour done to religion; if their meek piety 
 leads them to pray for the offender rather than re- 
 
On Swearing. 135 
 
 proach him, the insult upon their feehngs is the more 
 inexcusable. Nor is it much palhated by that absurd 
 preference of politeness to religion, which sometimes 
 leads a man to ask pardon of a grave and reverend 
 person who may happen to be present, for a profane 
 expression, which has escaped him, while, at the same • 
 time, he treats with open disrespect the awful pre- 
 sence of Almighty God. 
 
 Genuine good breeding, besides its delicate atten- 
 tions to the sensibilities of others, ever connects with 
 them a certain refinement in our mental tastes. This 
 forms, indeed, the principal distinction between barba- 
 rian and civilized society. And the most polished class- 
 es of the latter, always study to exhibit in their conver- 
 sation a picture of the elegance and cultivation of their 
 minds. But is any rational train of thought expressed by 
 profanity.'^ Does it contain any indication of true re- 
 finement? On the contrary, is it not a proof of vulgar 
 manners and a gross taste? It sinks conversation to 
 the coarse level of the streets. It is accordindv, in 
 Europe, almost wholly excluded from the intercourse 
 of the higher ranks of life, as a disgraceful symptom 
 of vulgar education. Ifj unhappily, delicacy has been 
 less observed in our own country, it is only because, 
 among us the highest improvements in society have not 
 been generally aimed at. Hardly have any other distinc- 
 tions been established but such as the possession and 
 pursuits of money create. Adventurers in a new world, 
 having too often acquired sudden wealth, have not been 
 able, in a more elevated station, to lay aside the rude- 
 ness of their first habits. And if children's children. 
 
136 On Sivearing. 
 
 inheriting a fortune accumulated by their grandsires, 
 have forgotten whence they were sprung, yet tiiis re- 
 maining vestige of uncultivated manners, and defect 
 of moral education, might make them look back with 
 shame, to the recent vulgarity of their original, and 
 lead them to hasten to extinguish the remembrance of 
 it, by a more pure, and chaste conversation. 
 
 III. Let us consider, in the next place, what apo- 
 logies, or what excuses men, in their folly, have been 
 prone to plead for this outrage upon religion, and on 
 decent morals. Seldom^ indeed, do they ever attempt 
 its justification. They only seek to find palliations of 
 its grossness or impiety. It is committed, they say, 
 without thought, — it is not accompanied with any in- 
 tentional disrespect to religion, — it is an effect merely 
 of momentary passion, or of wine. 
 
 Without thought! what folly! nay, what depravity of 
 heart! in which crimes of this dark colouring can excite 
 no reflection! Do you pretend that it is not accompanied 
 with intentional impiety.? May not this absurd apolo- 
 gy be equally pleaded for every s\u? The immediate 
 aim of vice, is not to offend Almighty God; it is to gra- 
 tify ourselves: but this gratification, the sinner pursues 
 in contempt of his laws, and in violation of the duty of 
 a creature to his Creator. It is his crime, that God is 
 not in all his thoughts. And of this sin it is the pecu- 
 liar aggravation, that it tends more directly than any 
 other, in its very commission, to recal the divine pre- 
 sence to his mind, which he forgets, despises, or in- 
 sults. If you excuse it as the effect of passion, which 
 you cannot repress, or of wine which inflames the 
 
On Swearing. 137 
 
 brain. What crime may you not justify on similar 
 grounds? Is not wine the parent of lust and of quar- 
 rels? Are not robbery, violence, murder, the fruits of 
 intemperate passion? 
 
 Would you accept the same apology from your ser- 
 vants, from your dependent, from your child? Ah! it is 
 only adding crime to crime; and while you think you 
 excuse, you are only aggravating the offence. 
 
 I request your attention, christians! in the last place, 
 to the folly of this vice, which appears in its utter inu- 
 tility even to those foohsh ends which men usually hope 
 to gain by it: for, most assuredly, it can never increase 
 our favourable opinion of the veracity, the wit, or the 
 courage of the common swearer. 
 
 Weak, indeed, must he be who hopes to strengthen 
 his credibility by oaths and cursings. If his upright 
 character do not give weight to his assertions, they can 
 derive none from his impiety. What barriers of truth 
 and virtue are able to restrain that man from pursuing 
 any end to which his passions impel him, whose pious 
 principles are not sufficient to preserve him from in- 
 sulting the Most High God, by profaneness and blas- 
 phemy? A very coarse but common proverb, with 
 which every hearer is acquainted, demonstrates the ge- 
 neral impression on the minds of men to be, that habi- 
 tual profaneness is usually accompanied with a very 
 doubtful veracity. And that poet drew his observation 
 from human nature, who, to caution innocence against 
 the arts of a seducer, has said; — " but if he swear, nay 
 then, hell certainly deceive you.'' 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
138 On Swearing. 
 
 Does not that man offer the greatest affront to his 
 own truth and honour who confesses, by this practice, 
 that they stand in need of this equivocal support? 
 
 Some men have unhappily adopted a false and per- 
 nicious notion that profaneness serves to increase the 
 zest of their wit. A repartee, they think, has some- 
 thing more smart; a story has a more hvely air, that is 
 seasoned by an oath. And the impious strain of dia- 
 logue kept up in a multitude of miserable farces, exhi- 
 bited ill our theatres to attract the populace, has 
 strengthened this mistaken notion in those young men 
 who have little education besides what they derive from 
 these schools; and few principles of taste, or morals, 
 except such as are borrowed from a misconducted 
 drama. It is a poor and low conception of wit, to ima- 
 gine that it is in any way alHed to irreligion. There 
 may be ribaldry, there may be buffoonery, there may 
 be an odd assemblage of profane expressions to make 
 the vulgar laugh, but there cannot be wit. I deny not 
 that there have been profligate and profane men who 
 have been witty: but it was not the profanity of their 
 discourse that constituted its wit. — Yet, this unfortunate 
 association, which sometimes takes place, has misled 
 many a vain youth, who has been ambitious to imitate 
 the vivacity of their genius, but has caught only their 
 irreligion. Much to be pitied, if not contemned, are 
 those young men, who imagine that impiety is any in- 
 dication of talents, or that its language can add any 
 ornament to discourse. It is, on the other hand, an 
 almost infaUible criterion of shallowness of thought, 
 
On Su'caring. 139 
 
 and of circumscribed ideas. It is a vulgar and impov- 
 erished substitute for wit. 
 
 The last and almost the silliest error in judgment 
 on this subject, is seen in those young men who affect 
 a profanity of lansjuage, in order to impress the world 
 with a wonderful opinion of their courage, by seem- 
 ing to have risen fairly above the fear of God. True 
 courage is a calm, and firui, and dignified principle. A 
 profane may be a brave man; but the blusterings and 
 ravings of impiety are very equivocal symptoms of real 
 magnanimity; and, more frequently, they are mere arts 
 to supply the want of it. it is not uncommon, and if 
 the scene were not too gross, we might be amused, to 
 see two vile and pusillanimous wretches, trying to fiigh- 
 ten one another, or to lash up their own spirits to a 
 little effort by horrible blasphemies. But, alas! they 
 inspire no person with any belief of their bravery, un- 
 less it be the impious audacity of braving the terrors 
 of Almighty God, only while they vainly suppose them 
 at a safe distance. For, ah! when he shall appear to 
 avenge his violated law% and vindicate the insulted 
 glory of his name, what aff'right, what horrible dismay 
 shall seize upon these false bravoes! Whither then 
 shall be fled all their impious courage, when they be- 
 hold that God arrayed for judgment whom they had 
 so often defied.'' when they see the flames of that dam- 
 nation kindled, which they had so often imprecated on 
 their own heads.'^ Jehovah! it is because thou art God 
 and not man, that thou dost not smite them on the in- 
 stant, and sink them down to perdition with the 
 streams of their blasphemy issuing from their lips! 
 
140 # On Swearing 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, let me present to 
 youinasingle view the united prospect of the evils which 
 we have seen associated with this reproachful vice It 
 displays a high insult on the glory and perfection of Al- 
 mighty God — it brings dishonour, added to the guilt of 
 perjury on the soul — it is an outrage upon good man- 
 ners, and deeply injures the best interests of society — 
 it is equally without reason and without excuse — and, 
 finally, it accomplishes not one of the ends which a pro- 
 fane man thinks to serve by it, either to raise the repu- 
 tation of his veracity, his wit, or his courage. In one 
 word, it appears, in every view which we can take of 
 it, to be a melancholy dereliction of virtue and decency, 
 equally unprofitable, shameful and sinful. 
 
 Therefore, christian brethren ! Swear not at all, nei' 
 ther by heaven, nor by the earth, nor by any otlier oath; 
 but let your communication be yea, yea, nay nay, in the 
 simplest forms of affirmation and denial; /or whatso- 
 ever is more than these cometh of evil Amen! 
 
TO A GOOD MAN, 
 
 THE DAT OF DEATH 
 
 PREFERABLE TO THE DAY OF HIS BIRTH. 
 
 Preached at tJie funeral of a pious friend. December 
 I8th, 1803. 
 
 And the day of death, than the day of one's birth. Eccles. VII. 1. 
 
 The maxims of wisdom, to the men of the world, 
 often wear the appearance of paradox; for they res- 
 pect enjoyments for which the worldly mind has no 
 relish; or bear a reference to a state of being of which 
 our present experience furnishes no adequate images. 
 They draw the piincipal motives of action from an in- 
 visible world; and often they recommend the discipline 
 of affliction and sorrow to men who seek to spend life 
 only in a continued succession of varied pleasure and 
 joy. — " It is better/^ says the wisest of preachers, " to go 
 to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting.'^ 
 And, not less strange and contrary to our first impres- 
 sions, is the maxim of our text, that the day of death 
 is better than the day of one^s birth. The whole pro- 
 verb, to which he appeals, is, a good name is better 
 than precious ointment; and tJw day of death, than the 
 day of one's birth. Taking these two maxims together 
 in the connexion in which they are here placed, the 
 sacred writer seems, by the first, to intend, not merely, 
 to lay down a general proposition; that a good name is 
 
142 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 to be preferred to the richest perf'ames — that a virtu- 
 ous fame, and the honest reputation of piety, are more 
 to be desired than all the ostentatious displays, and vo- 
 luptuous indulgences of luxury. But the whole has 
 an evident allusion to the elegance and magnificence of 
 eastern funerals; on which occasions the wealthy em- 
 balmed the bodies of their friends with the most costly 
 spices, and washed them in the richest, and most fra- 
 grant oils. The import of this proverb, then, may be 
 expressed in the following proposition; that the reputa- 
 tion of piety and virtue, which the excellent of the earth 
 carry with them to the tomb, is infinitely to be prefer- 
 red to all the costly honours which can be paid to their 
 remains. Much dearer to the heart is the tender re- 
 membrance of departed goodness, than the ostentatious 
 pomp of funerals, or the invidious magnificence of 
 tombs; the tears which embalm the memory of those 
 who have rendered themselves beloved by their virtues, 
 than the perfumes which wealth, or vanity profusely 
 scatters on their dust. 
 
 But the proposition which immediately follows: bet- 
 ter is the day of death than the day of one's birth, bears, 
 in the estimation of the world, much more the air of 
 paradox. What, it uiay be asked, does not man at his 
 birth, open his eyes on the sweet light of life; and be- 
 gin to taste the charming consciousness of existence? 
 Does he not enter on a multiphed and varied scene of 
 enjoyment, both sensible, rational, and social.'^ Does 
 not death, on the contrary, present to the imagination, 
 ideas the most formidable to human nature? — It is un- 
 doubtedly, an awful event to those who know no high- 
 
Funeral Sermon. 143 
 
 er good than the hidulgence of their appetites, than the 
 pursuit of their passions, and the gratification of their 
 pleasures, and whose troubled and boding consciences 
 cannot look through the shadows of the grave, with 
 calm and pious hope, into the eternal world The pro- 
 position in the text, therefore, cannot be regarded as 
 an universal maxim. It is applicable to those alone, 
 to whom faith and piety have prepared in heaven a 
 blessed retreat from all the troubles, and sorrows with 
 which sin has poisoned our residence upon earth, and 
 which frequently fall with peculiar severity upon the 
 lot of the pious. — If there were no happier condition 
 of being reserved for virtue beyond this life, how many 
 of the most estimable of mankind might pronounce 
 that the evils of existence have far overballanced its 
 enjoyments? How often might the children of misfor- 
 tune exclaim, — Why, merciful God, Creator! have 
 we been brought into being only to pass our transient 
 moments in suffering, and then drop again forever into 
 the gulf of annihilation.'' We begin our course in pain; 
 and, as we advance in the road of fife, we measure its 
 stages only by the succession of our griefs. Continual- 
 ly we find one hope, and one project blasted after an- 
 other. We incessantly renew them only to be blasted 
 again. The moments of happiness which now and 
 then we are permitted to enjoy, but prepare for us, by 
 their disappointment, an increase of sorrow. — Have 
 you united your heart to a friend who is worthy of your 
 confidence.^ It is, perhaps, only to suffer in his suffer- 
 ings, and then, in the bitterness of your soul, to part 
 with him forever. Are you blest in the smiles and 
 
144 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 protection of an affectionate parent? With what an^ 
 guish are you shortly to be robbed of that protection, 
 and to see those smiles extinguished in death! Do you 
 find the enjoyment of yourself doubled in the caresses 
 of a lovely infant? And does not the same moment 
 create in your bosom ten thousand anxious apprehen- 
 sions, for its safety, its virtue, and its happiness? With 
 what painful solicitudes do you follow it often till the 
 close of life? And, at the length, what expressible pangs 
 are prepared for your heart, whether God shall call 
 you to leave it, deprived of your protection, to the dis- 
 tressing uncertainties of the world, or to follow it your- 
 self to the dark forgetfulness of the tomb? Have you 
 chosen one to whom you have imparted your soul, who 
 is dearer than father, mother, friend or child; who mul- 
 tiplies, by partaking all your joys, by reciprocating all 
 your most tender sentiments; and is still more endear- 
 ed by sharing and soothing all your griefs? Ah! what 
 distractions await your final separation! What discon- 
 solate hours remain for you, when the tomb has swal- 
 lowed up your richest moral treasure, your joy, your 
 hope! 
 
 Review the pains, the diseases, the wants, the lan- 
 guors, the despondencies, the envies, the rivalships, the 
 animosities, the slanders, the injuries, the eternal agi- 
 tations with which life is filled, and say, if the world 
 considered only, in itself, and separated from the hope 
 of a future, and better existence, would be a desirable 
 abode?— Who would be wilhng to take fife again, just 
 on the same terms on which he has already enjoyed it, 
 with the certainty of running the same round of errors. 
 
Funeral Sermon. 145 
 
 t)f follies, and disquietudes, and of meeting again in it 
 the same chagrins, sorrows and afflictions, if these were 
 to terminate all its hopes? — Life, then, derives its princi- 
 pal value; often, indeed, it is rendered tolerable, only 
 from the hopes which religion affords the believer of 
 a blessed immortality, to which death opens the ob- 
 scure but interesting passage. Here we discern the 
 true or the supreme reason, of the preference given by 
 the sacred writer, of the day of death, over the day of 
 one's birth. The afflictions of the world render that 
 day desirable to a good man when he shall forever rest 
 from all the troubles of this vain life. The hope of 
 heaven crowns with joy that moment when he shall 
 exchange them for everlasting peace and happiness. 
 
 Let us, then, in this view, institute a brief compari- 
 son between the present life, and the future, and bliss- 
 ful state of the pious, which will serve, still farther, to 
 illustrate and verify the maxim in the text. 
 
 At our birth, we enter upon existence; but, at the 
 same time, we enter upon sorrow; we are introduced, 
 indeed, to many sources of enjoyment, but they are 
 spoiled by our imprudence, and our passions. We have 
 received, from our Creator, the faculties of reason 
 which greatly ennoble us above all the other inhabi- 
 tants of the earth; but still that reason is limited, and 
 afflicted by innumerable errors and doubts. The so- 
 cial sympathies which unite us to our family, our friends, 
 and to human nature, are the sources of many exqui- 
 site enjoyments, but they are the sources likewise of 
 the most poignant afflictions. — But life is finally the 
 theatre of sin and human imperfection; of all tliose 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
146 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 mok-al evils of the heart, most grievous and oppressive 
 to the dehcate, and pious conscience. In ail these 
 points, to a sincere christian, the day of death has an 
 unspeakable advantage in the comparison, over that of 
 our entrance into life. 
 
 For then the pains, the infirmities, the diseases, and 
 all the innumerable evils which cursed the fall of man, 
 which poison the pleasures of existence, and often ren- 
 der insensibility desirable, are buried, with these re- 
 mains of corruption, in the grave. The soul, which 
 now paitakes of the disorders of this frail body, to 
 which it is so closely allied, being freed from the mass 
 of infirmities which oppress it, shall be elevated to a 
 state in which it will flourish in perpetual health and 
 vigour. Its powers of enjoyment, its capacities of hap- 
 piness, its active energies, will be inconceivably en- 
 larged. 
 
 What its state will be till the general resurrection 
 of the just, we have few lights afforded us to judge. 
 Only, it will not yet have attained the consummation 
 of its happiness. That interval, nevertheless, is but a 
 moment. Duration is not measured in eternity as it 
 is among men on earth. One day is, mith the Lord, 
 as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. 
 Before Jehovah, the infinitude of space is as a single 
 point, the infinitude of years as a single instant. The 
 grave is a bed in which we lie down for a short repose; 
 but the mohient of sleep touches on the moment of 
 waking, the moment of dissolution on that of our resus- 
 citation, when this corniptible shall Iiave put on incor- 
 rujptioni o,nd this mortal shall have put on immortality. 
 
 1 
 
Funeral Sermon. H7 
 
 And all the redeemed shall rise, and sing; O grave f 
 wheie is thy victory? 
 
 2. Havins; spoken of the multiplied evils of life, I 
 must beg permission to add that its calamities are aug- 
 mented by its very pleasures, which are often spoiled 
 by our imprudence, and our passions. For men are 
 prone to pursue them to cloying, when they always end 
 in disgust. They set an undue value upon them, and 
 then are rendered unhappy by the disappointments cre- 
 ated by their own errors. Pursuit fatigues; possession 
 begets indifference. We are continually flying from 
 flower to flower, rifling their sweets; and then dissa- 
 tisfied because they have faded. We endeavour, by 
 an eternal succession of objects, to perpetuate enjoy- 
 ments which are incessantly escaping. But alas! how 
 often is imprudent pleasure, when it seems to be sur- 
 rounded only by light gayeties, void of care; by charm- 
 ing dissipations; by the delirium of joy, treacherously 
 digging beneath our unsuspecting feet, the most terri- 
 ble pit-falls! I would not, by these reflections, be un- 
 derstood to undervalue the blessings of divine provi- 
 dence. Every creature of God is good: but, for want 
 of wisdom, of moderation, and prudence, in the enjoy- 
 ment of them, they are often converted into real sour- 
 ces of misery. 
 
 Such is the condition of human nature in the pre- 
 sent world. What the state of the soul will be, when 
 released from the incumbrance of this body of sin and 
 death, has been marked in the sacred oracles, with 
 small precision to our indistinct conceptions. Only the 
 powers of enjoyment of the glorified mind, become vi- 
 
148 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 gorous, and susceptible, of a sublime felicity, which 
 far transcends the impotent capacity of language to ex- 
 press, or the impotent talents of imagination to con- 
 ceive. Not depending: on these gross material senso- 
 ries, which wear themselves out by their own action, 
 and exhaust themselves by indulgence, they will be 
 able to bear an eternal action without fatigue, they ac- 
 quire strength by enjoyment; every new pleasure only 
 imparts the augmented and undecaying faculty of en- 
 joying more. The pleasures of piety and virtue, of rea- 
 son and devout affection to the supreme author, and 
 sum of universal being, which reigns in heaven, 
 have this quality, that they never can cloy. Pure, and 
 sublime, they are always serene. Without the tumult, 
 and the delirium which always attend the high plea- 
 sures of sense, they never fatigue. Every enjoyment 
 awakens new desires, and every desire gratified aug- 
 ments the power of enjoyment. As the rays of the sun 
 penetrate and illuminate the whole substance of the 
 diamond, so the sun of righteousness, the source of su- 
 preme felicity to the holy soul, penetrates with immor- 
 tal light and joy all its essence. It is full of God. Oh! 
 Infinite mind! Immaculate fountain of happiness, 
 whose nature is love! What unknown felicities dwell 
 in thy presence! What ineffable joys flow along with 
 the emanations of thy glory, to the spirits of the re- 
 deemed in heaven! 
 
 Is then the grave, my Christian friends, the only 
 gate to these celestial habitations.^ And is it not want 
 of faith in the promises, and the glory of the Redeem- 
 er, unworthy of his disciples, that can allow us to say 
 
Funeral Sermon. 149 
 
 that the day of death is not greatly to be preferred, when 
 we judge of it by the hghts of rehgion, to that day which 
 only ushers us into this region of imperfection and sin; 
 of so many false pleasures and so many real pains? 
 
 3. We may otherwise veiify the maxim of the sa- 
 cred writer on the grounds of our intellectual powers. 
 They afford us, without doubt, many advantages which 
 elevate human nature far above all the other inhabi- 
 tants of the earth. Yet is the sphere of their operation, 
 at present, confined within a range that is extremely 
 limited. They can penetrate but a little way into that 
 dark abyss which surrounds us on every side. We dis- 
 cern, only now and then, some taint openings into the 
 book of knowledge; but immediately it is shut. We 
 perceive some feeble rays of light from the eternal 
 world, but instantly, they are extinguished, leaving us 
 to painful conjecture, and to anxious doubt; inflamed 
 with the desire of knowing, and incessantly mocked 
 with disappointment. How confined is our knowledge 
 of ourselves, of our Creator, of the boundless works of 
 nature, of our present, or our future being! Nature is 
 so fine in her elements, so complicated in her structure, 
 so vast in her extent, that the few discoveries which 
 we are capable of making, serve only to awaken a cu- 
 riosity which can never be gratified. The soul, the 
 body, their mutual actions and relations contain mys- 
 teries which the wisest men have, for ages, endeavour- 
 ed to resolve. Reason has studied to know what God 
 is; piety has sought to approach him; but clouds and 
 darkness envelop the view. Still he is a God who 
 hideth himself ixom our most eager inquiries, who with- 
 
150 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 draweth himself from our most ardent endeavour to 
 embrace him. And when we attempt to penetrate the 
 mysteries of eternity, on them rest the profound sha- 
 dows of the grave. But, when the soul shall have laid 
 aside this feeble apparatus of sense, which some- 
 times aids, but often misleads our inquiries; and when 
 we shall have emerged from this dark and narrow 
 sphere, from its painful doubts, its imperfect views, its 
 innumerable errors, into the glorious lights of an im- 
 mortal day, then shall ive know, in the language of the 
 apostle, even as also we are known. 
 
 The cultivation of knowledge is among the noblest 
 employments of the reasonable soul; and, an eternal 
 progression in its development, will be, in heaven, 
 among the sublimest sources of its felicity. What ex- 
 alted faculties shall there be added to the glorified soul, 
 what divine illumination shall shine upon it, no mortal 
 language can depict to the human imagination. An 
 infinite field shall be laid open to its insatiable thirst of 
 information; a field so boundless that although the mind 
 should comprehend every subject to which it applied 
 its thought with the rapidity of intuition, eternity would 
 not be sufficient to survey them all. Say then you who 
 are ambitious of knowledge, w^ho have tasted the plea- 
 sures of that small portion of it which is permitted to 
 man upon earth, how rich and glorious are the pros- 
 pects which religion opens to your hopes, in the career 
 of your future existence.^ They add the highest con- 
 solations to the death of the righteous. For \ihere ive 
 see through a glass darkly, ive shall there behold face 
 
Funeral Sermmi. 151 
 
 to face the glory of God, and the splendors of the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 4. Suffer me, christians, to add as a strong corrobo- 
 ration of the pious and happy truth which 1 am iUus- 
 trating, that the social sympathies and affections of 
 our nature, which, on earth create so many pains as 
 well as pleasures, prepare for the pious soul in heaven, 
 only the most pure and elevated enjoyments. Sweet is 
 the society of friends, whose souls are congenial, whose 
 sensibilities are at once warm and virtuous, whose 
 minds are enlightened, who mutually share each others 
 thoughts, sentiments, wishes, and their whole bosoms, 
 without suspicion, misapprehension, or doubt. But, alas! 
 the imperfection of human nature vi^ill never permit 
 them to be completely happy in this preliminary resi- 
 dence. Their intercourse is embarrassed with so many 
 cautions; so many contrary interests, real or imagina- 
 ry, divide them, as leave only faint ideas of what might 
 be enjoyed by a perfect nature not more exalted than 
 that of man. If such is the case of even the purest 
 and noblest unions among men, what alas! is the ordi- 
 nary intercourse of the world .^ When you suffer your 
 view to fix on its coldness, its selfishness, its jealousies, 
 its rivalships, its slanders, its envies, the collisions of 
 its interfering claims; when you consider the imperti- 
 nences in which conversation is wasted, the follies 
 which you cannot but despise, the profaneness which 
 wounds the ears of piety, the indelicacies which offend 
 against virtuous morals, — what a scene of vanity, what 
 a bleak and chill region does this world appear to a 
 heart warmed with the sentiments of benevolence, of 
 
152 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 friendship, and of piety! Are you not ready to exclaim 
 with the holy prophet; Oh! that I had in the wilderness, 
 a lodging place of way-faring men, that I might leave 
 my people and go from them; for they are all an assem- 
 bly of treacherous men; they bend their tongues like their 
 bows for lies. Take ye heed eveiij one of his neighbour^ 
 and trust ye not in any brotlwr. 
 
 Contemplate, on the other hand, the blessed society 
 of spirits made perfect in Heaven, of the general as- 
 sembly of the church of the first born, of beings the 
 most wise, the most pure, the most benignant; from 
 which is excluded all jealousy and suspicion, all reserve 
 and distrust, all weakness and imperfection; in which 
 all the intercourse of society is a commerce of wisdom, 
 of affection, of fidelity; where heart meets heart, and 
 soul mingles with soul, in all the ardor of love, with 
 all the frankness of truth. No language can exhibit, 
 no colours of imagination paint that blissful society, 
 those delightful attractions which unite pious souls in 
 heaven. The happiness of heaven is perhaps too fre- 
 quently represented as one eternal ecstasy; one unceas- 
 ing and rapturous act of devotion. The devotions of 
 that immortal temple will undoubtedly form its noblest 
 exercise, and the sublimest source of its joys. But eter- 
 nal ecstasies do not constitute the state of any being. 
 In that sublime world, as in the present state, the prin- 
 cipal portion of active duty, and the most numerous 
 sources of actual felicity consist in that social inter- 
 course which is perfected by the acquisition and 
 communication of knowledge, by mutual and endear- 
 ing acts of benevolence, by the delightful and recipro- 
 
Funeral Sermon. 153 
 
 cal effusions of love between all holy and happy spirits. 
 Shall we not even hope that these friends will again 
 meet and recognize their friends from the earth; and 
 that those happy unions which have been formed in 
 time, will be there purified from all alloy, and siiall at- 
 tain complete perfection in the regions of immortal 
 love. Oh! most blessed society! what strong posses- 
 sion does the idea take of the heart! How blissful to 
 the believing and regenerated soul will be that day 
 which is destined to introduce him to its full fruition! 
 
 5. The present life is, in the next place, full of the 
 most afflicting fluctuations. Tossed on a troubled ocean, 
 the agitated mind enjoys no settled calm. Even the 
 apprehensions of death, which ought to be regarded, 
 by a good man, as a happy release from all its evils, 
 become, by the despondency of his faith, the sources 
 often of his deepest anguish. But when God shall have 
 called his children home from this land of exile, and 
 distressful change, which was designed only as.^u^ce 
 wherein to exercise and ripen their young graces, their 
 happiness is then fixed beyond the power of accident, 
 or of duration itself almost omnipotent in its force to 
 impair or change. No contingency can affect it, no 
 tempest can shake it, no enemy can annoy it; for none 
 shall ever be able to pluck them out oj their Father's 
 hand. 
 
 Christians! compare the feeble spark of life which 
 we receive at our birth, the pains and miseries which 
 are ready to extinguish it almost as soon as it is lighted 
 up, the storms which afflict it, the anxieties which har- 
 rass it, the troubles which overwhelm it, till it is at 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
154 Funeral Sermon. 
 
 length quenched in the tomb; compare these with 
 the glories to which the redeemed shall be raised by 
 Jesus Christ, with the eternal and immutable beati- 
 tude which they shall enjoy with him; and what be- 
 liever will not ardently confirm the sentence of the holy 
 preacher; that, better is the day of death than the day of 
 one's birth: for to a good man, death is only the begin- 
 ning of an everlasting life. 
 
 6. Finally, if at this solemn and interesting period, 
 the humble christian escapes from the afflictions of the 
 world, and the innumerable evils to which man, by his 
 fallen nature is heir through sin, it is still a higher con- 
 solation that he escapes from sin itself What is now 
 the subject of his supreme anxiety and grief? Is it not 
 the unsubdued remnant of sin in his heart? What is 
 the object of his most assiduous labours, of his most 
 earnest conflicts with himself, and with the world? Is 
 it not to repress, and finally to subdue the last strug- 
 gling efforts of sinful passion? What are the most fer- 
 vent breathings of his pious soul? Are they not to re- 
 cover the lost innocence and perfection of his nature? 
 to behold the glory of God? to be transformed into the 
 same image from glory to glory by the spirit of the Lord? 
 Never, then, shall these anxious solicitudes cease, shall 
 these fervent aspirations be completely satisfied till the 
 believer has laid down all his imperfections in the dust 
 of death. At his birth he brought into life a nature 
 prone to sin, as well as subject to misery; senses which 
 deceived him, appetites which misled him, passions 
 which tyrannized over him. At death the remains of 
 sin, which he never ceased to lament, shall be finally 
 
Funeral Sermon. 155 
 
 expelled from their strong hold in the heart. The pas- 
 sions against which he maintained a perpetual conflict, 
 shall be extinguished in the grave. The seductions 
 and temptations of the world, which so often misled 
 him from his duty, which so often harrassed his peace, 
 which so often made him falter and flag in his heaven- 
 ly course, shall be annihilated by that stroke which 
 severs the soul from the body; when the immortal spi- 
 rit, released from its imprisonment, and bondage, and 
 breaking all those hateful ties which had bound it to 
 its corruptions enters, at length into the immediate pre- 
 sence of Almighty God, whom it loves, whom it adores, 
 and impatiently desires to resemble in all the holy at- 
 tributes of his nature. Beholding, in the resplendent 
 light of heaven, his infinite purity, it is changed into the 
 same image. Jehovah, the infinite / am, penetrates 
 all its essence; it is commingled with the supreme 
 mind; it is dissolved in his infinite love. Behold then 
 the happiness of the pious disciple of Christ consum- 
 mated, his joy forever perfected. And, although to the 
 eye of sense, and the erring affections of nature, dis- 
 tress and misery surround the bed of death; and where- 
 as only joys and congratulations greet our entrance 
 into the world, yet precious in the sight of the Lord, 
 is the death of his saints; it is still true, when religion 
 sheds its light on the darkness of the grave, as well as 
 on the false joys of the world, that, more blessed to the 
 real saint, is that moment which introduces him to his 
 heavenly rest, than that which first opens his eyes on 
 this scene of error and imperfection. 
 
\dt) Funeral Sermon, 
 
 Often, christians! should your interest and your com- 
 fort lead you devoutly to contemplate your pious hopes 
 of a blessed and immortal life with your glorious Re- 
 deemer, that the} may sustain your pious fortitude in 
 all the afflictions of life, that they may purify and ele- 
 vate your heavenly affections and raise your nature 
 above itself When we review all the topics which 
 justify the reflection of the sacred preacher, it would 
 seem surprising, if we were not aware of the imper- 
 fection of our christian graces, and with how little vigor 
 a celestial faith flourishes in this barren soil, that a 
 disciple of Christ, should ever be reluctant to meet 
 that glorious change which is to transfer him from 
 earth to heaven; from the society of imperfect men, to 
 the glorious assembly of perfect spirits in heaven; from 
 this region of darkness to the immediate vision of God. 
 One of the ancient poets with much good sense has 
 said, "the Gods conceal from mortals how happy it is 
 to die that they may be willing to live." The Creator 
 indeed, in order to attach us to live for the sake of its 
 necessary duties, has implanted in the human breast 
 a natural dread of dissolution which can be overcome 
 only by the subhme discoveries of faith, and the strong 
 aff(?ctions of religion. And it is to the reproach of 
 our religion if we have not so lived as ardently to as- 
 pire to rest where our Redeemer is. Yes, christians! 
 if your faith is able to open to your view the land of 
 promise, the reward and termination of your labors, 
 as Canaan appeared to Moses from the mountain of 
 Pisgah, what can be formidable in dying — in ending a 
 painful pilgrimage — in escaping from a desert of fa- 
 
Funeral Sermon. 157 
 
 mine, and perpetual conflicts — in passing the flood of 
 Jordan, under the conduct of the captain of your sal- 
 vation? Why should we be distressed at seeing our 
 pious friends pass before us the holy stream to their 
 eternal rest? or why should we be afraid to follow them? 
 Let the apostle be our example, who so earnestly desi- 
 red to depart and he with Christ. Let so many belie- 
 vers be our examples who have looked on death not 
 with tranquillity only, but with triumph. If it be true 
 then, that religion alone can inspire you with a ration- 
 al superiority to the fears of death, and even render 
 that formidable event a supreme blessings, cultivate 
 within your hearts its humble graces, and its celestial 
 hopes. Confirm more and more your pious confidence 
 in the name, the promise, and the righteousness of the 
 Redeemer, that, in that moment so formidable to con- 
 scious guilt, so trying to frail humanity, you may be 
 able to join with the apostle, and with all true belie- 
 vers in this holy and triumphant song; death! where 
 is thy sting! grave! where is thy victory! The sting 
 of death is sin, but thanks be to God who giveth us the 
 victory through Christ Jesus our Lord! Amen! 
 
THE RECOMPENSE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SAINTS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Rejoice in that daj^, for behold, your reward is great in heaven. 
 Luke VI. 25, 
 
 This is the consolation which our most merciful 
 Redeemer offers to his humble disciples, who, for the 
 trial and purification of their graces, are often exposed 
 to severe afflictions in the present world. Instead of 
 sinking under the actual calamities pf life, or repining 
 at the prosperity of others who advance before them in 
 the road of wealth and honours; the precious hopes of 
 religion, when they take full possession of the heart, 
 are sufficient to check every envious disposition, and 
 subdue every impatient anxiety, and may even furnish 
 them with a lawful subject of exultation and triumph, 
 in circumstances otherwise fitted to produce the deep- 
 est depression. The necessary evils of the present 
 state, how severely soever they may press upon the be- 
 liever, can be only of short duration, and shall be ex- 
 changed, according to the promise of the Saviour, for a 
 state of felicity in the heavens, where the ransomed of 
 the Lord shall come to Mount Zion, with songs, and 
 everlasting joy ; and sorrow and sighing shall flee aivay. 
 Nay, the afflictions which oppress him in this mle of 
 tears, often prepare for him a richer inheritance, and 
 a more glorious crown in the kingdom of his heavenly 
 Father. 
 
Recompense, ^t. 158 
 
 Our blessed Lord, in proposing tliese elevated hopes 
 to his suffering followers, enters into a brief comparison 
 of the rewards of afflicted piety, with the ultimate con- 
 sequences of the most successful course of vice; Wo 
 to you rich! for you have received your consolation! Wo 
 to you who are full! for you shall hunger. Wo to you 
 who laugh now! for you shall mourn and weep. Not 
 that poverty on the one hand, or wealth on the other, 
 that adversity, or prosperity, is necessarily connected 
 with the virtues, or with the vices of individuals; but 
 while the gospel offers its consolations to those who 
 may be oppressed with the weight of their afflictions, 
 it warns the great and those who live in pleasure, that, 
 if all their hopes are bounded by the enjoyments of the 
 present world, most miserable, ultimately will be found 
 their mistaken choice. 
 
 Let us enter carefully into this interesting compari- 
 son, and examine, with devout attention, the principles 
 on which these general propositions are founded. The 
 rewards of the world are mutable, and uncertain; — in 
 their best estate, they are of small value, and, in a lit- 
 tle time, they vanish forever from the grasp of the pos- 
 sessor. — Opposed to these imperfections of earthly 
 things, the final reward of piety is sure, — Behold! saith 
 the Saviour, indicating its certainty; as if placed by faith 
 within the immediate view of the soul — He adds, it is 
 great, pointing in this expression, to its excellence and 
 perfection; and it is consummated, in the last place, 
 by being laid up in heaven, the blessed residence of 
 pious and redeemed souls, a name indicative of a happy 
 and everlasting existence to express its eternity «ind 
 
160 Recompense of the 
 
 glory. — The certainty, therefore, the glory and eternity 
 of the rewards of the righteous in a future state, will 
 form the subject of our pious meditations on the pre- 
 sent occasion. 
 
 Useful it is frequently to raise our thoughts to the 
 contemplation of heavenly things; that our affections by 
 being elevated above this world, which is not our abid- 
 ing place, may be rendered more spiritual and pure; 
 that thence we may draw more sublime and animating 
 motives to a holy diligence in all our religious duties; 
 and that, from the most blessed hopes, we may derive 
 a sovereign consolation under the manifold afflictions 
 of this mortal state. 
 
 1. Accompany me then^ my christian friends, in my 
 meditations; first on the certainty of this recompense, 
 which places the believer so far above the painful vi- 
 cissitudes, which almost ever attend the most prosper- 
 ous career of earthly fortune.— For those ivho rejoice 
 now, shall iveep and mourn. 
 
 After men have fatigued themselves in the pursuits 
 of gain, or of ambition, and, perhaps, exhausted the 
 powers of nature in incessant labours, for the accom- 
 plishment of their ends, how often, I speak not here of 
 the young who are just now in the morning of their 
 hopes, but of those who have made a full trial of the 
 world, how often have their most flattering prospects 
 been disappointed! What mortifications, chagrins, re- 
 verses have continually met them! When they have 
 been most successful in their pursuits, do they ever at- 
 tain that settled calm and peace of mind, without which 
 there can exist no true felicity? How many, on the 
 
Saints in Heaven. 161 
 
 contraiy, do we behold, who, after all their solicitudes 
 expended on a fortune which for ever escapes thenij 
 are left to eat the bread of carefulness, and to drink 
 the waters of the deepest sorrow! The world has over- 
 whelmed them with misfortunes; men have cast out 
 their names as evil; friends have deceived their confi- 
 dence; or if a few have remained faithful, pressed to- 
 gether by a similitude of suffering, all the comfort they 
 can yield each other in affliction, is only an unavailing 
 sympathy in iheir common griefs. — Wo, then to those, 
 who look for their reward from the world, and who are 
 only tossed, without the tranquil and refreshing hopes 
 of rehgion, upon the ocean of its uncertainties! But our 
 blessed Saviour pronounces the benediction in the text 
 upon the poor and afflicted who trust in him, that it 
 may be their consolation, under all their present sor- 
 rows, — your reward is great in heaven. On what, then, 
 does the security of this gracious promise rest? On the 
 unshaken foundation of the truth and faithfulness of Al- 
 mighty God. You behold in the immutable attributes 
 of the Father of mercies, an unfailing ground of oc mf 
 fort to the sincere believer, under the severest calami- 
 ties which can oppress his lot. Who was ever press- 
 ed under a heavier load of sufferings than the great 
 apostle of the gentiles.^ But when he looked forward 
 to the blessed recompense of the saints and contem- 
 plated the security of his inheritance in the promise, 
 and its completeness in the glory of God, he shrunk 
 not from poverty or repioach, from imprisonment, or 
 chains, or death. All his afflictions seemed to be swal- 
 lowed up in the sure and certain hope of the glory to 
 
 VOL. I. Y 
 
3 GB Recompense of tlie 
 
 be revealed. For I know, in whom I had trusted, and 
 am persuaded, that he is able to keep that which I have 
 committed to him against that day. Henceforth, is laid 
 up for me a crown of righteousness ivhich tJie Lord, the 
 righteous judge will give me iii that day, and not to me 
 only, but also to all them that love his appearing. To 
 this blessed assurance, this holy triumph, every belie- 
 ver, however obscure his rank in society, or afflicted 
 his lot in life, is entitled by the favour and promise of 
 Almighty God. For ivith god there is no respect of per- 
 sons. 
 
 The rewards of a proud, envious, and unjust world 
 are always uncertain. But if it were less unjust, it 
 may not be acquainted with your merits. Your obscu- 
 rity may have concealed them from its view. You may 
 have wanted opportunities to produce them into light. 
 Men may have been too proud, or too selfish to turn 
 their regards upon your fortunes. But let the humble 
 christian be assured that no obscurity can conceal him 
 from the merciful eye of his heavenly Father. His 
 eye penetrates the deepest shades of poverty and afflic- 
 tion. He beholds the virtues and graces of those who 
 are unknown to the world; and will display them, at 
 last, before the universe in the full light of heaven. 
 How many saints are now in those abodes of blessed- 
 ness, whose modest worth, whose heavenly graces were, 
 while on earth, hardly known to their nearest friends! 
 Nay, God who searches the heart, beholds and records 
 against the day of recompense, those holy intentions, 
 those pure desires, those pious breathings which raised 
 from the bottom of the soul^ can be discerned only by 
 
Saints in Heaven. 163 
 
 his omniscient eye. He discerns the goed that you 
 would do, if the means were not wanting to give it ef- 
 fect. So that there is not a pious purpose, a benevo 
 lent wish, a devout aspiration formed in the heart 
 which is not sure of its reward. The meanest servi- 
 ces of those who can do no more, raised from a spirit 
 of unfeigned charity, — the two mites of the widow cast 
 into the pubhc treasury, — a cup of cold water given to 
 a disciple in the name of Christ, shall receive from his 
 mercy, at last, a most gracious reward. 
 
 But the security, to the sincere christian, of this 
 blessed promise rests not only on the inviolable 
 truth and benignity of the eternal, but on the founda- 
 tion of the perfect obedience, and all sufficient merit 
 of" the glorious Redeemer, the Lord our righteousness. 
 The grace of God, by giving a Saviour to the world, 
 and accepting his atonement for the sins of mankind, 
 has condescended to convert the promise into a retri- 
 bution of justice. It is now, not only an attribute of 
 his mercy, to receive the penitent to its protection and 
 grace, it is just also, in God to justify the sinner who 
 helievdh in Christ, and to raise him, at last, from the 
 grave, to the possession of eternal life. Behold, Oh! 
 humble believer! the sure foundation of your hope; — 
 the truth of Jehovah, and the all availing sacrifice of 
 our redemption! In the blood of the son of God, you 
 behold the seal of that (>tornal covenant which is the 
 immutable security of your confidence and faith. All 
 the mercy, the justice, the truth, and the righteousness 
 of heaven are the pledges of this inheiitance to every 
 liieliever who hath united himself to the merits of Je- 
 
164 Recompense of the 
 
 sus Christ Rejoice then, christian! behold your 
 sure reward! 
 
 Thus briefly have I opened to your view its certain- 
 ty, in opposition to the instabiUt}, and changes of the 
 world. Let us, in the next place, contemplate its ex- 
 cellence and glory, — great is your reward. — The men, 
 without doubt, who serve this world only, serve a hard, 
 and often an ungrateful master. It repays them with 
 little that is worthy the anxieties, and the labors wasted 
 upon it; and still less that is able to satisfy the desires 
 of the reasonable soul. Many sorrows attend its pur- 
 suit; aud when attained, as far as mortals can possess 
 it, still it leaves in the heart a most painful void. And 
 though it should lavish on your ambition, or your ava- 
 rice, its highest glories, or its most ample treasures, 
 to something still the soul aspires, infinitely beyond 
 these mutable and perishable possessions. But the 
 portion which an humble believer enjoys in God his 
 heavenly Father, so far overbalances all the afflictions 
 of this present time, that, in the comparison, they are 
 lost and forgotten, or felt only to urge him into a clo- 
 ser union with his supreme good. And when he rai- 
 ses his subli-me views to his future inheritance, it is 
 seen to be commensurate to the ever growing aspira- 
 tions of the soul in the eternal progress of her being. 
 The hope of the reward of the saints in heaven, al- 
 leviates the painful afflictions which are the necessary 
 portion of the best and most upright man in this pro- 
 bationary pilgrimage. For, in the language of the 
 apostle, we count that the sufferings of this present 
 time are not worthy to be compared with tJie ghi^ that 
 
Saints in Heaven. 165 
 
 aliall be revealed in us. And, to an humble and sin- 
 cere faith in the promises of the gospel, our sufferings 
 help to soften their own pains, by weaning the heart 
 from the vain caresses of the world, and urging it in- 
 to a nearer and more intimate union with God. Thus 
 are our light afflictions, which are but for a moment, 
 made to ivoi^k out for us a far more exceeding and eter- 
 nal weight ofgl&ry. Let the pious sufferer, then, be 
 consoled ; for, though now he maij go forth sowing his 
 seed in tears, he shall return bearing his sheaves, and 
 gathering, in the end, the rich and blessed fruits of 
 an immortal harvest. 
 
 If then, the hope, and the distant view of your hea- 
 venly inheritance is sufficient to sooth and relieve the 
 heaviest calamities of life, much more must its pos- 
 session be commensurate to the utmost desires of your 
 heavenly being. Those vast desires, which the world 
 cannot satisfy, are brought to perfect rest in God; their 
 ardent thirst is quenched, if I may speak so, in those 
 rivei^s of pleasure which Jloiv at God's right hand. 
 
 The immortal powers of the glorified soul can never 
 be wearied, or cloyed with the pure delights of which 
 God is the source, and the sum. Shall I speak of the 
 glories of that heavenly country, the paradise of God.'' 
 shall I speak of the general assembly of perfect spirits 
 enshrined in bodies which shine as stars in the king- 
 dom of their father; of the blessed society of redeem- 
 ed and holy souls united to one another in an eternal 
 love.-^ All are sources of a joy, at present, inconcei- 
 vable by mortals; but it is God himself, the fountain 
 of life, whose nature is love, and whose love is the life 
 
1 (i Recompense of the 
 
 of the universe, who constitutes the supreme feli- 
 city of the heavenly state. The happiness of a pure 
 spirit is to mingle with the infinite and eternal mind, 
 who fills and occupies all its powers. God is the sum, 
 and plenitude of its joy. — God! most worthy to be 
 loved! when the soul is full of thee, what can it desire 
 besides. The royal Psalmist of Israel, in the ecstasy 
 of devout meditation, anticipating the future glory of 
 the saints, exclaims, I shall be satisfied when J awake 
 with thy likeness/ Feeble is our translation often to 
 express the strength and beauty of the original. In 
 a short paraphrase let me endeavour to transfuse, if 
 possible, the force of this expression into our language. 
 In the resurrection, when I awake from the sleep of 
 death, I shall be satiated with beholding thy glorious 
 image. Every power of happiness will be completely 
 occupied; every vessel will be full and running over. 
 This divine poet then proceeds, they shall be abun^ 
 dantly " satisfied'' with tJie abundance of thy house. 
 Very forcible in the Vulgate is the translation of this 
 phrase, they shall be inebriated with enjoyment, and 
 the delights of thy presence, thou wilt make them drink 
 of the river of thy pleasures; for with thee is the foun- 
 tain of life; and in thy light, shall they see light. They 
 shall drink immortal life and happiness from those 
 pure and refreshing streams which spring eternally 
 beneath thy throne, whose is the fountain of life. And 
 in thy light, shall they see light. Remark this stong 
 and singular expression, which implies that the light 
 of heaven, that ecstatic light which fills all the celestial 
 regions with unutterable joy, is only the emanation of 
 
Saints in Heaven. 167 
 
 the glory of God. But of these heavenly objects it has 
 not yet entered into the heart of man to conceive. Yet, 
 in this distant and obscure region, examples are not 
 wanting, which exhibit some feeble gleams of that fe- 
 licity which the saints shall enjoy in God, when freed 
 from the cumbrous veil of mortal flesh, they shall be- 
 hold his glory in open vision. How many blessed mar- 
 tyrs, when only a ray of that glory has entered their 
 souls, have been able, with the apostle, to rejoice in 
 chains, and in death? How many have offered them- 
 selves as pure sacrifices to their Redeemer in the midst 
 of flames? The transports of their minds have not 
 only rendered them insensible to suffering, in situations 
 which affect us with horror to conceive, but elevated 
 them above their sufferings in holy ecstasies. — But not 
 to resort to these high and rare examples, christians, 
 have you not the evidence within yourselves? Not- 
 withstanding the manifold imperfections of which you 
 complain, and the lukewarmness of this age of the 
 church, have you not, at some happy moments, been 
 satiated with the abundance of his house? In the de- 
 lights of a pure and holy devotion, in the temples of 
 the Most High, or at the table which bears the pre- 
 cious memorials of your Saviour, have you not, while 
 prostrate in spirit before the throne of grace, almost 
 forgotten, for a season, both the follies and the inte- 
 rests of the world; its hopes, its fears, and its plea- 
 sures? Filled with the sweetness of your divine con- 
 solations, have you not been ready, with the apostle, 
 to count all things but lossfiyr tlie excellency oftJie know- 
 ledge of Christ Jesus your Lord? or to exclaim in the 
 
1 68 Recompense oftlw 
 
 holy raptures of the king of Israel, whom have I in hea- 
 ven but thee! and there is none npon the earth that I 
 desif^e besides thee!- — Christian! if such are the refresh- 
 ments with which you meet in the way, what will be 
 the full measure of your joy when you shall have ar- 
 rived at the period of your trials, and attained the con- 
 summation of your reward? If your exile affords such 
 comforts, what will be your joy; a joy past all under- 
 standing, when, having surmounted the dangers and 
 troubles of the desert, you shall have gained, at last, 
 that promised land which you have so long and so anx- 
 iously sought? 
 
 Vain, and abused world! which dost occupy the soul, 
 to the exclusion of God! what are thy rewards, the gold 
 of thy misers, the pleasures of thy sensualists, the tri- 
 umphs of thy conquerors, compared with the recom- 
 pense of the most humble and afflicted disciples of Je- 
 sus, even in this earthly pilgrimage; above all, when 
 they shall have arrived in their everlasting habitations? 
 
 I!I. This is the third and last character of the re- 
 ward of the saints which I proposed to illustrate — it 
 is immutable and everlasting. Rejoice, for ^reat is 
 your reivard in heaven; in heaven, that eternal condi- 
 tion of happy existence in which the saints who have 
 been redeemed from the earth shall enjoy a sublime 
 and glorious felicity commensurate with its endless du- 
 ration. 
 
 Though now you groan under the burden of the cor- 
 ruptions, which you still bear about with you, you en- 
 joy the promise of the eternal spirit of truth, that^ when 
 you have put off this body of death, you shall be cloth- 
 
Saints in Heaven. 169 
 
 ed upon with your house which is from heaven, and be 
 forever ivith the Lord. When you have passed, in a 
 diligent course of faith and obedience, the storms and 
 tempests of Hfe, you shall reach a peaceful shore where 
 the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
 rest. Remember what our Saviour hath said, those 
 who laugh now shall mourn and weep; intimating, by 
 this image, how unstable are the fortunes of this world. 
 And how often do we behold the vain children of pros- 
 perity dashed from the proud eminence on which they 
 thought they stood like Gods? But if they escape the 
 ordinary fluctuations of the world, how soon shall death 
 bury all their prospects, and annihilate all their pos- 
 sessions in the grave -^ How soon shall that glorious 
 edifice of their fortune, which they are rearing wiih so 
 much pains, that pampered tabernacle of their bodies, 
 which they nourish with so much care, crumble in pie- 
 ces, and fall in ruins? Where then, shall be found 
 the immortal soul if it has no portion in God? But in 
 union to thee, O God! eternal in thy being! fountain of 
 life! sum of all excellence and perfection! consists the 
 consummation of our happiness; and the general as- 
 sembly of the redeemed, united in one body to Christ 
 their glorified head, shall, along with him, derive tlieir 
 supreme felicity from the everlasting emanations of thy 
 love! — Eternity is the sublime idea which crowns the 
 hopes of the believer. Interminable existence, cease- 
 less progression in glory and perfection, which eye hath 
 not seen, iwr ear heard, neither hath it entered hUo the 
 heart of man to conceive. 
 
 VOL. I. z 
 
1 70 Recompense of the 
 
 But when we strive to expand the soul to these vast 
 ConceptionSj we are absorbed and lost in a boundless 
 sea of thought! Count my soul, if possible, the sands 
 upon the shore of the sea; reckon the drops in the 
 ocean — compute the rays of the sun, or the atoms that 
 compose the universe, in order to measure the ages of 
 happy existence; these ages shall roll away; but the 
 pious soul shall have approached no nearer to a ter- 
 mination of her felicity than at the first moment when 
 they began to revolve. — Oh! glorious, mysterious being! 
 You shall live with God, and in God, and partake of 
 his immortality! If we had not the infallible word of 
 Revelation on which to rest our hope; if religion had 
 only kindly deceived us for our pleasure, I would say 
 w^ith the great Roman philosopher, may I never be wa- 
 ked from so sweet a delusion! But our blessed Saviour 
 has not merely offered these transcendent prospects to 
 our faith, but in a manner verified them to our senses, 
 by his own resurrection, and his triumphant ascen- 
 sion to his original glory in the heavens; where, in the 
 progress of your interminable existence, you shall see 
 suns and systems roll away beneath your feet, repla- 
 ced by new suns, and new systems, and the universe 
 perishing and renovated myriads of times, while seat- 
 ed on Mount Zion, and near the throne of God, you 
 shall contemplate the wonderful revolutions of eter- 
 nity. 
 
 When once we have tasted the joys of existence, 
 with what dread we contemplate the possibility of lo- 
 sing its pleasures. With what earnestness we desire 
 to prolong its duration! But simple existence is not 
 
Saints in Heaven. 171 
 
 all that the promise of the new covenant holds out to 
 the hope of the believer. It is an eternal progression 
 in knowledge, it is the everlasting exercise, and en- 
 joyment of that heavenly love which is the life of the 
 soul. 
 
 To the curious thirst of knowledge, the boundless 
 fields of the universe will be laid open to the excursive 
 flights of pious souls, who, with the celerity of light- 
 ning, or on the wings of the wind, will pervade the im- 
 mensity of the works of God; according to the beauti- 
 ful image of the Psalmist; who maketh his angels ivtnds, 
 and his ministers aflame of fire* at the same time, they 
 will, with a holy rapture, for which the language of 
 mortals furnishes no expressions, the ideas of mortals 
 no images, mingle their being with that Infinite Mind 
 whose nature and essence is love. They will breathe 
 in heaven the air of love; and be united in the most 
 delightful emanations, and reciprocations of an eternal 
 love, with an innumerable company of angels, and 
 with the general assembly of the first born wJiose names 
 are written in heaven. 
 
 Wherefore my beloved brethren, disciples of the Lord 
 Jesus Christ, seeing you look for such things what man- 
 ner of persons ought you to be in all holy conversation and 
 godliness? Show that you are seeking a better coun- 
 try, even an heavenly. And be diligent that, at his com- 
 ing, you may be found of him in peace, loithout spot 
 and blameless. For only the pure in heart shall be ad- 
 mitted to see God. Amen! 
 
 * I am aware that this passage will well bear another translation: " who 
 maketh winds his messengers, and flames of fire his servants." 
 
ON SLANDER. 
 
 Speak not evil one of another brethren. — James iv. 2. 
 
 The great duties of morality and religion, being 
 prescribed by the clear dictates of reason, and enforced 
 by the powerful sanctions of conscience, are not often 
 so openly and palpably transgressed, as those lighter 
 obligations of the law of charity, which should regu- 
 late the ordinary intercourse of mankind in society. 
 In these minor duties, the heart is more frequently off 
 its guard; their importance to the general interests of 
 humanity, is seldom duly appreciated: and the little 
 passions, which so often intrude into our social circles, 
 to disturb the harmony of life, are apt insensibly to 
 seduce men, beyond those delicate boundaries of cha- 
 rity, which require a scrupulous self-command always 
 nicely to obs rve them, and the active and steady in- 
 fluence of virtuous principle, always to respect them. 
 
 To none of the duties of morality are these reflec- 
 tions more applicable, than to that prudent government 
 of the tongue prescribed in the text. And the trans- 
 gressions of this unruly member, are wont to be es- 
 teemed of so light a nature, that the habitual inatten- 
 tion of mankind to preserve a proper control over it, 
 Contiibutes greatly to multiply its unguarded errors. 
 
On Slander. 173 
 
 The mind is so little braced to a just and virtuous cau- 
 tion on this subject, that the tongue, freed from tlie salu- 
 j tary restraints, whicJi prudence, as well as religion should 
 [impose upon it, is prone, through mere want of rcflec. 
 i tion, to infringe those amiable ties which are necessa- 
 i ry to bind society together. But there are, besides, so 
 . many causes of indifference to each other's feeliiigs 
 t in the intercourse of life; so many points of rivaiship 
 and competition; so many sources of envj, j< alousy, 
 prejudice, that, perhaps, men more frequently inlringe 
 I them through some secret impulse of alienation and 
 resentment hardly perceived by themselves. — When 
 I we reflect on the numerous occasions which prompt to 
 ! the violation of this anuable law of benevolence, per- 
 petually recurring in the commerce of mankind; and 
 i when we further reflect on the constant vigilance, and 
 j self command required to impose a proper restraint on 
 I the indiscretions of conversation, we have the highest 
 reason to exclaim with the apostle; — if any man offend 
 j not in word, the san. e is a perfect man, and able also 
 lo bridle the whole body. Among the multiplied offen- 
 ces of the tongue that, perhaps, is the most common 
 which consists in speaking evil one of another. 
 
 It is a subject of just lamentation that many of the 
 disciples of the mild and charitable religion of our bless- 
 I ed Saviour, while they profess to fix their view almost 
 ; exclusively upon ihe transcendent duties and doctiines 
 I of the gospel, permit themselves to overlook the hunsble, 
 I but not less real duties, of social morality. They are 
 I at little pains to regulate their lempiT and their pas- 
 '■ sions, or to subject to a prudent control the license of 
 
174 On Slander. 
 
 the tongue. None are more rigid upon certain points 
 of doctrine; none more negligent in cultivating those 
 mild and amiable graces by which we approach near- 
 est to the meekness, humility, and charity of Jesus 
 Christ. — Ah! mistaken followers of your Redeemer! by 
 no vice is the genuine spirit of the gospel more 
 tarnished, or the temper of its benevolent morality 
 more reproachfully impaired than by evil speaking and 
 slander. Conversation has grown from this cause, to 
 be an almost perpetual offence against the genius of our 
 holy religion. And christians, who should regard one an- 
 other as brethren, or, to employ, with the apostle, the 
 image of a closer union, as members of one body in 
 Christ, are frequently rent, by this vice, into innumera- 
 ble little factions, to the great annoyance of our social 
 harmony. 
 
 On the principle of speaking no evil, however, thus 
 generally expressed, it is requisite to make some expla- 
 nations. 
 
 It is not every censure passed on the faults, or the 
 vices of our fellow men which may justly be brought 
 under the reprehension of the apostle. There are oc- 
 casions in which it becomes a duty to speak with just 
 severity of their conduct; as in the case of parents or 
 of guardians, who are charged with the moral instruc- 
 tion of their children, or their pupils, and who may use- 
 fully enforce their precepts by proposing examples of 
 vice to their censures; — the officer of justice may 
 prosecute, or denounce offenders against the laws of 
 his country; a friend may remonstrate with a friend, 
 and hold up, with the most benevolent designs, the dan- 
 
On Slander. 175 
 
 i ers of imprudent, or vicious connexions which una- 
 wares, his friend may be forming. But the sin which 
 ; the apostle condemns, consists not only in falsely and 
 I malignantly forming, and disseminating histories of 
 scandal, to the injury of our neighbour's reputation, but 
 in unnecessarily, thoughtlessly, and without that due 
 j consideration of his honor and peace, which charity re- 
 : quires, giving currency to the tales and whispers of 
 scandal, which are so often cruelly; so much oftener, 
 inconsiderately; but always uncharitably, circulated 
 through society. 
 
 Slander may be considered under three aspects — 
 i As it is malignant and propagated with the previous 
 knowledge, or belief of its falsehood; as it is supposed 
 to be justified by the truth of its facts; and, finally, 
 as it consists of those lighter faults and stains of 
 reputation which unhappily form the common enter- 
 tainment of our social parties. — 1. Malignant slan- 
 der has indeed i'ew or no open advocates. It is 
 reprobated by the world, as the indication, and the 
 foul ebulhtion of a heart most detestable in its prin- 
 ciples and diabolical in its aims. And hardly is any 
 epithet in the vocabulary of reproach, more oppro- 
 brious than that of vile slanderer. Yet, shameful as it 
 is, and exposed to just abhorrence, can we say that it 
 is, happily, among us, a rare crime? Seldom, indeed, 
 has it appeared with that open and unblushing effron- 
 tery which, a few years ago, it assumed in the public 
 vehicles of intelligence in our own country. Seldom 
 has it possessed such an open field, or been inflamed 
 with such poisonous virulence, as then it displayed by 
 
176 On Slander, 
 
 the competitions and passions ot" our political parties. 
 And have we not accordingly seen this vile prostration 
 both of truth and charity deform society with a most 
 pernicious intiuence? The public ear was shamefully 
 polluted, the sacredness of character profaned, and no 
 victim spared, if only envy, ambition, or wounded vani- 
 ty required the sacrifice. Restrained neither by decen- 
 cy nor by truth, its principal aini was to beat down an 
 enemy, or to put aside a rival; to inflict a wound upon 
 his feelings that should gratify an atrocious vengeance; 
 and rob him, if possible, of the pubhc esteem. And, 
 provided the end were accomplished, it sanctioned the 
 iniquity of the means. In this career, if the calumnia- 
 tor does not possess sufficient hardihood to invent 
 his dishonorable tales, he is prone to seize with avidi- 
 ty on those which Fame, with her malignant breath, and 
 thousand tongues, has prepared for him; which, like 
 some magical operator, is continually raising up new 
 scenes in soci:^ty. These he colours, distorts, or mag- 
 nifies at pleasure, through the optic glasses of envy and 
 passion. 
 
 Another form of this vice, if not so atrocious, yet 
 certainly not less unworthy, ungenerous, and base, con- 
 sists in those dark, designmg calumnies which shun the 
 fair and open light, and are propagated chiefly by hint 
 and insinuation. Your enemy studies to preserve him- 
 self in concealment; and hopes to wound in security, 
 from behind his cowardly covert. With affected scru- 
 pulosity he avoids the odious imputation of direct slan- 
 der; but every thing is suggested to our suspicions, 
 which have been previously and artfully excited. His 
 
On Slander. 177 
 
 narratives are so framed that every doubtful incident 
 shall be interpreted in its worst meaning, every sup- 
 pressed circumstance shall be more than supplied by 
 the apprehensions of his hearers, and awakened imagi- 
 nation shall complete a history which he affects to con- 
 ceal. Oh! most vile assassination! 
 
 II. But in the next place, we often perceive this viola- 
 tion of christian charity which no one will defend under 
 its proper title, indulged and justified under the pretext 
 of the truth of the calumnious imputations. — Truth, it is 
 said, is no scandal. — This maxim of the passions is nei- 
 ther just in itself, nor consistent with the mild spirit of 
 Christianity. The illiberal temper by which it is dicta- 
 ted, betrays itself by the vengeful tone with which the 
 spurious maxim is pronounced. Alas! may not a ma- 
 lignant truth recall to memory, or cruelly, divulge the 
 lamented errors of a life, in other respects, most wor- 
 thy and amiable; and the more interesting, perhaps, for 
 that softening of meekness and humility which repen- 
 tance for those very errors has shed over it. Ah! 
 christians! who are we that we should rejudge the judg- 
 ments of God, and still subject to the protracted tortures 
 of infamy, the lamented evils which infinite mercy 
 hath pardoned, and covered with the Redeemer's 
 blood. 
 
 But, without entering into a scrutiny which belongs 
 only to God; scandal, which piesents to the public view, 
 nothing but the blemishes of character, never exhibits 
 it with fairness and truth. The observation is no 
 less true, than universal, that there is no man without 
 his faults: but it is, perhaps, not less true, that there is 
 
 VOL. I. A a 
 
178 On Slander. 
 
 hardly any mau who does not possess many virtues 
 which entitle him to our benevolent and charitable con- 
 sideration. But the unfriendly pencil of slander por- 
 traying him only on his worst side, presents to us a 
 false image instead of that mixed character, so like our 
 own, only composed, perhaps, of a different mixture of 
 virtues and vices, which should claim our sympathy, or 
 obtain our indulgence. On a ground of truth, may be 
 laid a representation which, on the whole is false, and 
 calcu]ated to deceive. The colouring is deepened, 
 and all the lineaments, are distorted, if our passions 
 do not guide the hand, in finishing the portrait, fancy 
 adds a colouring which it thinks necessary to give it a 
 higher interest; but if personal injuries have inflamed 
 the temper, resentment colours it to justify its ven- 
 geance. 
 
 How often, before experience has corrected the 
 precipitancy of our judgments, may we have received^ 
 from such partial representations, the most unjust pre- 
 possessions against the most estimable of mankind? 
 Some accidental deviation from tlie path of virtue, 
 drawn forth by circumstances of peculiar temptation; 
 some misconception; some error of judgment; some 
 sudden imprudence of passion; some foible against 
 which the weakness of human nature is not, at all times, 
 sufficiently on its guard, may have furnished to slan- 
 der that single trait of truth on which the calumny is 
 founded. 
 
 But if you accurately examine the fact, will it not 
 frequently be discerned to be no other than one of 
 those common rumours, of which no one can ascertain 
 
On Slander. 179 
 
 the origin? And small acquaintance, surely, does it 
 require with human society to understand how uncer- 
 tain, and often, how baseless are those foolish tales 
 which are daily circulated. Prejudice or mistake has 
 given them birth; malignity, carelessness, or the mere 
 love of talking has propagated them; and the malicious 
 curiosity of mankind has entertained them without ex- 
 amination. At each step in their progress, they are 
 magnified by some new exaggeration, till, at length, the 
 original fact is lost in an accumulation of false addi- 
 tions. Ignorant of the world must he be who has not 
 observed in a thousand instances, how common fame 
 disguises, and distorts every little incident which she 
 touches. He who disseminates a slanderous tale on 
 this ground must be either malevolent or- weak; ma- 
 levolent, who estimates, so cheaply, the good name and 
 tranquillity of mind of his brother; weak and credulous, 
 ^vho can still trust the integrity of fame after all his 
 experience of her idleness and falsehood. 
 
 Permit me to remark further, that so few men are 
 capable of making accurate or candid observations on 
 the conduct of others, and that those actions from 
 which any important inferences with regard to charac- 
 ter can be justly drawn, are so rarely seen in a fair 
 light, that the plea of actual observation is often an ex- 
 tremely equivocal ground of censure. Actions can 
 seldom be fairly estimated when seen single, and apart 
 from the circumstances with which they are connect- 
 ed. Their motives, which are often concealed; the si- 
 tuation into which the actor may be accidently thrown, 
 various principles of education; ideas and habits form- 
 
180 On Slander. 
 
 ed in different circles of society, create a wide diversity 
 in the judgment which men are prone to make of the 
 same action. The most innocent conduct, measured by 
 our prejudices may be tainted by unmerited reproach. 
 What security have we for candor, or for truth amidst 
 the collisions of opposing interests, amidst the conflicts 
 of contending parties in government, or unfortunately, 
 even in religion, amidst the pride of ignorance, the 
 rivalships of different inividuals, or classes in society, 
 which almost always exhibit in an oblique light the ac- 
 tions and the language of those who differ from us in 
 party, or in social connections? Do not the most serious 
 umbrages often arise from mere inadvertances? And 
 how often do all these causes concur to aggravate 
 the errors of our unsuspecting neighbours; above all, to 
 distort, almost unperceived by ourselves, the features 
 which we draw of an obnoxious character? 
 
 On this subject, fellow christians! let me appeal to 
 your own experience. What injustice have not you 
 suffered from prejudice, from imperfect observation, 
 from the want of fair and candid examination? From 
 actions misconceived, from motives misinterpreted i' In 
 a word, from the folly of thoughtless, or the envy of 
 malignant tongues? Ah! disciples of our blessed Re- 
 deemer! with what scrupulosity and caution should 
 you ever suffer yourselves to entertain injurious im- 
 pressions against the reputation of your brethren? 
 With how much more charitable caution should you 
 ever be induced to communicate those impressions to 
 others? The pretence of truth can seldom, from the 
 very constitution of human nature, and human society. 
 
On Slander. 181 
 
 be received as a legitimate source of the histories of 
 scandal and truth; if we were more certain of attain- 
 ing it on those suspicious subjects, can never, unless 
 where imperious duty imposes the obHgation of reveal- 
 ing it, sweeten the mahgnity of the fountain from 
 which it flows. — Charity speaketh no evil; Charity 
 thinketh no evil. 
 
 III. I proceed to consider this vice in its inferior 
 grades, as it consists in exhibiting the hghter faults of 
 character tor the entertainment of our friends, or our 
 social parties. They are made the subject of uncha- 
 ritable comment from various motives: Sometimes as 
 a mere supplement to the barrenness of conversation; 
 sometimes only to give vent to the impulses of a loqua- 
 cious humour: at other times, to indulge a vein of faceti- 
 ousness and pleasantry; to amuse a frivolous curiosity; 
 to gratify some private pique, or avenge some imaginary 
 injury; or finally, to please those whom the narrator 
 may conceive he has an interest in pleasing, by sacrifi- 
 cing a rival to his vanity, or resentment. 
 
 On each of these motives I solicit your attention to a 
 few reflections. And let no hearer deem the subject 
 unworthy of the gravity of this place, or the sanctity of 
 the devotions of the sanctuary. The first law of Christ, 
 and of justice is, to do to others as you would that they 
 should do to you. He has well nigh attained the per- 
 fection of christian charity, who is able to bridle the 
 indiscretions of the tongue. 
 
 The first cause from which men usually have re- 
 course in society, to this unworthy anecdote, is mere 
 barrenness of thought. Vulgar minds are little capa- 
 
182 On Slander. 
 
 ble of the elegant displays of wit, or the agreeable and 
 instructive discussion of the usual rational and useful 
 topics of discourse. The laxness of our morals, and 
 the declension of devotional fervor, have rendered sen- 
 timents of piety scarcely adujissible into mixed com- 
 panies. And, often, there is too little of benevolence, 
 or candor in these circles, to take pleasure in exhibit- 
 ing, in favourable lights, the amiable and worthy quah- 
 ties of men among whom the competitions of self-love, 
 or the jealousies of honor, or of interest, have created 
 many more points of rivalship, and perhaps, of secret 
 alienation, than of friendship and union. In this case, 
 the blemishes in the character and reputation of our ac- 
 quaintance present the easiest sacrifice to the general 
 amusement, or malignity. 
 
 II. Not uncommon is it also to meet with those 
 thoughtless spirits who offend against this rule of cha- 
 rity merely through a natural, and imprudent loquacity. 
 Governed by this mischie\^us impulse, they seldom re- 
 gulate their discourse with judgment. And unhappily 
 the defect of judgment is rarely the only frailty united 
 with this indiscreet temperament. Too often we find 
 a pernicious humour of prying into the secret affairs of 
 individuals, and of families, even by the most circuitous 
 means, and from the most corrupted sources, in order 
 to furnish out the unworthy fund of their inexhaustible 
 volubility. And although they are commonly persons 
 of weak and frivolous minds, yet are they, not unfre- 
 quently malignant also; and have the mischievous pow- 
 er of rendering more deserving characters unhappy, and 
 sowing the seeds of discord through society. Could 
 
On Slander. 183 
 
 they be charged only with imprudence, yet are the er- 
 rors of indiscretion often not less culpable, nor less 
 pernicious in their consequences than the designs of 
 malice. 
 
 If your company is in a vein of pleasantry, how often 
 does the common cheerfulness cruelly seek its enter- 
 tainment in the foibles, or perhaps, grosser delinquen- 
 cies of their friends? The general faults of manners 
 would be the legitimate subjects of mirth or reprehen- 
 sion; but to be agreeable in this way requires a 
 greater fund of talents and of observation than ordina- 
 rily falls to the share of common and mixed socie- 
 ty. Less invention and ingenuity are requisite to seize 
 on the blemishes of individuals. It is easy for dullness 
 to collect the materials of vulgar mirth, and direct it 
 against the greatest talents, or the greatest virtues. 
 Aristophanes could laugh at the wisdom of Socrates, — 
 Foote could turn into ridicule the piety of Whitefield. 
 The sons of profligacy ha^ glorified in their moments 
 of sportive wantonness, to charge the virtuous and ami- 
 able Addison with intemperance, and the moralist John- 
 son with occasional debauch. Slander often appears 
 in this form, in which the thoughtless gayety of the com- 
 pany makes them forget that they are immolating hu- 
 man victims, in a detestable sacrifice to their own vani- 
 ty, or endeavouring to erect a shelter for their vices un- 
 der the defects of superior virtue. 
 
 Suffer me, on this occasion, strongly to appeal to the 
 self-love of every hearer. Imagine yourselves the sub- 
 jects of this humiliating pleasantly, and, by the keen- 
 ness of your feelings, judge of the injury you may be 
 
 doing to the sensibility of others. In the view of chris- 
 
184 On Slander. 
 
 tianity, indifference to their happiness is a sin against 
 the genuine principles of charity; hghtly to trifle with 
 their just and natural claims to respect, is the hardness 
 of selfishness; to be sportive with their failings is the 
 triumph of malignity. 
 
 In this view let us contemplate the ordinary strain 
 of those social parties which are professedly intended 
 to preserve the mutual endearments of good neighbour- 
 hood, and are boasted to be among the proofs of the 
 refinement of our manners. — What are they, in truth, 
 but perpetual offences against this benevolent law of 
 our Saviour, and against the genuine spirit of huma- 
 nity? On this humble theatre do we not daily see cha- 
 racter traduced, acquaintances depreciated, friends sa- 
 crificed? Under the face of hilarity and good humour, 
 does not the same uncharitable, cold, and treacherous 
 spirit lurk in every bosom? And he who smiles at 
 your story in this company, is ready to smile at you in 
 the next. With the highest appearances of union and 
 social enjoyment, each is secretly divided against all. 
 
 Here, fikewise, may I be permitted to observe, that 
 that portion of our species chiefly formed to soften and 
 harmonize human society, whose glory it is to mitigate 
 and correct the ruder passions and manners of men, 
 and to educe into act all the finer feelings of the soul, 
 are too often seen to lay aside the gentle characteristics 
 of their nature. It would seem, indeed, as if the pecu- 
 liar sensibility of their hearts, by making rivalships more 
 ardent, and multiplying the points of competition, often 
 added keenness to their satire, bitterness to their invec- 
 tive, and poignancy to their ridicule. 
 
On Slander. 185 
 
 On other occasions, this odious vice appears to have 
 little in view besides interesting an idle curiosity. To 
 be the first to attract attention by some new tale 
 of wonder, or of scandal, has, to a large portion of 
 mankind, a surprising charm. To the dishonor of hu- 
 man nature, obliquy almost always finds an indulgent 
 reception in society; and a little mind is pleased with 
 the temporary importance which the malignant curio- 
 sity of the world bestows upon it. By persons of this 
 low vanity, blemishes in the conduct of all their ac- 
 quaintances are eagerly sought after, for the unworthy 
 pleasure of displaying them; the private infelicities of 
 families are diligently raked out in order to be exposed. 
 Such spirits, and such there are in almost every vici- 
 nit^^may be regarded as the evil genii of human society. 
 They multiply the causes of mutual alienation among 
 brethren; they scatter contagion around them; and pro- 
 vided they have a tale to amuse, or the power to excite 
 a wanton smile, feel little compunction at the cruel 
 wounds which they inflict. 
 
 The licentiousness of the tongue, however, iff more 
 frequently set in action by some private pique, or for 
 the purpose of avenging some real, or imagined injury. 
 The infinite colhsions and interfering interests of so- 
 ciety insensibly create innumerable causes of mutual 
 alienation. Rising reputation, the praise of talents or 
 of beauty, is received with envy. The approbation of 
 friendship, is misinterpreted by ever vigilant jealousy, 
 as involving some indelicate reflection upon those who 
 are present, and is seldom admitted without being qua- 
 
 VOL. I. B b 
 
186 On Slander. 
 
 lifted by exceptions, or counteracted by some low and 
 base insinuation. 
 
 But, the most violent and unchristian animosities are 
 often discerned in those persons whose ardent sensi- 
 bilities, prone to sudden and precipitate attachments, 
 are united with a proportionable defect of prudence 
 and judgment in forming them. Easily wrapped into 
 fervent and visionary friendships, their predilections 
 are as easily converted into the bitterest enmities. 
 They require the fervor of their own zeal to be return- 
 ed by their friends with equal warmth; and such sa- 
 crifices are continually demanded in order to corres- 
 pond with their romantic notions of this union of hearts, 
 that friendships of this fine texture can seldom be du- 
 rable. But, when they are dissolved, it is comnronly 
 in a tempest of angry passions. For these fine and 
 elastic spirits, whose benevolent feelings are so exqui- 
 site as hardly to be within the range of human nature, 
 are found to be not less susceptible of the paroxysms 
 of fury than of kindness. And as there were formerly 
 no bounds to their admiration, and their zeal for your 
 service, there are now no limits to their indignant re- 
 taliation of your imagined treachery. Innumerable 
 faults are recorded with every exaggeration which dis- 
 appointed love or friendship can create. Sarcasm, 
 satire, reproach, and the most envenomed detraction, 
 are employed to vilify a friend converted into an ene- 
 my; and all companies are tired with the histories of 
 their wrongs. 
 
 Finally, the lowest and most unworthy exercise of 
 the spirit of detraction, is speaking evil of others, for 
 
On Slander, 187 
 
 the sake of creeping into the good graces of those who 
 have in their hands, the distribution of office, emohi- 
 ment, or honor. — To substitute art and cunning for 
 trutli and integrity, — to trample on innocence, in order 
 to advance any sinister interest of our own, are sure 
 indications of a treacherous spirit which you can bind 
 by no principle, which you can hold by no obligation. 
 And he who is now the idol to whom the sacrifice of 
 character is made, shall himself become the sacrifice, 
 if the tide of interest changes, or new prospects of for- 
 tune are opened to the insidious flatterer. 
 
 Thus, my christian brethren, have I exhibited this 
 sin, so pointedly reprobated by the holy apostle, in a 
 variety of interesting lights, traced its motives, expo- 
 sed its false and unworthy pretences, — and presented 
 it to your view, as a crime against both justice and 
 charity, equally pernicious, detestable, and vile. — 
 
 Speak not evil one of another, brethren. 
 
 Few sins are more lightly chastised by the con- 
 science of men than evil speaking; yet few are follow- 
 ed by a more pernicious influence on the harmony of so- 
 ciety; few tend more effectually to extinguish that spi- 
 rit of mutual benevolence and charity which is the 
 true principle of the happiness, as well as of the great 
 duties of human nature. The wounds which are gi- 
 ven and received by thoughtless and envenomed tongues 
 form a large portion of the infelicities of human life. 
 In vain will you excuse its lightest indiscretions, as 
 being the effects of levity and inconsideration; or as a 
 harmless endeavour to raise an innocent amusement 
 out of the venial failings of your acquaintance. Could 
 
188 On Slander. 
 
 you, in the same manner, sport with the character of a 
 parent, a brother, a sister, a friend? But the law of 
 charity is, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself . 
 
 Consider, I pray you, my fellow christians, the un- 
 happy, and often irreparable consequences which re- 
 sult from this vice to the peace and comfort of society; 
 and frequently, to individual honor and reputation, the 
 most valued possession to a delicate and virtuous mind. 
 When a slander is once committed to the world, who 
 can answer for the extension it will receive, or the in- 
 jury of which it may be productive? Every repetition 
 adds somewhat to the original tale, till, at length, com- 
 mon fame raises into an enormity which deserves the 
 execration of mankind, a small and venial failing, 
 which merits their indulgence, or compassion. Per- 
 haps, without a failing, the malice, or the indiscretion 
 of one unfriendly or inconsiderate tongue may have 
 alarmed all imaginations, may have infused distrust 
 into all hearts, and filled a country with the wrecks of 
 a ruined reputation. 
 
 It boots you not that you possess the most mild and 
 inoffensive temper, or that your hfe is adorned by the 
 most conspicuous virtues. The iniquity of slander 
 will take advantage of the unresisting meekness of the 
 one, or is provoked by the pre-eminent merits of the 
 other. In vain you attempt to retrieve the purity of 
 your name, by proving the falsehood of its imputations. 
 You may prove them false; still your reputation shall 
 be tarnished, and your innocence have received an in- 
 delible stain. Do you expect reparation from the re- 
 pentance of the slanderer? The injury he has done 
 
On Slander. 189 
 
 you has made him your enemy. But though he should 
 repent, the evil is no longer in his power. The slan- 
 der is gone from him. It is in possession of others. 
 And each new reporter circulates it from a different 
 center, till it fills at length a diffusive sphere to which 
 we can hardly assign any limits. Alas! what jealou- 
 sies, what distrusts, what mutual alienations, what poig- 
 nant miseries often spring from this guilty source! 
 Christians! whose spirit is charity; whose symbol is 
 concord; and whose motto, Hke that of the primitive be- 
 lievers, should be union and love! never may this 
 shameful dereliction of the spirit of Christ dishonor 
 your holy profession! Learn to govern this unruly 
 evil. Regard the character of your brother as a sa- 
 cred treasure which ought to be approached with re- 
 verence, — as the most dehcate of all possessions, liable 
 to be tarnished with the lightest breath. Endeavour 
 to change such unprofitable, and unhallowed conversa- 
 tions, where you are unhappily exposed to them, into 
 a wiser channel. But if the indiscretion of uncharita- 
 ble tongues must prevail, learn to be silent. Silence 
 is the school of prudence. It preserves the tranquilli- 
 ty of the mind; and still keeps the heart open to the 
 influence of amiable and good affections. But the 
 tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison; it is a 
 world of iniquity; it dejileth the whole body, and setteth 
 on fire the course of nature, and it is set on fire of hell. 
 
 Permit me, christians, in the last place, to remark 
 that the most effectual correction of this unhap- 
 py propensity of our fallen nature is, along with the 
 love of God our heavenly Father, and wath charity to 
 
190 On Slander. 
 
 mankind who are his offspring, to cuUivate the spirit 
 of genuine humihty. If men will humbly and peni- 
 tently reflect on their innumerable offences against Al- 
 mighty God, it will restrain that self-sufficiency and 
 pride, which is prone to comment severely on the er- 
 rors of our fellow christians, and extinguish that un- 
 charitable spirit which is ever ready to blazon them to 
 their injury. Carry forward your view to the supreme 
 tribunal of heaven; it will prostrate in the dust, that 
 presumptuous arrogance which dares to judge our fel- 
 low sinners. Humility, like charity, in the bosom of 
 a christian, speaketh no evil, thinketh no evil. 
 
 Almighty God! so influence our minds, at all times, 
 that restraining the evils of a thoughtless or uncharita- 
 ble tongue, our words may always be seasoned with 
 grace/ Amen! 
 
ON REDEEMING TIME. 
 
 Redeeming the time — Ephesians, 5. 16. 
 
 My Christian brethren! we have before us in the pre- 
 sent Hfe, a duty to perform, and an interest to secure, 
 of the highest moment to every heir of immortahty. 
 The cares of our future and eternal existence are con- 
 tinually pressing for our most earnest attention, while 
 the means and opportunities of successfully fulfilling 
 these interesting duties, are rapidly escaping from our 
 possession, and soon will be forever past. These truths, 
 important at all times, were addressed at that period 
 with pecuhar force to the Ephesian converts, from the 
 affecting circumstances in which the christians were 
 placed. Persecution, in its most cruel forms, continu- 
 ally menaced them. Encompassed with chains, and 
 with funeral piles, they were obliged to be always 
 ready to prove the sincerity of their holy profession, 
 and to seal their faithful testimony with their blood. 
 In the midst of these perils it was, that this illustrious 
 apostle exhorted his beloved children in the faith, to be 
 ever prepared to meet the dangers, and the deaths 
 which environed them; and to use, to the best advan- 
 tage, for this purpose, the precious moments still indul- 
 ged to them by the goodness of God. 
 
192 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 He employs on the subject, a strong and unusual 
 figure, rede€m,i7ig the time, as if by extraordinary assidu- 
 ity in the discharge of every duty, and a wise appro- 
 priation of our whole time, we might purchase back 
 the seasons which have been misapplied and lost; or 
 gain additional leisure from our other necessary occu- 
 pations to bestow, on the cares of our salvation, and 
 the interests of eternity. 
 
 Although the external circumstances of the church 
 are, at present, more prosperous and happy, and the 
 fires of persecution are no longer kindled among us; 
 yet, as human life is at all times uncertain, surrounded 
 with thousands of seen, and tens of thousands of unseen 
 dangers, the exhortation of the apostle, to redeem the 
 time may, with no less propriety and earnestness be 
 addressed to us, than to the persecuted saints of Ephe- 
 sus. Perhaps, to us, it speaks with a louder voice than 
 to them. Their imminent dangers imposed upon them 
 the necessity of continual vigilance, and was calcula- 
 ted to awaken the most active zeal in every duty; while 
 the lukewarmness and security of our age, lulling our 
 watchfulness to sleep, and weakening all the pious en- 
 ergies of the soul, require its admonitions to be more 
 frequently sounded in our ears, and more earnestly 
 pressed upon our thoughts. It requires not less firm and 
 established principles of grace, nor less fervour of pious 
 zeal, to resist the temptations of prosperity, and the se- 
 ductions of pleasure, than to encounter the terrors of 
 chains, of imprisonment, and of death. 
 
 Let me request your most serious attention, then, 
 my Christian brethren, while I endeavour, 
 
On Redeeming Time. 193 
 
 I. First, to explain, and afterwards to enforce the 
 duty enjoined in this precept, by rhe holy apostle. — 
 
 I. In its primary view, it implies the faithful employ- 
 ment of the whole of life in diligently fulfilhng all its 
 duties, and pursuing the great end of hving, the sal- 
 vation of the soul. By a wise disposition, and prudent 
 application of our time, we may greatly multiply the 
 useful moments of hfe, and compensate for many past 
 neglects and wasted opportunities of promoting our 
 own improvement, or essentially serving the interests 
 of our fellow christians. And christians! when we 
 recollect what a holy culture is requisite to prepare the 
 soul for the mansions of perfection and happiness in 
 the heavens; and what a solemn account is to be ren- 
 dered of all the actions of life; when we remember, fur- 
 ther, that all our acts, that all our words, that every 
 emotion which rises in our breasts, every affection or 
 impulse which we cherish in our hearts, is impressing 
 some colour on our eternal destiny; and finally, that 
 the fehcity of the saints in the everlasting progress of 
 their being, shall bear some proportion to the good 
 which they have done in life, with what persevering 
 activity and zeal ought every duty to be performed, and 
 every moment be put to profit.^ One of ihe principal 
 means of fulfilling this duty, is the happy and pious 
 talent of making all our ordinary engagements in the 
 world, all our necessary employments, and even all our 
 lawful amusements, minister to the views of religion. 
 
 Some austere and gloomy men have vainly imagined, 
 that, in order to exercise themselves unto godliness, it is 
 requisite to retire from the world, and bury themselves 
 
 VOL. I. e c 
 
194 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 in profound solitude, where they may be continually 
 occupied in a melancholy devotion — This is mistaking 
 the spirit of the gospel. It is in the world, amidst its 
 trials, its conflicts, its labours that our duties he. For 
 society we were formed by our own benevolent Creator, 
 And the first law of our being, next to that supreme 
 devotion which should terminate immediately on God 
 our heavenly Father, is to glorify him by diffusing hap- 
 piness through the great family of his children. Gen- 
 uine and rational piety confers on a good man the di- 
 vine art of living continually for heaven, and making 
 all his occupations in life subservient to the primary 
 end of his existence. He enters upon them in obedience 
 to the will of God, he discharges them, as being 
 always under the immediate inspection of God — In 
 them all he remembers the reference which they bear 
 to the final judgment of God — the idea of God mingles 
 with all, and sanctifies all. 
 
 11. We are here presented with the most general 
 view of this important and comprehensive duty. De- 
 scending into its details, it implies, in the first place, a 
 more than usually earnest and diligent improvement 
 of certain seasons in life, or opportunities occurring 
 in the order of divine Providence over the churches, 
 which are found to be most favourable to the culti- 
 vation of the principles of religion in the heart. 
 
 It has often been remarked that, in the pursuits of 
 life, there is, to every man, a tide in his affairs, which, 
 if wisely observed and improved, will usually lead to 
 a successful issue; but if the golden opportunity be 
 lost, seldom, or never can it be effectually regained. 
 
Oil Redeeming Time. 195 
 
 The analogy exists, not les:, in our spiritual con- 
 cerns, than in those of a temporal nature — in seeking 
 the salvation of the soul, than in pursuing the fortunes 
 of the world. There are seasons, in the arrangenjents 
 of divine Providence, which are pecuHarly calculated 
 to assist our improvement in divine knowledge, and in 
 all the devotional exercises of the heart. They are 
 commonly as transient as they are inestimable; and; 
 when once they have passed away, they never return, 
 or never, with the same favourable circumstances. 
 
 Of these seasons, the most auspicious to religion, is 
 youth. It yields the heart more tender and suscepti- 
 ble to the persuasions of the gospel. Its softness, not 
 yet hardened in a course of vice, is more easily cast 
 into the mould of virtue. The arts and interests of the 
 world have not yet depraved its ingenuousness, and 
 rendered it indocile. This lovely period our heavenly 
 Father regards with peculiar complacency; and he lis- 
 tens to the first lispings of a child, who begins to seek his 
 favour. Or, to change the figure, according to the beau- 
 tiful imagery of the parable in the Gospel, he meets, 
 with affectionate warmth, the return of the young pro- 
 digal, who, sensible of his errors, desires again to find 
 a refuge in the compassions and forgiveness of a Fa- 
 ther. But after the susceptibility, and openness to in- 
 struction of this age is passed away, the Holy Spirit 
 speaks to the heart less frequently, and, when he does 
 speak, his still, small voice is more easily drowned in 
 the clamours, and the cares of the world. 
 
 Youth is the spring of our being, tlie precious seed 
 time of eternity, which, under a wise and faithful cultiva- 
 
196 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 tion, promises the blessed fruits of an immortal harvest. 
 In this vernal and genial season, if I may be allowed to 
 pursue the image, how^ much more may be done for 
 the improvement of the soul, and the growth of its hea- 
 venly graces, than during the ardors of summer, when 
 the passions burn in all their fury — than during the busy 
 cares of autumn, when interest only occupies the heart 
 — than during the frozen winter of age, when the affec- 
 tions are all locked up, and the powers of nature are 
 all in decay? — To descend from this strain of figure, 
 youth is the season of improvement; the happy period 
 most favourable for introducing the principles of piety 
 into the mind, and cherishing the warm affections and 
 the sacred glow of religion. The advance of life may 
 be more distinguished for stability of character, for 
 prudence and wisdom; but the fervors of piety, of cha- 
 rity, and divine love, flourish chiefly in youth. Then is 
 the period which requires the most earnest application 
 ofmindforthe cultivation of every praiseworthy talent 
 of our nature, and of every divine grace that habitually 
 elevates the wsoui to heaven. If youth has been misspent, 
 manhood becomes, in consequence, void of worth, age 
 sinks into contempt, and, most commonly, the fatal foun- 
 dation is laid of shame and everlasting contempt. 
 
 If we may dare, without rashly interpreting the 
 counsels of Heaven, to point out another season pecu- 
 liarly fitted and designed by our blessed Saviour to call 
 his wandering children to the bosom of his family, and 
 to assist their progress in the divine life, it is when he 
 is pleased, in the superintendance of his gracious pro- 
 vidence over his churches, to move by a more copious 
 
On Redeeming Time, 197 
 
 influence than usual of his Holy Spirit on the hearts 
 of men — when we see a more solicitous attention awa^ 
 kened in the public assemblies of christians, to the 
 truths of the gospel, and happier effects accompanying 
 the administration of its ordinances. Whether these 
 seasons have been prepared by causes more or less 
 obvious, they are to be regarded as precious means to 
 assist the cultivation of the immortal interests of the 
 soul, while all the sympathies of human nature are en- 
 gaged on the side of religion, in seeing greater numbers 
 turning from the error of their ways, and the true Israel 
 are perceived, according to the beautiful image of the 
 Psalmist, to proceed with a more vigorous pace to- 
 wards the heavenly Zion, through this dry and thirsty 
 vale, while all its pools are filled with water. Op- 
 portunities there are, which impose on every christian, 
 inviolable obligations to the most active diligence in 
 all the offices of religion, not only by the blessings 
 with which they are usually accompanied, but by the 
 spiritual judgments with which their neglect or abuse 
 is often visibly followed. The soul which they do not 
 dissolve, they harden; if they do not persuade, they ir- 
 ritate the sinner; the sins which they do not exter 
 minate, only strike their roots deeper, and extend them 
 wider in a soil which has been partially softened by the 
 rains and the dews of heaven. The most inveterate 
 enemies of Jesus Christ, and of his holy religion are 
 commonly found among those who were once, almost 
 persuaded to be christians. 
 
 Apply these reflections, as they may be justly ap- 
 plied, to those movements of divine grace which are 
 
198 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 more peculiar and personal. Seasons there are in the 
 life of perhaps every hearer of the gospel, when divine 
 truth addresses itself with more than ordinary persua- 
 sion to the heart; when Divine Providence has, by 
 some interesting dispensation, reached its inmost feel- 
 ings, and awakened it to deep and serious reflection. 
 Tliese are precious moments. Cherish their sacred 
 impressions; pursue the pious and penitent resolutions 
 which they have begun to form, and let them augment 
 your earnest solicitude at the throne of heavenly 
 grace. Know, then, the merciful day of your visitation, 
 and improve it with diligence to the glory of God and 
 your own salvation, whether itrises in brightness, like the 
 morning sun unspotted with a saddening cloud; or de- 
 scends, hke the refreshing dews and shadows of the 
 evening. 
 
 III. This important obligation consists, in the next 
 place, in a wise and prudent distribution of the employ- 
 ments and duties of each day, and giving to each its ap- 
 propriate season. Our time can seldom be less usefully 
 employed than by an irregular and unequal attendance 
 on its necessary avocations. But when each engage- 
 ment commands its stated period; and the whole bu- 
 siness of life has its order fixed, you multiply its use- 
 ful moments, and every portion of your existence is 
 made to contribute to some valuable end. But if the 
 seasons of devotion, of meditation, and the various of- 
 fices of piety, are wavering and unsettled, seldom can 
 the soul be devoutly collected in these holy exercises, 
 and raised to a due elevation of pious fervour. They 
 are then easily turned aside, or postponed by every 
 
 J 
 
On Redeeming Time. 199 
 
 trivial occurrence, and your affections become cold and 
 unequal. In order, therefore, to redeem the time with 
 the best advantages, employ it with order; appropriate 
 to each duty its proper season, and to each season its 
 proper duty. Thus may you prolong hfe; you may 
 multiply its useful moments, and increase the value of 
 each moment as it passes, for the most holy offices 
 and duties of religion. 
 
 IV. The sacred obligation of redeeming time, in- 
 cludes, in the last place, such a recollection of the 
 time which is past, as will make it a useful monitor to 
 direct us in the wise employment of the future. The 
 frailties of human nature require that it should be edu- 
 cated in the severe school of experience, that we may 
 learn wisdom from our own errors. Too commonly the 
 review of life, is only the review of its follies, of its 
 omissions of duty, of the mistakes of ignorance, of the 
 illusions of pleasure, of the surprises of passion, of op- 
 portunities neglected, of time misapplied and wasted. 
 From a faithful retrospect of our errors, what instruct- 
 ive lessons may often be derived! Here prudence may 
 learn to avoid the faults into which inadvertence has 
 fallen; to escape follies into which passion has been 
 ensnared: to correct the defects of precipitancy, or the 
 more serious evils of criminal ignorance. If pleasure 
 has deceived you, my brother, by specious appear- 
 ances, if passion has involved you in disastrous conse- 
 quences, let experience preserve you hereafter, by con- 
 tinually pointing to these beacons of your danger. 
 
 Another important instruction meets us, in this se- 
 rious review of time. It is calculated deeply to pene- 
 
200 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 trate the heart with its extreme brevity; that affecting 
 idea so little realized by men in the moments of health, 
 but always so justly alarming to the sons of guiU. In look- 
 ing forward, time appears long, and we are often impa- 
 tient of its tardy progress; it is only when we take a retro- 
 spective view, that we discern how speedily it has flown. 
 The ancients painted these truths to the imagination by 
 a very striking emblem. It was the image of an old man 
 who had but a single lock of hair remaining on his 
 head, and that was before; while the hinder portion 
 was entirely bare. Conveying this most interesting mo- 
 ral, that, if we do not seize time and opportunity prompt- 
 ly, while it is advancing, and presents to us only this 
 forelock, there is nothing by which we can arrest or 
 detain it when it has passed. This aged figure, which 
 carried with him a formidable sithe, that, in its de- 
 structive sweep, cut off all animated being, like the 
 grass of the field, hid behind him , in his approach, an 
 ample pair of wings, and seemed to move with the tar- 
 dy and faltering pace of decrepid years, but when past, 
 he spread his pinions, and flew with inconceivable swift- 
 ness. Behold, my beloved brethren, an image of time! 
 II. Permit me now to offer to your serious consi- 
 deration, some additional reflections on the importance, 
 the brevity, and the uncertainty of our time on earth, 
 in order to enforce the duty enjoined in the text. 
 
 The importance of things may often be estimated 
 from their connexions; and the life of man deiives 
 an unspeakable value from its relation to succeeding 
 eternity. It is the season of preparation for our immor- 
 
OnRedeemiiig Time. ;20l 
 
 tal existence, in which according to the use, or the 
 abuse that we make of it, shall be fixed the condition 
 of every soul either in a glorious and interminable fe- 
 licitj, or a condition of wo which my heart shrinks 
 to conceive, and my tongue fails to pronounce. My 
 Christian brethren! how interesting and how awful this 
 consideration! 
 
 If we see mankind so assiduously labouring as they 
 do, for the meat that perisheth; for a perishing fortune 
 which they must soon leave to others; or a perishing 
 name which shall soon be buried with their ashes in 
 their tombs, how much more ought we to labour for the 
 meat which endureth to everlasting life! for the glorious 
 distinctions, and the high rewards wherewith God shall 
 crown the fidelity of those who love him! — For the 
 wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament and 
 they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever 
 and ever. Christians! can this narrow period of time, 
 these fugitive moments, appear in a more interesting 
 light than as destined to prepare the soul for her im- 
 mortal being? The faithful improvement of this tran- 
 sient existence opens a path to glory and immortality 
 which is terminated only by the throne of God. 
 
 Not only does our present life derive a reflected 
 value from that immortal being which awaits us; but 
 its importance is unspeakably enhanced by the consi- 
 deration that it is the only season wherein the salvation 
 of the soul can be attained. There is no after state in 
 which the errors and mistakes of the present may be 
 corrected. The voice of the Spirit of truth has declar- 
 ed; — There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor 
 wisdom, in tlie grave whither thou goest. Do you not 
 
 VOL. I. Dd 
 
202 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 hear the decree of Heaven announced in terms so 
 explicit that no sophistry can explain them away? Do 
 you not see it illustrated by the whole course of pro- 
 vidence. If the season of education and improvement 
 has been misapplied, can its lost advantages ever be re- 
 gained? if you have neglected your seed time, can you 
 hope to reap in harvest? Do not intemperance and 
 profligacy implant diseases in the constitution, which 
 no medicine, no length of time, no repentance can cure? 
 and when the Son of man shall sit on the throne of his 
 glory, judging the universe, what is his fearful decree 
 on those who die in their sins? Let him that is filthy, 
 he filthy still. Depart ye cursed into everlasting fire! — 
 Yes, then, the merciful Abraham cannot send Laza- 
 rus with one drop of water to mitigate the intensity of 
 the flames which consume them. Yes, when the Bride- 
 groom is come, the doors of mercy are forever closed 
 against the foolish virgins who were not prepared to re- 
 ceive him at his coming. 
 
 The dissolute and profligate often abridge, by their 
 own follies, the brief period of the mercy of Heaven. 
 Before they have run out half their days, they are given 
 up to an impenitent mind; and the secret seal of the 
 Almighty is already fixed upon their destiny. Behold 
 then. Christians, heirs of immortality! the unspeakable 
 value of this transient portion of time. Life, fleeting 
 and precarious, contains the utmost limit of the sea- 
 son, and the means of salvation; of that period of our 
 moral education which is destined to cultivate the soul 
 for heaven. These blessings are, perhaps, restricted 
 even to a brief portion of the rapid hour which is pass- 
 
On Redeeming Time. 203 
 
 Ing: possibly the present moment brings with it the only 
 remaining offer of the divine mercy, which awaits thee, 
 my dear brother. AH the importance of eternity may be 
 attached to each moment, as it passes. With what fer- 
 vent devotion of soul, ought it to be redeemed, and put 
 to profit! 
 
 If all the hopes of the present Hfe, if life itself, to any 
 culprit against the laws of his country, should rest upon 
 a single moment; if the criminal had only this moment 
 remaining, in which to solicit a reprieve, that was still 
 in his power, how precious would that moment be? 
 With what earnestness would he prefer his suit.'^ would 
 he engage others in his behalf? would he study to in- 
 terest the public sympathy? would he set to work 
 every engine which could advance his hopes? Alas! 
 what is that little particle of time which a criminal 
 could redeem from death, compared with his eternal 
 existence? What is this frail and perishing life, if we 
 could prolong it to its utmost period upon earth, com- 
 pared with the ever during being which commences 
 beyond the tomb? What is that stroke which it awakes 
 all his energies to escape, however painful or however 
 shameful it may be, which mingles only this corrupt- 
 able portion of our nature with the dust, to that fearful 
 decree which consigns both, soul and body to Hell for- 
 ever? 
 
 Could one of the happy children of light address 
 you from the abodes of blessedness, in which he en- 
 joys the ecstacies of eternity, with what immortal ar- 
 dors would he proclaim the value of time? would he 
 press upon you the wise improvement of the present 
 
204 . On Redeeming Time. 
 
 moment, pointing to the glory in which he now exists, 
 and which, after a few more conflicts, awaits every pi- 
 ous soul in the mansions of the redeemed? Fearing 
 the weakness of faith, clouded and darkened as it is by 
 the shadows of sense, which once impeded his own 
 progress in the divine life, and put to hazard his own 
 salvation; how would he redouble the earnestness of 
 his admonitions, and strive to reanimate your languish- 
 ing zeal! 
 
 On the other hand, could you hear the lamentations 
 of one of those miserable j^moners oX wrath, who are 
 reserved in chains, under darkness unto the judgment of 
 the great day; in what fearful accents would he preach 
 the same truth! Would not his lamentations be in the 
 room of len thousand arguments, to gain an access to your 
 hearts? Oh! those precious means of securing the sal- 
 vation of my soul, once indulged me by the mercy of 
 Heaven, but lost by my folly, by my madness! In what, 
 alas! have they ended? Terrible judge of the universe! 
 only in these flames which consume me! When I look 
 round, I behold nothing but unquenchable fires; but 
 the horrors of despair! When I look forward to eternal 
 ages, the same fires burn, the same horrors reign! 
 Mortals! if you knew your present happiness! Just 
 God! were not thy decree inexorable! could I regain 
 the moments I have lost! irrevocably lost! how would 
 I consecrate them only to thee! Yes, I would astonish 
 the world with my zeal. They would call it madness; 
 but to a soul that knows the power of thy wrath, it 
 would be only the fervor and diligence of wisdom. 
 
 In the ardent sentiments of these heirs of glory, and 
 
On Redeeming Time. 205 
 
 "o 
 
 these heirs of shame learn, my beloved bretliren, to es- 
 timate the preciousness of those moments which, by the 
 unmerited favour of Ahnighty God, you still enjoy. 
 What lessons on their pious employment do they teach 
 to iiumble wisdom! 
 
 The duty of redeeming time is urged with increased 
 force, if possible, by the solemn considerations of its 
 brevity, and its infinite uncertainty. But how shall 
 we give impression to these important truths, which 
 seem to have lost their effect upon the hearts of men 
 only by their constant repetition in our public assem- 
 blies, and even by the terrible examples of them conti- 
 nually presented to our view in the course of divine 
 providence. God! thou alone, by thy heavenly grace, 
 canst effectually touch the heart, otherwise insensible 
 to the instructions of thy blessed word! Give efficacy 
 to these solemn ideas, — accompany the admonitions of 
 thy holy providence, so often seen and disregarded; so 
 often felt, for a moment, and forgotten, with the pow- 
 erful energy of thy most Holy Spirit! 
 
 My brethren, look back upon the long succession of 
 time that is passed. How many generations of the hu- 
 man race have been already swept from the earth, and the 
 places which have knoimi them, shall knmv them no more 
 forever! And are not we, in our turn, hasting to pass from 
 the view of men.'' The period in which we have lived, 
 shall in a little time, be no longer remembered; or, if 
 history record a few events, merely to connect the se- 
 ries of ages, they will form but one imperceptible link 
 in that infinite chain. Oiir days on earth are as a slut- 
 doiv; as the vision of the night; as a vapour which ap- 
 
206 On Hedeemins: Time 
 
 't> 
 
 peareth for a little, and then vanisheth away. — Great 
 God! so teach ns to number our days, that we may ap' 
 ply our hearts unto wisdom/ 
 
 If our time is shorty is not even this brief period 
 abridged by a thousand avocations? — by the cares of a 
 family — by the engagements of business, — by the ne- 
 cessary refreshments of nature, — by the functions of 
 our station, — by the decencies and civihties of society? 
 — Take from Hfe all that is necessarily, or unnecessarily 
 bestowed upon the world ; take from it all that is wasted 
 in dissipation, in frivolity, in anmsement, in mere inac- 
 tion, and how small a portion remains to be exclusive- 
 ly devoted to devotion, and the cares of our salvation? 
 And, is not that small portion continually escaping from 
 us almost without our observation? Arrest it, then, 
 in its progress by the power of meditation. Recall it 
 daily to your own tribunal, rejudging there the actions 
 of every day. Fix your attention deeply on its solemn 
 and awful lapse. 
 
 A profitable exercise it may be frequently to set apart 
 some stated period, as a birth day; the commencement 
 of a new year; the anniversary of some remarkable dis- 
 pensation of divine providence, and reviewing the inter- 
 val between the present and the past, to demand of your 
 heart how you have lived in the mean time; what you 
 have done for God, for eternity, for the benefit of human 
 nature? what ripeness you have gained for heaven? 
 
 It may not be unuseful, frequently, in serious medi- 
 tation, to count the hours as they strike, or attend to 
 the seconds as they beat. They are so many portions 
 of time continually reuniting themselves with eternity. 
 A few more shall beat, and the last shall bear us with 
 
On Redeeming Time. 207 
 
 it on its wings to the tribunal of God. A celebrated poet 
 has employed this thought with great beauty and force. 
 — It was past the dead hour of midnight, and mortals, 
 all insensible, were sleeping on the bosom of that mighty 
 stream which is silently, and constantly bearing us 
 along with it into the abyss of eternity. — The next 
 hour tolled: — " The bell, saith he, strikes one! we take 
 no note of time, but by its loss. To give it then, a 
 tongue is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel 
 the solemn sound. It is the knell of my departed hours. 
 — It is the signal that demands despatch. — How much 
 is still to do!" 
 
 If to the brevity, we add the uncertainty of time, that 
 fearful uncertainty, which every where meets our view 
 in ten thousand affecting examples, can motives more 
 powerful, or interesting be addressed to perishing mor- 
 tals to be always in readiness for the coming of their Lord. 
 It is the common and fatal error of mankind to count 
 upon the continuance of time, and opportunity, till they 
 are just vanishing from their possession. In health, 
 they admit no serious apprehensions of the approach 
 of death, till their last sickness has overtaken them. 
 In sickness they flatter themselves till their disease has 
 already seized upon their vitals. So true it is that almost 
 all men perish suddenly at last. Some build their 
 promises of life on the vigour of their frame; some on 
 the elasticity of youth; and others raise their falacious 
 expectations even on their old age, because they have 
 already resisted so many assaults of disease, or escaped 
 so many of the strokes of accident. — Ah! deceive not 
 yourselves in a calculation on which such an infinite 
 
208 On Redeeming Time. 
 
 stake depends! Do you count on the maturity of you^ 
 strength? Alas! what is the fancied vigor of mortals, 
 when touched, and withered by the hand of death? 
 Do I see in this assembly, a few heads already blos- 
 somed for the tomb? Let your withering wrinkles, 
 your gray hairs, your frail and tottering limbs be solemn 
 moniters to you, that you touch upon the verge of the 
 eternal world. I seem to see death beckoning you. 
 Nor let the inexperienced ardor of youth, which gilds 
 so deceptively the prospects of life, delude the young 
 with the vain hope of having time to spare. No age, 
 alas! is exposed to greater hazards. Your precipitan- 
 cy, your inexperience, the delicacy of your frame which 
 constitutes the principal charm of that lovely period, 
 are your snares, and often the invisible pitfalls of your 
 ruin. Death lies in ambush about your path. He 
 points his fatal arrows at one and another of your com- 
 panions. You see them fall in the midst of the tri- 
 umphs of conscious strength and beauty. And thou, 
 my brother! my son! thou dost not know if the next 
 shaft may not be aimed at thee. Amen ! 
 
THE GIVING 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LAW ON MOUNT SINAI. 
 
 I the third month, when the children of Israel were gone forth out of the 
 
 land of Egypt, the same day came they into the wilderness of Sinai 
 
 and there fsrael encamped before the Mount. Ex. 19. 1,2. 
 
 The people of Israel, having left Rephidim, where 
 til at miraculous stream from the rock had refreshed 
 tlieir fainting spirits, and where Joshua had made his 
 first essay in generalship in a victorious conflict with 
 the hosts of Amalek, were encamped in the plain of 
 Sinai, before that sacred mountain on which God had 
 ali"eady appeared to Moses, to invest him with the 
 high commission of legislator of his chosen people, 
 and on which he was again about to appear in terrible 
 majesty to promulge his holy law. Hitherto they 
 possessed no known and written code, but were regu- 
 lated by daily orders issued by their leader. All their 
 controversies were brought to his tribunal to be deci- 
 ded according to a law in his own breast, of according 
 to those lights by which, in special cases, his mind was 
 informed from above. Henceforward, they were to 
 enjoy a known and written system of laws by which 
 they should understand both their duties, and their 
 rights, and which should be interpreted and appHed 
 
 VOL. I. EC 
 
2 1 6 The giving of the Law 
 
 by judges chosen from among the most venerable heads 
 df famihes in their respective tribes. 
 
 To the legislator himself, appeals lay only in a few 
 great and difficult causes. In that unrefined age, the 
 extreme simplicity of manners required, and admitted 
 of, only the most simple organization of the govern- 
 ment, and the people, in their judges, found their Fa- 
 thers.* 
 
 All the preparations for the publication of the law 
 were made with the greatest solemnity. Limits, which 
 the people were not to pass, were marked out round 
 the mountain on which the glory of God was to des- 
 cend, to teach them the profound distance at which 
 they were placed from him, — the awful reverence with 
 which they should approach the presence, or hear the 
 commands of their Creator. They were required to 
 purify themselves, to wash their garments, and to pre- 
 serve their persons from ail defilement, as emblems of 
 that purity of soul with which we should come before 
 Him who is holy, who searcheth, and will, at last, judge 
 the lieart. — And finally, they were called to impose up- 
 on themselves a solemn and national vow to obey the 
 laws which were about to be promulgated to them 
 from heaven. 
 
 The circumstances accompanying this vow merit 
 your attention. Moses was called up into the Mount 
 by Godi probably by means of some voice distinctly 
 
 * The respectable and pious priest of Midian, the father-in-law of the 
 legislator, had the merit of suggesting this judicial arrangement when he 
 came to bring to Moses his wife and liis two sons, whom lie had sent back 
 into Arabia, when he went into Egypt to deliver his countrymen. 
 
On Mount Sinai. 2\l 
 
 formed in the air: for, that no image, or figure of any 
 being uas ever seen by Moses, he himself expressly and 
 strongly asserts. He brings back from Jehovah a mes- 
 sage full of affection, recounting the prodigies by which 
 he had effected their deliverance in Egypt, and the 
 care with which he had guided, cherished, and protected 
 them in their dangerous march; and, concluding with 
 the most gracious promises, if they should continue to 
 observe his covenant, and to obey his word; — you shall 
 be to me a peculiar treasure above all people; a king- 
 dom ofjjriests? a holy nation — This message Moses 
 communicated to the elders who were the magistrates, 
 and representatives of the nation, and they to their res- 
 pective divisions of the people, who, with universal ac- 
 clamation, pronounced all that the Loid hath spoken 
 we imll do. 
 
 On the morning of the third day, as Moses had fore- 
 told, while the minds of the whole nation were sus- 
 pended in anxious expectation, God descended on 
 Mount Sinai, in the symbols of his awful Majesty and 
 his glorious power. Clouds and darkness involved 
 its summit; while the tremendous thunders and light- 
 nings which issued from them struck terror to the 
 hearts of that vast congregation. The mountain was 
 all on flame, and the smoke, as a mighty furnace, as- 
 cended from it to the skies. In the midst of these con- 
 vulsions of the elements, the trumpet, the image of that 
 last trumpet which shall raise the dead and shake the 
 universe, sounded long and loud. And as it waxed 
 louder and louder, the whole mountain shook to its 
 base. Then it was that God, willing to put a mark 
 
2 1 2 The giving of the Law 
 
 of distinguished honor on his chosen prophet, and t* 
 stamp a divine authority on his mission, in the hearts 
 of the assembled nation, called him, by a heavenly 
 voice, to come up into the top of Mount Sinai invel- 
 oped in clouds and flames. Behold, then, this divine 
 man, all serene, penetrating, if I may speak so, the bo- 
 som of the thunder, and approaching the presence of 
 him who maketh darkness his pavilion round about him, 
 dark vapours, and thick clouds of the sky; before whom 
 the earth shook and trembled, and the foundations of the 
 heaven were moved. How sublime the spectacle! what 
 grandeur, what authority did it throw round the charac- 
 ter of their legislator in the eyes of that great nation! 
 There he conversed face to face with God his maker; 
 and returned only to dispose them in order, to receive 
 the law which was about to be proclaimed not by man, 
 or by inferior agents, but by the awful voice of God 
 himself Then was the moral law, the basis of the 
 political and religious institutions of Israel; that lavi^ 
 which was afterwards written on two tables of stone; 
 and which is inscribed by nature on the hearts of all 
 men, delivered from the midst of the darkness where 
 God resided; and each law was announced in thunder. 
 That law, so apt to be forgotten by mankind unless 
 when recalled by some dreadful dispensation of divine 
 Providence, was impressed on their hearts by all the 
 terrors of the Almighty. The people overwhelmed with 
 fear, besought Moses that he only would speak to them, 
 hereafter, in the name of God, and let not God speak to 
 us lest ice die. Moses again ascended into the Mount. 
 The thunderings and the lightnings ceased. Only the I 
 
On Mount Sinai. 2\$ 
 
 thick cloud remained upon the summit; and the holy 
 legislator entered alone into the darkness vvhei'e the 
 glory of the Most High resided. He brought thence, 
 after six days, the heads of his civil and religious poli- 
 ty, and reciting them in the audience of all the people, 
 engaged them, by new vows, to their observance * 
 Once more, however, he was to return into the Mount, 
 that he might receive from God in detail all the insti- 
 tutions of that singular, but admirable code, which was 
 destined for the future government of Israel. 
 
 Committing, therefore, the supreme government to 
 Aaron and Hur, during his absence, he retired, along 
 with Joshua, his lieutenant and successor, into the 
 cloud which still invested the top of the Mount, and 
 veiled the divine glory which shone in the midst. 
 Here, in a residence of forty days, he received from 
 God the tables of the moral law, and the volume of 
 his political, and ceremonial institutions. 
 
 Let us review the scene at once so awful and ma- 
 jestic, which we have just contemplated that we may 
 derive from it some useful and pious reflections which 
 may confirm our faith, and lead us justly to esteem our 
 
 * For this purpose, he took with him Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and se- 
 venty of the elders of Israel, as representatives of the whole nation, and on 
 one of the eminences of Sinai far below the summit, but in the view of 
 the whole camp, he periormed all the rites which, in that age, were used 
 to accompany the most solemn covenants. He erected twelve pillars, 
 one for each tribe, as lasting monuments of the transaction, — he sacrificed 
 a victim, — he spread a feast of which they all partook before God, — and 
 finally he look the blood of the victim, which is called the blood of the co- 
 venant, one half he sprinkled on the altar, and with the other he sprink- 
 led the people after they had, with cue voice declared, all that the Lord 
 hath spoken mil we do. 
 
214 The giving of the Law 
 
 own superior blessings under the milder dispensation of 
 the gospel. All these glorious displays of divine power 
 seem to have been necessary to give authenticity to 
 the mission of this great legislator, and to procure from 
 a people as yet rude and uncultivated, a prompt obe- 
 dience to his laws. The lights of the great revela- 
 tion of nature were beginning to be extinguished in 
 the corruptions of the world; the pious traditions of 
 the patriarchs of the respective nations were hastening 
 to be buried under the growing mass of superstitions: 
 when God would arrest this corruption, and rescue the 
 truth from beneath the load of superstitious error 
 which covered it, it became necessary to display 
 anew before the eyes of mankind, the same omnipo- 
 tent power which created the universe. He alone 
 who gave the original law of nature could restore and 
 repubhsh it, if it has been lost and corrupted. When 
 God determined to rear a nation to be the depositary 
 of divine truth, and of the hope of the world, it was to 
 be expected that he would found it on some transcend- 
 ent demonstrations of his power and glory. Miracles 
 of grandeur, mira( les of terror only could produce a 
 deep and permanent impression on minds like theirs, 
 or inspire that voluntary submission to law and politi- 
 cal order which Moses desired to establish. What was 
 the state of their minds.'^ Bred in servitude, knowing 
 no law but the will of their masters, they possessed not 
 the habits of self-government, and were unacquainted 
 with the institutions of evil society: just emancipated 
 from slavery, in the delirium and intoxication of freedom, 
 they were impatient^ murmuring, factious. No means, 
 
On Mount Sinai. 2\5 
 
 then, existed, by which such a people could be govern- 
 ed, except a mihtary despotism, by which they would 
 still be subjected to a master; or an institution founded 
 on the awful power of religion, by which, while the 
 mind was subdued to obedience and habits of order, it 
 would, at the same time, acquire a sense of its digni- 
 ty, and its rights. Moses was too wise, too humane, 
 and too pious a legislator to aim at establishing a d€S- 
 potism which degrades and depraves the mind. He 
 wished to infuse a degree of liberty into his govern- 
 ment which was not known in that age, and which 
 their habits and ideas had not yet prepared them to en- 
 joy. He gave them known and certain laws which 
 ascertained their rights not less than their duties, he 
 entrusted their administration only to the most compe- 
 tent and impartial hands; and placed the whole under 
 the sacred and inviolable protection of religion. And 
 the most tremendous sanctions of religion, the most 
 sublime displays of divine power, were necessary to 
 subdue the untractable minds of this great nation, even 
 to institutions on which their prosperity, and their ex- 
 istence depended. Other legislators, indeed, have pre- 
 tended to a secret intercourse with some Deity, in or- 
 der to procure veneration for their laws, and to strength- 
 en their own authority. But who, like Moses, has 
 conversed with heaven in the face of an assembled 
 nation.-^ Who, like him, has wielded the powers of 
 heaven in the sight of millions? has obtained from 
 heaven those illustrious testimonies which come home 
 to the senses and the heart of every spectator.'' His 
 miracles rested not on the credulity of vulgar minds, 
 
216 The giving of the Law 
 
 nor could they consist in deceptions of sense. Could 
 Moses, in the passage of the Red Sea, in the miracu- 
 lous descent of their d^ily bread, in the tremendous 
 tokens of the divine presence on Mount Sinai have 
 imposed on the senses of a whole nation? Could he^ 
 without illustrious miracles have induced this nation, as 
 yet uncultivated and disorderly, to adopt so holy and 
 sublime a law? Could he have fixed its roots so deep- 
 ly in their hearts as to render it more stable than the 
 institutions of any other nation which ever existed? 
 
 The wisdom of the policy of Moses, in the next 
 place, deserves to be admired and imitated, founded as 
 it is in the purest and sublimest ideas of virtue and re- 
 ligion, A finer epitome of pious and moral principles 
 never was conceived than that w^hich is prefixed to the 
 Mosaic code. It were too long to go into an analysis 
 of those commandments, the sum of which is, Thou 
 shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, andiwith 
 all thy sold, and with all thy strength, and with all thy 
 mind; and thou shall love thy neighbour as thi/self. 
 With these principles in the heart, obedience to all 
 the particular laws which unfold and detail them, will 
 be both certain and delightful. Virtue, which is the 
 most stable foundation of states, is itself securely 
 founded only in religion. When religion is abandon- 
 ed, virtue decHnes along with it. Impiety is the pa- 
 rent of profligacy of manners, which when they be- 
 come general among any people, absorb the public af- 
 fections in the pursuits of private pleasure, and the 
 state is hastening to be overturned. Such is the or- 
 tler of Providence, that depravity of morals is not more 
 
On Mount Sinai. 2\1 
 
 ©ertainly the forerunner of the ruin of individuals tlian 
 of nations. This serves to explain that sanction ad- 
 ded to the second commandnient, so often mistaken 
 by the friends of piety, and so often made the subject 
 of virulent and ignorant declamation by its enemies: — 
 / am a jealous God visitins^ the iniquities of the fathers 
 upon the children unto the third and fourth generation 
 of them that hate me, and shoiving mercy unto thou- 
 sands of them that love me and keep my command- 
 ments. Declension to idolatry by the people of Israel 
 would be the utter dereliction of the true God, whose 
 glory they had seen displayed in so many astonishing 
 operations; and would be in them the proof and the 
 increasing source of the general depravity of the pub- 
 lic morals. When a people is become impious and 
 sunk in vice, their speedy ruin is inevitable. The 
 disorders and evils of one generation are accumulated 
 on another, till at length, ail the ties which hold socie- 
 ty together being dissolved, they become ripe for con- 
 quest, for horrible revolutions, or for some dreadful 
 and exterminating stroke of Divine Providence. This 
 is visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children. 
 For this threatening, however it may applicable to in- 
 dividuals in a certain degree, has an aspect chiefly on 
 the state of nations. And if we consult experience, 
 which is the history of the world, we shall find that, 
 when once such extreme corruption of public senti- 
 ment and manners has taken place, the fourth genera- 
 tion, or even the third, has seldom passed, before such 
 a nation is sunk into the common gulf of states and 
 enipires. On the other hand, if the republic preserve 
 
 VOL. I. F f 
 
S 1 8 jf Vie giving of the Law 
 
 its manners uncorrupted, were it to a thousand gene- 
 rations, such is the force of virtue, it shall continue to 
 flourish under the smiles of heaven. Oh! ignorant ob- 
 jectors to religion, who have spent your venom on this, 
 as on a thousand other passages in the sacred wri- 
 tings, is it not, however, a just exhibition of the visible 
 and established order of the moral world? Why then 
 should not God declare it both as a warning and an 
 encouragement to that people whom he had taken un- 
 der his more imnjediate protection? Or is it harsher, 
 or more unreasonable to declare it in terms than to 
 act upon it in the government of the universe? Ah! 
 how often does malignity of heart press against reve- 
 lation objections which it has drawn only from the 
 fund of its own ignorance. Unbehever! explain to me 
 the course of nature, justify the visible order of Provi-^ 
 dence; that is, explain and justify the first principles 
 of your natural religion, and I will, on the same 
 grounds, vindicate the doctrines of revealed. 
 
 But your time demands that I hasten to a conclu- 
 sion. Let uje, then, observe, in the last place, that the 
 terror with which the law was delivered on Mount Si- 
 nai forms a striking contrast to the mildness and gen- 
 tleness with which the gospel was announced by the 
 Saviour of the world. Leaving, now, the particular 
 circumstances of Israel out of view, which required the 
 most awful demonstrations of a divine power to enforce 
 that law on their acceptance, which they were not pre- 
 pared by any previous habits or ideas, to receive; the 
 terrors of the one, the peace and tranquillity of the other, 
 are emblems of a conscience penetrated with a sense of 
 
On Mount Sinai. 219 
 
 guilt, and ofa heart restored to hope in the mercy of God 
 through Jesus Christ our Lord. The law is a school- 
 master to bring lis to Christ. Not only do all the shadows 
 of that typical institution continually point to the future 
 Saviour, but the conscience of guilt, awakened by the 
 violated law, could not be appeased but by those vic- 
 tims which derived their efficacy only from the great 
 saaifice which was offered /or the sins of the whole 
 world. The law is holy, just, and good; but for every 
 transgression it denounces death on the sinner, or on 
 the victim which stands in the sinner's room. And 
 still do we not find that a guilty conscience forever re- 
 peats the thunders of Sinai in the bottom of the soul? 
 To the convinced sinner the justice of God appears 
 in the most terrible forms; devouring fires are kindled 
 bj it; and the dismay, d criminal can no longer speak 
 to the Most High, or dehver himself from the fears of 
 instant perdition but through a mediator. Christ, by 
 satisfying the claims of justice, by quenching the con- 
 suming fires of a broken law, by sprinkling the blood 
 of the covenant on the altar, and on the sinner, re- 
 stores peace to the heart, and opens the gates of eter- 
 nal mercy. The thunders of Sinai precede the 
 
 still small voice of divine grace. And believe it, sin- 
 ner, you must feel the full force of the claims of the 
 law before you will ever be persuaded to flee to the re- 
 fuge of the gospel. But to every convinced, humbled, 
 and penitent soul, the gospel exhibits an immoveable 
 rock on which it may rest its hopes, an ark of safety in- 
 to which it may retire. Rejoice then, christian! that 
 you are not come to the Mount that might not be touch- 
 
220 The giving of the Law 
 
 ed, and that burned with fire; nor unto blackness, and 
 tempest, and the sound of a trumpet, and that dreadtul 
 voice which they that heard, entreated that the word 
 should not be spoken to them any more: but you are 
 come unto Mount Zion, unto the city of the living God, 
 and to Jesus the Mediator of the new covenant, and to 
 the blood of sprinkling which speaketh better things than 
 that of .flbel. Bfthold, then, your encouragement and 
 consolation under all the terrors of guilt, under all the 
 threatenings of the law. But remember, O hearer of 
 the gospel, and let the interesting truth sink deep into 
 your hearts, that, in proportion to the consolations and 
 the riches of divine grace, will be, at last, the terrors 
 and the hopelessness of abused mercy. See, then, 
 that you refuse not him who speaketh from heaven. For, 
 if he who despised Moses' law died ivithout mercy, un- 
 der two or three witnesses, of how much, sorer punishment 
 suppose ye, shall he be thought ivorthy, who hath trod- 
 den underfoot the Son of God, and counted the blood of 
 the covenant, wheiewith he was sanctified, an unholy 
 thing, and hath done despite to the spirit of grace? 
 And what. Oh! what was the awful grandeur with 
 which he descended on the sacred mountain, as the 
 legislator of Israel, to the terrors which shall surround 
 him as the Judge of quick and dead! What was the 
 trumpet which shook sinai to its base, to that trumpet 
 which shall waken the slumbers of death, and shake the 
 mighty fabric of the universe into ruins! What were the 
 fires and the darkness which enveloped its summit, to 
 the blackness of darkness forever, and to ihe fires which 
 shall never be quenched! What were the dreadful 
 
On Mount Sinai 22 1 
 
 thunders which petrified the camp of Israel^ to those 
 thunders which eternal justice will lanchon the heads 
 of the guilty! Hasten, then, O sinner! to the gates of 
 inercy while yet they are standing open, before the de- 
 cree of heaven, which pronounces, him tlmt is filthy let 
 him he filthy still, shall close them forever. Amen! 
 
A DISCOURSE 
 
 ON THE 
 
 GUILT AND FOLLY 
 OF BEING ASHAMED OF RELIGION. 
 
 Whosoever, therefore, shall be ashamed of me and of my words, in this adul- 
 terous and sinful g'eneration, of liim also shall the Son of Man be asham- 
 ed, when he cometh in the glory of his Father, with the holy Angels. 
 
 Mark viit. 38. 
 
 To perform our duty, and then without ostentation 
 to avow it, is our most honourable and useful charac- 
 ther. It is fuliilling the first law of our nature, and ex- 
 tending religion and virtue in the world, by the influ- 
 ence of our example. To be ashamed of our duty, is 
 to be ashamed of our glory. To acknowledge its obli- 
 gation in secret, and yet disguise it before men, disco- 
 vers a weakness and duplicity of mind, that is no less 
 inconsistent with dignity of character, than with piety. 
 The sentiment of shame, that gives, to the opinion of 
 others, so great authority over our conduct, is, origin- 
 ally, a wise and excellent law of Nature. But, the de- 
 pravity of man hath perverted the best principles, and 
 changed the most ingenuous feelings of the heart into 
 ministers of sin. Great crimes are evidently opposed to 
 the interest of society, and, therefore, they are con- 
 demned by pubUc opinion. The depravity of the human 
 
On tJie guilt and f oily ^ ^c. 22'i 
 
 heart is equally opposed to the spirit of true religion; 
 and, therefore, the manners, and, at least, the ostensi- 
 ble opinions of the world, contradict the purity and 
 simplicity of the Gospel. The one opposes vice in the 
 extreme; the other tends to encourage vice in a certain 
 degree. 
 
 The world hath so accommodated its conversation, its 
 wit, and its opinions to its manners, that men, in the 
 cause of piety, are afraid of incurring its censure or 
 contempt They want courage to oppose the stream 
 of custom; they renounce their duly, in compliance 
 with fashionable vice, or they conceal their inward re- 
 verence for it; and, against their conviction, they live 
 like the world. 
 
 To be ashamed of Christ is a sin, that may be con- 
 sidered in a variety oi hghls. Our Saviour, in pronoun- 
 cing this sentence, had, probably, an immediate view 
 to the testimony, which his disciples would be called 
 to bear to his name, before the tribunals of their un- 
 righteous judges, where the splendor of courts, the 
 scoffs of enemies, the ignominy of punishments, and 
 the humble and unfriended condition of the first Chris- 
 tians, would all contribute to subdue their minds, to 
 make them ashamed of their Master's cross, and to de- 
 prive them of the courage necessary to profess, or to 
 suffer for, his despised cause. 
 
 Honour elevates the mind, and gives fortitude to the 
 weak. Shame is an enfeebling principle, that takes, 
 even from the brave the confidence necessary to avow 
 truth, and the firmness necessary to endure suffering. 
 Indeed, to be ashamed of Christ, and to deny him, are 
 
22 4> On the guilt and folly 
 
 so intimately connected, as cause and effect, that St. 
 Matthew, in expressing this declaration of our Saviour, 
 says, " whosoever shall deny me before men, him will 
 I also deny before my Father, who is in Heaven." 
 
 Through the goodness of God, we are not exposed 
 to persecution. But, living in an age in which custom, 
 in which the powers of wit and ridicule, in which the 
 honours of society, and in which even reason and phi- 
 losophy have been engaged on the side of vice, we are 
 hable to disguise the truths of the Gospel, and to be 
 ashamed of Christ, with a more criminal weakness, 
 than they who suffered their constancy to be shaken 
 by the majesty of tribunals, and the terror of flames. 
 It is this evil which I propose, from the text, to explain 
 and condemn, 
 
 I. By pointing out what is implied in being ashamed 
 of Christ, and his words, and, 
 
 II. By demonstrating its folly, and its guilt. 
 
 I. in pointing out what is implied in being ashamed 
 of Christ, and his words, I shall treat of the sentiment 
 of shame, directly, and unfold some of its principle 
 causes, and consequences, as they affect the profession 
 of religion. 
 
 I. In the first place the sentiment of shame. This, 
 like other simple feelings and emotions of the human 
 mind, cannot be easily understood, except, by exciting 
 the perception, and calling to mind the occasions on 
 which we have most sensibly felt its constraints. Let 
 us recollect those seasons, in which a sinful regard to 
 the observation of nien, has tempted us to decline the 
 duty to which we have been urged by our own hearts; 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 225 
 
 or. in which we have gone into criminal compliances 
 with the work], through a weakness of mind, that was 
 unable to support the presence, or to contradict the 
 opinions, of our fellow sinners. Let young persons, par- 
 ticularly, recollect their fears, lest it should be known 
 
 . that they worship God, and pay, to the Creator, the 
 first dut} of a creature. Recollect what it is, that 
 sometimes clothes you with a light, and thoughtless air 
 in the house of God; afraid to be serious, lest you 
 should appear too much to believe the Gospel, or to 
 be affected by its truths. 
 
 When, at any time, the Divine Word begins to seize 
 upon your hearts, what is it that excites you to shake 
 
 . off the conviction? And, when almost persuaded to be 
 Christians, what withholds you from being persuaded 
 altogether-' It is shame. You are afraid the world will 
 temark it; the world, whose presence weighs more 
 with you, than the authority of an invisible Deity. If 
 you feel the compunctions of repentance; you fear, lest 
 they should be injputed to melancholy, or to weakness. 
 If you perceive the duty and importance of making 
 salvation your first care, and of honouring your Saviour 
 by a public profession of his name: yet, you want the 
 necessary resolution to encounter the world, to meet 
 the sneers of your companions, their looks of suspicion, 
 their hints of hypocrisy, their presages of inconstancy. 
 Thus, may every hearer understand this sentiment, 
 by recalling to mind the occasions on which he has 
 felt it, and on which it has checked his desire, or de- 
 stroyed his resolutions of duty. 
 
 .1 II. I shall farther illustrate it, by pointiug out some 
 VOL. I. c^ g 
 
226 On the guilt and folly 
 
 of its principal causes. These may be reduced to the 
 three that follow; the pain of singularity, the power 
 of ridicule, the want of sincerity. 
 
 Singularity is always painful to an ingenuous 
 mind. It seems to hold us out, as exceptions from the 
 general law of human nature, as insensible to its feel- 
 ings, and worthy neither of the affections, nor of the 
 confidence of mankind. Singularity always attracts the 
 censure of the world, or, by contradicting general prac- 
 tice, or opinions, it invites contempt. The public man- 
 ners have numbers on their side, sufficient to brand 
 with ignominy, whatever, by differing from them, im- 
 plies their condemnation. Superstition, contraction of 
 sentiment, weakness of mind, illiberality of" heart, are 
 the mildest reproaches, that fashionable dissipation be- 
 stow's on piety that dares to be singular. Wealth and 
 power, objects before which the human mind is prone 
 to bow, being too often on the side of vicious fashion, 
 give it great advantage, in establishing wrong ideas of 
 honour and disgrace. And, because the multitude of 
 men of science, like the vulgar multitude, are frequent- 
 ly in the same interests, even philosophy and wit have, 
 been pressed into its service by these its obedient sons. 
 To withstand so many formidable enemies, is an ar- 
 duous task, even for confirmed virtue. Little is thef 
 wonder then, if first resolutions, in religion, should be 
 shaken by them; and if the young should, sometimes, 
 not have fortitude to bear up against them. To be sin- 
 gular in piety, is to dare incur contempt, for the des- 
 pised cross. A hard sacrifice for human pride, and, 
 especially, for juvenile virtue! Many more are found. 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 221 
 
 who are ready to forsake the Saviour, than who have 
 firmness of mind sufficient to overcome the constraints 
 of a false shame. Imperious fashion, both in conduct 
 and opinion, will forever sway the wordly heart. To 
 rise above its influence, requires an extraordinary zeal 
 m religion, that seems to annihilate the temptations of 
 the world, or an established and respected character in 
 piety, that gives a man authority over his own actions. 
 But, in the commencement of a religious life, and be- 
 fore a character in it hath become appropriated, as it 
 were, and sacred, for a man to enter into the society 
 of his companions with reserve; to go with it only a 
 certain length; to seem to enjoy it with constraint; to 
 reproach them, by more severe and corrected morals; 
 and to incur their suspicion, obloquy, or contempt, re- 
 quires uncommon prudence, and uncommon fortitude. 
 How often does the dismaying power of shame sub- 
 due the heart, before so many difficulties! 
 
 2. Another source of shame is found in the power of 
 ridicule. Ridicule is perhaps the severest assault, which 
 a man about to enter upon duty is called to sustain. It 
 is apt to dismay and humble him more, than the cool- 
 ness of contempt, or the violence of power. So sensi- 
 ble of its force are some infidels, that, with this weapon 
 alone, do they attack Christianity, which they have so 
 long in vain assailed by reason. It is a species of attack 
 which every man can use against religion; because all 
 can laugh, though few can reason. It can be used against 
 religion viith peculiar success; because its perfections 
 are often invisible to sense, or withdrawn from the 
 view, while the imperfections of its professors, which 
 
228 On the guilt and folly 
 
 are mistaken for it, are obvious to every eye. The 
 saints! The hypocrites! The weak fools! are titles that 
 will furnish abundant sources of amusement to those, 
 who mistake names for characters, and laughter for 
 wit. x\nd, when other matter fails, uumickry, the low- 
 est species of ridicule, con>es in, with a thousand ma- 
 licious and false additions, to dress out the last scenes 
 of humble diversion. .The wise and experienced Chris- 
 tian arrives, at length, to feel his superiority over these 
 ludicrous attacks, but the young and inexperienced find 
 them almost irresistible. They feel the humiliating 
 contempt of laughter; they are degraded in their own 
 esteem; ridicule dismays them; a senseless smile sub- 
 dues their hearts; and, before a sinful generation, they 
 are ashamed of Christ, and of his words. 
 
 3. In the consciousness of want of sincerity we find 
 another cause of that weak shame, which is prone to 
 d(^ny, or to disguise, our reverence for religion. Pre- 
 tences to an unsuppoited character, are, in the highest 
 degree, dishonourable and reproachful. The world, 
 that differs in so many things from the disciples of 
 Christ, agre'es with them in condemning visible hypocri- 
 sy. Many young persons, dreading the contempt that is 
 due to this character, are deterred from making a declar- 
 ed choice of religion. Conscious that a conduct grave, 
 devout, and holy should accompany the protession of 
 piety, and fearing lest they want that sincere and cou- 
 rageous zeal, which will enable them to make such a 
 resolute and conspicuous change of life, as "becomes 
 the followers of Christ, they decline to appear openly 
 for his cause. They are afraid of discovenng ibr it 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 229 
 
 that reverence and attachment which they really feel, 
 llest they should not be able to support the profession 
 with uniformity and consistency. Ah! my brethren, if 
 our hearts were sincere, the importance and glory of 
 Divine things would at once decide our choice, and 
 overcome the apprehensions of being ever willing to 
 sacrifice them to worldly interests, or to worldly plea- 
 sures, to the solicitations or the sneers of men. But 
 insincerity fears the reproach of hypocrisy more, than 
 it fears hypocrisy itself; insincerity shrinks from the 
 opinion of a worm, but does not tremble before the jus- 
 tice of the Creator; insincerity is ashamed of our 
 glory, in the midst of sinners, who are forever glory- 
 ing in their shame, 
 
 4. The consideration of the effects as well as the 
 causesof thisprinciple, will assistin explaining its nature. 
 One of the most certain consequences of being ashamed 
 of duty, is, to lead to boldness and audacity in vice. 
 Shame is perhaps the evidence of a middle character, 
 neither virtuous nor abandoned. It is always accom- 
 • panied with some remaining reverence for God. But, 
 judging, from the licentious face of the world, that other 
 sinners are not subject to the same constraints, it blush- 
 es for this sentiment, as for a weakness. Endeavouring 
 to cover its belief, or its fears, it assumes a greater 
 show of infidelity, and licence, than [>erhaps is real. 
 It soon affects to talk in the stile of the world; to di- 
 vert itself with serious persons, and, at length, with 
 serious things; it gives hints of libertinism, which it re- 
 presents, as superiority to vulgar prejudice; it some- 
 times pushes these appearances farther than wouid be 
 
230 On the guilt and folly 
 
 necessary, if men were really infidels, to secure to 
 themselves, without controversy, that honourable cha- 
 racter. But conscious insincerity urges them to ex- 
 tremes, to cover its own deceptions. And, men being 
 prone to form their opinions, no less than to derive 
 their feeUngs, from sympathy, these mutual appear- 
 ances contribute to create, at length, that vice and in- 
 fidehty to which all, in the beginning, only pretend. It 
 is, besides, a principle of human nature, that pretence 
 itself will ultimately form those dispositions, and ha- 
 bits, which it continues to affect. 
 
 But, if shame more modestly resolves, not to re- 
 nounce, but to postpone, the care of our salvation, is 
 there not reason to fear that this unhappy resolution 
 will eventually come to the same issue? Need I repeat, 
 in this assembly, the usual fruits of delay? Ah! my 
 brethren, men always find the same reasons for de- 
 laying; and those who, through a false shame, and fear 
 of the world, postpone their duty, may usually be con- 
 sidered, in effect, as resolving to renounce it. If con- 
 science, however, or if other motives prevail with 
 some men, who are, notwithstanding, under the influ- 
 ence of a criminal shame, openly to acknowledge their 
 Saviour, will it not often corrupt the principles, and 
 pervert the spirit of religion? They study to accommo- 
 date its spirit, and principles, to the opinions and man- 
 ners of the world, that the world, seeing nothing in 
 their piety, but its own image, may cease to reproach 
 them. Piety becomes, with them, prudential maxims 
 of behaviour. The distinguishing doctrines of the Gos- 
 pel, the denial of ourselves, the regeneration of the 
 
Of being ashatned of Religion. 2'6l 
 
 heart, and spirituality of life, are little to be observed 
 in persons, who are afraid of nothing so much, as of 
 being remarked for religious singularity, and who aim 
 no higher, than to pay the same ceremonious respect 
 to the church which they do to the world. Lest their 
 piety should be reproached as superstition, they are 
 careful perhaps to make it understood, that they do not 
 place too high a value on the public institutions of re- 
 ligion? Lest it should be derided as enthusiasm, do they 
 not banish, from their devotion, all appearances of 
 zeal? Lest they should incur the imputation of a narrow 
 or illiberal mind, do they not often run so far into the 
 principles and manners of a dissolute age, that hardly 
 can you discern they are the friends of religion? 
 
 Having thus far considered what is implied in be- 
 ing ashamed of Christ and of his words, I proceed, 
 
 11. To show its folly, and its guilt. "Ofhini also 
 shall the Son of Man be ashamed." The folly and the 
 guilt of this vice are reciprocal. They mutually contri- 
 bute to illustrate and aggravate each other. 
 
 In this connection, its folly deserves, in the first 
 place, to be considered with the most serious attention. 
 It consists, in being ashamed of our true glory; in ho- 
 ping to avoid, by renouncing religion, an evil which 
 cannot be shunned among men, I mean, detraction and 
 ridicule; in fearing an imaginary evil, that is, reproach 
 for real virtue and piety; and finally, in exposing our- 
 selves to infinite danger, for the sake of covering a 
 fruitless deception. 
 
 1 . It consists, in the first place, in being ashamed of 
 our true glory. What is the highest glory of man? 
 
2S2 On the guilt and folly 
 
 Whether we consider ourselves as creatures, as sin- 
 ners to be redeemed, or as moral agents, the most im- 
 portant lights in which we can be viewed, our glory 
 and our duty are the same; obedience to the Crea- 
 tor, gratitude to the Saviour, and conformity to the 
 laws of our nature. If God is our Parent, and the au- 
 thor of our being, doth not every idea of duty, and of 
 honour, require us to worship him, and publicly to 
 claim our relation to him? On the worthy and obedi- 
 ent child the virtues of the parent are reflected; and 
 every related object derives a splendor from the digni- 
 ty of the principal. But, examine all the things on 
 earth, that are the subjects of human boasting, and 
 are they not, in his presence, ^* less than nothing, and 
 vanity?" '), God! the universal Father! Origin of Be- 
 ing! Fountain of Good! in union to thee, in conformity 
 to thine image, in obedience to thy will, consists the 
 glory of the rational and moral nature! To be ashamed 
 of thee, is not the absurdity only, but the madness of 
 human folly! 
 
 Gratitude to the Saviour is the second duty, and the 
 second honour of man. To show a defect of grati- 
 tude, where it is justly due, is a decisive proof of a 
 degenerate and ignoble mind. But the greatness and 
 condescension of the Redeemer, the meanness and 
 the guilt of man, concur, in this case, to impose 
 a boundless claim on our gratitude and love. Is it 
 not our true glory, my brethren to feel, with all 
 their force, the infinite obligations created by redemp- 
 tion? Is it not our glory, to acknowledge them with 
 warmer gratitude, in propoition as they are forgotten. 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 233 
 
 or neglected, by the world? Yes, this is the dictate of 
 a true, a generous, a grateful, as well as pious heart. 
 
 Lastly, the honour of man consists in fulfilling (he 
 end of his being, which is the will of God. But tliis 
 weak principle, which makes him desert his duty, 
 changes, at the same time, and degrades, his rational 
 and moi-al nature, and sinks them from their original 
 and native glory, the one, to a resemblance of brutal 
 natures, the other, to an image of infernal spirits. O 
 Man! ambitious of glory! afraid of nothing so nmch as 
 of disgrace! Unwise and fooHsh man! Thou art 
 ashamed of thy glory! and thou gloriest in thy shame. 
 
 The folly of being ashamed of our duty appears, in 
 the next place, in vainly hoping to avoid, by renoun- 
 cing religion, an evil which cannot be shunned among 
 men, I mean, detraction and ridicule. What is the 
 World, but a vast theatre, where envy and malice are 
 perpetually sharpening the tongues and the wit of men 
 against each other,^ What is half the intercourse of 
 life, but a scene of obloquy and sneer, where the cha- 
 ract*^rs of the absent are the constant sacrifice to the 
 vanity of the present.** Where ever you have rivals, and 
 that is, where ever you have acquaintance of the same 
 sex, or age, or profession with yourself, you find those, 
 whose weak minds have no other means of exalting 
 themselves, but by depressing you. Change then your 
 life, you only change the subject of discourse. You 
 cannot gain, by continuing of the party of sinners, what 
 you fear to lose, by embracing the cause of religion — 
 their friendship, or their good opinion. And why should 
 you fear, in the service of God alone, an evil, to which 
 
 VOL. 1. H h 
 
SS4 On the guilt and folly 
 
 you must be equally or even more exposed, by remain- 
 ing in the interests of the world? I say more exposed, 
 for it greatly augments the folly of this sin. 
 
 In the next place, that, while it incurs a real, it flies 
 from an imaginary evil. It fears reproach for religion, 
 when, in reality, the world has no reproach to make; 
 when, instead of despising, it respects, the beautiful 
 and supported character of piety. Wisdom and good- 
 ness, rightly understood, can never be the objects of ri- 
 dicule, or censure. They vindicate themselves to the 
 judgment and conscience, even of the vicious. Misre- 
 presentation, to which an honest mind should ever be 
 superior, is here the only ground of reproach. And 
 what can, even, misrepresentation alledge? That, in 
 youth, it is an affectation of wisdom and virtue above 
 your companions, and above your years. Alas! can any 
 age be too early to be wise, and to seek for real and 
 durable felicity? If the multitude of your companions 
 afford few examples of piety, is it not the greater ho- 
 nour to rise to a degree of wisdom, rarely attained 
 even in mature life; and, at an age in which we think 
 it much if you learn with docility, to be able, already, 
 to give an example worthy of imitation? Will the 
 world busy itself to find out false motives for your 
 change? Let such malice serve to disgust you more 
 with a world, the true character of which you are now 
 just beginning to discern. Will they say, with a sneer, 
 " Ah! this zeal will not last long!" Let such insult on- 
 ly determine your resolution more firmly to support 
 the dignity of religion, by the integrity of your conduct, 
 and by perseverance in virtue. If you do thus, be 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 285 
 
 assured that the world itself, after proving your since- 
 rity, and spending its first resentments upon you, for 
 having forsaken its party, will regard you with reve- 
 rence and esteem. It is not indeed religion, but in- 
 sincerity, and hypocrisy, they despise. If, then, you 
 would silence obloquy, and obtain an honourable place 
 in their hearts, be not ashamed of the doctrines of 
 Christ. But you must be careful to mix with your re- 
 ligion nothing weak or supei'Stitious, nothing libertine 
 or worldly. Do not resemble, too much, the men of 
 the world; it is their own image whicii they despise in 
 a Christian. Persevere in the path of duty. They 
 will convert contempt or hatred into veneration; they 
 will applaud your resolution; they will envy your des- 
 tiny; and, if they cannot resemble you, in their lives, 
 they will secretly sigh, that their end may be like yours. 
 The folly of this evil consists, in the last place, in 
 its exposing us to infinite danger, for the sake of cover- 
 ing a fruitless deception. " Whoever shall be ashamed 
 of me and of my words (saith the Saviour) of him also 
 shall the Son of Man be ashamed." Wo to that man, 
 of whom the Son shall be ashamed! God, when offend- 
 ed, might be reconciled through his atonement: but, 
 when the Saviour is rejected, there remaineth no more 
 sacrifice for sins. Is this the issue of being ashamed 
 of the Gospel? Is this tlie reward of that frivolous ho- 
 noui", which we would preserve, in the opinion of a 
 corrupted world, by renouncing virtue.? Is this the 
 fruit of that criminal deception, which we strive to 
 maintain by unworthy pretences, against the strug- 
 gling sense of inward duty.'^ Do we derive from it even 
 
23() On the guilt and folly 
 
 present gain, to make a momentary compensation for 
 the eternal loss? No. Worldly reputation and interest 
 are, when rightly considered, in favour of religion. 
 But, when the soul; when the hopes of salvation, when 
 the judgment of God, are put in the balance against a 
 slande?-, a sneer, a suspicion, a look of miserable mor- 
 tals, and outweighed! oh! infinite folly! My brethren, 
 eternity alone can disclose it, in its full magnitude, 
 when we shall see, in the dreadful light of everlasting 
 burnings, the vanity of human opinion, and all the ter- 
 rors of that denunciation, " Of him also shall the Son 
 of Man be ashamed." 
 
 Having endeavoured, in few words, to illustrate the 
 folly of being ashamed of religion, I shall, with equal 
 brevity, illustrate its guilt. lis guilt consists, in exalt- 
 ing the authority of man above the glory of God; in 
 ingratitude to him, who was not ashamed of us; and, 
 in promoting vice, by the pernicious influence of our 
 example. 
 
 1. In exalting the authority of man above the glory of 
 God. His infinite perfection, independently on his 
 rights as our Creator, has a supreme claim to our ado- 
 ration and love. He is infinitely more worthy, than any 
 of his creatures, of the lervent and entire devotion of 
 our hearts He, who hath created the powers of un- 
 derstanding and enjoyment, is able to fill them with 
 consummate and eternal consolations. Not to love 
 him, therefore, not to make his glory predominate over 
 all other objects, is an evidence that the heart is blind 
 to moral beauty, and corru[)ted in all its affections. 
 But, to make man the arbiter of our duty to God; to 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 237 
 
 make the Divine glory stoop to the pleasure, or opinion 
 of a miserable worm, is a crime beyond expression. 
 Its malignity is to be estimated from the perfection of 
 him who is offended, and, hke that, it is infinite. 
 
 2. The guih of this sin consists, in the next place, 
 in ingratitude to him, who was not ashamed of us. 
 Ingratitude, to a benefactor, is among the most detest- 
 ed vices. If the ingratitude of men, for the blessings of 
 salvation, strikes us with less horror, than other exam- 
 ples of this sin, it is because we do not discern, in the 
 light of faith, the infinite distance between the Creator 
 and the creature. But, when he descends from his 
 eternal throne; when the incarnate Deity submits to 
 suffer; when the Divine glory was not ashamed of hu- 
 man weakness, — that sinners should be ashamed of 
 him! Be astonished, O Heavens, at this! And tremble, 
 thou Earth, who bearest in thy bosom such guilt! 
 
 It has sometimes been asked, by those w^ho are not 
 willing to make great sacrifices, whether we may not 
 acquit ourselves of duty in secret, without exposing our 
 profession to the view of those who would insult or de- 
 ride it? I answer. No. Sincerity glories in its object. 
 And, when God is the object, the soul, occupied in the 
 blessedness of its portion, forgets, in a measure, the ap- 
 plause or censure of the world. His glory will be a 
 sufficient portion, when the world frowns. The sense 
 of his love will support the heart agpinst the fear of 
 its reproach. Shame to that worldly prudence that is 
 ashamed of its God! Shall sin, the disgrace of our na- 
 ture, walk anions; us with elevated and impudent fore- 
 head? And shall religion, the glory of the reasonable 
 
238 On the guilt and folly 
 
 soul, blush and retire, lest the profane eyes of meu, 
 dazzled with its beauty, should not be able to endure 
 the sight? 
 
 3. Its guilt consists, in the last place, in promoting 
 vice, by the pernicious influence of our example. Ex- 
 ample is contagious; and the world becomes more cor- 
 rupted, from the vice that is already in it. To decline 
 the profession of religion, through false shame, is, in 
 some respects, more injurious to the interests of vir- 
 tue in the world, than open impiety. This, sometimes 
 prevents imitation, by a certain horror at its enormity: 
 That, by preserving greater decency, more effectually 
 insinuates its poison. Your example proclaims your 
 unbehef, or your contempt of the Gospel, and invites 
 others to receive it with incredulity, or to treat it with 
 scorn. In the account of Divine justice, the depravity, 
 and perhaps the perdition, of many sinners shall be 
 charged to that criminal shame, which alienates you 
 from the life of God, and shall go to augment your 
 guilt. 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, permit me tore- 
 mark, that, although Divine grace alone can effectual- 
 ly secure the heart, and raise it above the influence of 
 a false and unholy shame, yet, it will greatly contribute 
 to this happy effect, to have, early established, just 
 ideas of honour and shame, by a well directed educa- 
 tion. It is of great importance, in the beginning of 
 life, to preoccupy the mind by good impressions; to 
 teach it to reverence God, before it has yet seen the. 
 beauties of holiness; to honour, before it has learned 
 to love religion; and to prepare it to despise, before it 
 
Of being ashamed of Religion. 239 
 
 has arrived to detest the vices, and the follies of the 
 world. It is of the greater importance, because our 
 habits and opinions are constantly and imperceptibly 
 forming, by all that we see and hear. If religion does 
 not, early, impart such as are rational and just, the 
 world will, necessarily, prepossess the mind with such 
 as are pernicious and false. False shame will with- 
 hold it from the influence of piety; false honour will 
 raise up, within it, the most dangerous enemies to sal- 
 vation. 
 
 Let parents and instructors, therefore, be diligent 
 to discharge their duty, with fidelity, to the rising ge- 
 neration. The most happy fruits will reward your pru- 
 dent and honest zeal. Reflect what advantages you 
 enjoy, when you plead the cause of piety, against vice, 
 and of Heaven, against the world. What can be more 
 glorious, than the service of the King of kings? What, 
 more great and worthy than virtue, which brings to 
 perfection all the best and noblest principles of human 
 nature? Religion is the true glory, as well as happi- 
 ness of man. Sin only is his real shame. It is accom- 
 panied, besides, with unspeakable danger, and is speed- 
 ily tending to eternal ruin. 
 
 Suffer me to extend, a little, this idea. It is strong- 
 ly implied in the expression of our Saviour, " of him 
 also shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when he cometh 
 in the glory of the Father, with the holy angels." All 
 miseries are included in this threatening. When God 
 condescends to treat the sinner in this language of sar- 
 castic contempt, it strikes me as the most fearful de- 
 nunciation of Divine vengeance. Other threatenings 
 
24^0 On the guilt and folly 
 
 seem more definitely to mark their penalties: this, 
 presents nothing distinctly to the imagination; but 
 holds up every thing most terrible to our fears Shall 
 I call up to view the last tribunal; the Heavens on fire; 
 the earth shaken, and moved out of its place; the ele- 
 ments melting, with fervent heat, before the wrath of 
 God and of the Lamb? Sh^ll I speak of Tophet, that 
 is ordained of old, the pile whereof is fire and much 
 wood, and the breath of the Lord, as a stream of brim- 
 stone, doth kindle it? And shall I not say after all, 
 that his most fearful sentence is, "of him shall the Son 
 of Man be ashamed?" This is indignant justice 
 heightened by contempt. The flames of anger may 
 consume the sinner. Shame will bury him forever, 
 from his sight, in the depths of misery. What! ba- 
 nished from thy sight, O merciful Saviour of men! 
 This is, indeed, the blackness of the everlasting dark- 
 ness! Let those unhappy men, who are ashamed of 
 Christ and of his words, deeply reflect on this dread- 
 ful destiny! To persuade you to this wise and neces- 
 sary resolution, is the whole object of the present dis- 
 course. 
 
 May the Spirit of God add, to these instructions, his 
 own evidence, and his almighty energy! May he im- 
 part to us a wise estimate of eternity, and time; of the 
 opinions of men, and the approbation of God! And 
 now, to the King eternal, immortal, and invisible be 
 rendered, through Jesus Christ, all honour, glory, and 
 praise, from all on earth, and all in Heaven. Amen. 
 
A DISCOURSE 
 
 ON THE 
 
 NATURE AND DANGER OF SMALL FAULTS. 
 
 Thou shalt not surely Die. — Genesis Hi. 4. 
 
 This is a suggestion that arose in the breast of the 
 tnother of mankind, and encouraged her to the commis- 
 sion of a crime, that hath involved the whole race in vice 
 and misery. Plucking tht fruit appeared, to her, to be 
 among those actions which have been left indifferent by 
 Wature; and plucking it trom a forbidden tree, was pro- 
 bably represented, by her curiosity, to be among the 
 small and venial errors, that may be indulged to human 
 weakness. 
 
 A like suggestion is continually rising in the breasts of 
 all her children, on those vices to which they are strong- 
 ly prompted by inchnation and by pleasure. Pleasure in- 
 vests vice with a charm that deceives the heart; and, al- 
 though satiety often strips the delusion from indulgence 
 and gives a momentary force to the sentiments of con- 
 science, that condemn it;yet, nature speedily recovers her 
 tone; the same pleasures grow again to be enjoyed, and 
 again surround their objects with the delusive appear- 
 ances of pardonable weakness, or of douotlul innocence. 
 They are forever repeating, like the first temptation. 
 " Thou shalt not surely die." 
 
 VOL. I. 1 i 
 
242 On the JVature and Danger 
 
 The call of pleasure is esteemed the voice of Nature, 
 when, by Nature, is meant only a factitious depravity, 
 which hath become ingrafted by habit in the constitu- 
 tion. How often do we hear it contended, that a mer- 
 ciful Creator could not have connected pleasure with 
 guilt; but, that where we find gratification, we may fair- 
 ly conclude we are within the bounds of innocence? In 
 reasoning thus, we forget that Nature, ever luxuriant, 
 gives birth to superfluities, in the moral, as well as in 
 the natural world, designed to exercise the industry and 
 virtue of man, in correcting or subduing them. The 
 rich and abundant soil of the human heart produces 
 weeds, as well as better herbs; and it belongs to the 
 husbandman to eradicate the noxious and to cultivate 
 the useful. But men are forever employing the most 
 false and superficial pretences to justify their inclina- 
 tions. 
 
 There are, indeed, some high and atrocious crimes 
 which attack the security of society and the happiness 
 of mankind in the most essential points, to which the 
 conscience can seldom give its sanction, even after the 
 longest habits of sinning. But there are some vices 
 which every man studies, with success, to excuse; some 
 which he indulges with less caution and restraint; 
 some which he esteems small and venial faults, and 
 on which he is always saying to himself, " Thou shalt 
 not surely die.'^ 
 
 These form a numerous and dangerous class of of- 
 fences. Highly criminal in their own nature, they be- 
 come the seeds of greater evil. They tend, in the na- 
 
Of Small Faults. 24>'6 
 
 } tural progress of habit, to weaken the power of con- 
 science, to render inclination our supreme law, and to 
 change, at length, the whole system of duty, and of 
 truth. 
 
 These sins will form the subject of the following dis- 
 course, iu which I propose, 
 
 I. To explain their nature, and, 
 
 II. To point out iheir dangerous consequences. 
 
 I. When I speak of small sins, I do not compre- 
 ' hend, in that denomination, those lamented errors and 
 imperfections, that spriog from the infirmity of human 
 nature, in the best of men; I do not mean those 
 evils, that sometimef surprise a Christian, in an un- 
 guarded moment, but which are speedily resisted, con- 
 fessed, and effaced, by sincere repentance; I do not 
 , mean those, over which he is gaining a slow but pro- 
 [ gressive victory. 1 speak of such as enter into the 
 plan of life; as are excused, because they are small; as 
 are not recollected with penitence, but are studied only 
 to be justified. They may be divided into such as are 
 acknowledged to be sins, such as are of a dubious nature, 
 and such as may be considered chiefly in the light of 
 temptations to other sins. 
 
 I. In the first place, acknowledged sins, which are, 
 however, palliated or excused, from the miuuteness of 
 their objects, from the rarity of their occasions, and 
 from the force and concurrence of passion and oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 (1 ) Men, if they cannot be charged with those high 
 and daring offences, that, by insulting the majesty of 
 God. and disturbing the peace of society, awaken the 
 
244 On the JSTature and Danger 
 
 indisjnation, or the pity of the wise and good, are 
 proii/ to flatter themselves with the idea of coiijpara- 
 tive iniiocence. and to hope, that the Divine mercy will 
 impute their smaller failings to infirmity and not to guilt. 
 Let me illustrate the observation by an example. If 
 they abstain from blaspheming their Creator, or from 
 persecuting and reviling those who serve him, they 
 pardon themselves, as a trivial offence, their neglect of 
 his worship, their indifference to the progress of reli- 
 gion, or their want of that inward purity of heart which 
 alone is worthy of his children, if they abstain from 
 open fraud, it does not wound their conscience, per- 
 haps, to make an advantage of titeir neighbour's igno- 
 rance, or to impose on his undesigning and credulous 
 simplicity. If they abstain from violence and bloodshed, 
 do they not, however, justify themselves, though they 
 hate their neighbour in their heart, and rejoice in an 
 opportunity to injure his precious reputation, or to dis- 
 appoint his lawful hopes.^ If they cannot be accused 
 of that mad ambition that desolates the earth, are they 
 not guilty of the same vice, though acting in an hum- 
 bler sphere, by being proud, or insolent, or vain.'' If 
 they are not chargeable with seducing matrimonial 
 chastity or virgin innocence, yet do they not abandon 
 themselves to those loose imaginations, to those soft 
 and effeminate dalliances, which contain all the luxury 
 of sensuality, while they only seem to abstain from the 
 ultimate crime. ^ Thus, while they do not proceed to 
 the last and highest acts of vice, they plead, with suc- 
 cess, an indulgence for themselves, at the tribunal of 
 their own hearts, for all inferior evils, Thty even 
 
Of Small Faults, 24>5 
 
 claim some merit, perhaps, for the restraints which they 
 impose on their passions. 
 
 (2.) They derive, in the next place, an extenuation 
 for particular sins, from the rarity of their occasions. 
 If they can seldom be charged, and on such occasions, 
 only, as seem to excuse them, by the opinion, or the 
 practice of the world, are they not prone to make their 
 own apology from the general predominancy of a 
 better conduct.-^ Will you bear me, without offence, 
 to produce an example that is perhaps too common.^ 
 Have we not known men, who, in their habits, were 
 sober, temperate, and industrious; who notwithstand- 
 ing, to show their hilarity with a friend, or to testify 
 the sincere part which they take in seasons of public 
 festivity, would transcend those limits of moderation 
 and sobriety, which, at other times, they esteem them- 
 selves bound to observe.-^ It is, in their view, a suffici- 
 ent answer to the remonstrances of religion, tc say, that 
 these excesses are rare; and that, if the general tenor 
 of life be regular and prudent, it is a rigid morality 
 that will not permit us, at certain seasons, to indulge 
 scmevvhat to the occasion. 
 
 (3.) Another class of acknowledged sins, which are 
 held to be small, consists of those that are extenuated 
 from the force and concurrence of temptation. Temp- 
 tation is passion awakened by opportunity. The pas- 
 sions Conceal the deformity of vice. Circumstance and 
 opportunity excite them into ardour, and precipitate 
 them inlo action. Pleasure, therefore, that bribes the 
 concience, and precipitation, that precludes reflection, 
 both tend to lessen, in our view, the guilt of sm. 
 
246 Oil the Nature and Danger 
 
 And, instead of penitently confessing, and deploring it 
 before God; instead of condemning it, in the sentiments 
 of an hujnble and contrite heart, too frequently, we seek 
 a false peace, by extenuating its evil. The strength of 
 temptation, we say, the attractions of pleasure, the co- 
 incidence of opportunity, the combination of events, were 
 too powerful for human nature, and we hope that God 
 will look with indulgence on the weakness of his crea- 
 tures. Ah! my brethren, this is not the language of 
 repentance, which never seeks to cover or protect 
 our sins, but is disposed ingenuously to acknowledge, 
 and warmly to condemn them. It is building our inward 
 peace, and our religious hopes, not on the true founda- 
 tion of the Gospel, but on the false ground of extenua- 
 tion and apology. 
 
 2. Another class of these sins, that are considered 
 as small, consists of such actions, as are of a dubious 
 nature. The decision of the apostle, is founded in the 
 highest reason. lie that doubteth is condemned, if, un- 
 der that doubt, he proceeds to act: Yet such evils usu- 
 ally leave a feeble impression of their guilt on the con- 
 science; and men, who judge thus lightly of duty and of 
 sin, will ever follow inclination, in contradiction to 
 their doubts. Under this principle of action, it is easy 
 to obtain every gratification that the heart solicits. The 
 heart gives its colouring to all moral objects. If it can- 
 not paint them, as absolutely innocent, it seldom 
 fails of being able to represent them, as dubious, at 
 least, and, under this form, to enjoy their pleasures. 
 
 That principle is fdse, that invites us to act against 
 our doubts; or, that supposes dubiety affords an equal 
 
Of Small Faults. 247 
 
 diance for the action being virtuous. On the other 
 hand, it necessarily involves guilt. It is often the re- 
 sult of criminal ignorance; it is more frequently the re- 
 sult of criminal passion; it poisons innocence itself; 
 and it renders vice, if possible, more guilty, because 
 it is the depravity of the heart that creates the uncer- 
 tainty. 
 
 As vice consists less in the kind, than in the circum- 
 stances and degrees of action, a wide and diversified 
 field is hereby opened for self deception. The gradual 
 increments of passion are infinitely minute; the circum- 
 stances of actions are infinitely various, and contain in 
 them something peculiar to the character and state of 
 every person. The progressive shades of conduct, if I 
 may speak so, are so delicate, their limits seem to be so 
 blended, as to afford an endless scope for uncertainty, es- 
 pecially to those who do not wish to see. Pious men are 
 afraid to approach this dubious boundary. They deny 
 themselves, theretbre, many lawful enjoyments, that 
 they may restrain indulgence, clearly, within the limit 
 of innocence, which, when attempted to be too nicely 
 traced, is always uncertain. Vice loves to lurk in these 
 obscure confines, that, in their uncertainty, it may find 
 an excuse for transgressing them; that it may enjoy its 
 beloved pleasures, without suffering the reproaches of 
 guilt; and that, wrapped in its own shades, and conceal- 
 ed from its own view, it may flatter itself it is also con- 
 cealed from the view of God. Conscience, indeed, 
 amidst this darkness and doubt, often raises its voice 
 and shakes the breast with secret terrors: But they are 
 as often calmed, by the dangerous opinion that they 
 
248 On the Nature and Danger 
 
 are sins of only small, or dubious guilt. Thus, all these 
 inwaid admonitions perish without fruit, and the soul 
 returns to that state of doubt, which it makes both the 
 motive, and the protection of vice. 
 
 3. A third class, consists of such as may be consi- 
 dered chiefly in the light of temptations to other sins. 
 Temptation, voluntarily indulged, is a lower degree of 
 the vice to which it leads. A good man, who fears sin, 
 and, at the same time, is conscious of his own ti-ailty, 
 will study to shun its dangers, by retiring from them. 
 Those who cherish the temptation, secretly love the 
 vice: Yet, as long as sin rests chiefly in the thoughts 
 and atfections, and is not carried into open act; as long 
 as it can be considered, rather in the light of temp- 
 tation, than of compliance, men admit, with diffi- 
 culty, the conviction of its guilt. It is viewed, at the 
 utmost, as a small and venial fault, and, like the first 
 temptation, is continually repeating, " Thou shalt not 
 surely die." 
 
 Under the idea, that temptation indulged, that emo- 
 tion and desire, when not carried into act, are not cri- 
 minal, or are only small faults; how often are those 
 places frequented, without caution, the contagion of 
 which is dangerous to virtue.'^ How often are those 
 societies courted, whose breath infects the purity of the 
 heart .^ How often do we, deliberately, throw our- 
 selves into situations, from which it is almost impos- 
 sible to escape without sin.'* Are not malevolent sen- 
 timents cherished, under the same idea, against our 
 neighbour? Is not the tongue indulged, in an un- 
 christian license, to depreciate his reputation.'* Do 
 
Of Small Faults. :249 
 
 not envy, repining, and discontent, secretl}' insult the 
 providence of God. or openly attark the peace of man- 
 kind^ Doth not passion exert itself, in a thousand 
 unrestrained ebullitions? Are not the sweets of re- 
 venge tasted in imagination? Are not loose and sensu- 
 al scenes enjoyed in fancy, and pictures of soft and ef- 
 feminate indulgence created, in all their variety, and all 
 their licentiousness? it is possible, perhaps, to be more 
 sensual, in the continual reveries that occupy and dis- 
 sipate a vain imagination, than in the most gross and 
 actual vice. Sensuality appears here with a refine- 
 ment, that may tempt even a noble mind; and it is ex- 
 empted from those disgusts and disappointments, which 
 always succeed and dash those pleasuies, when they are 
 grossly enjoyed. The heart abandons itself to the de- 
 lightful delirium; and the conscience, httle offended at 
 evils that are not attended with public eclat, easily ad- 
 mits their apology. Small effort is made to overcome, 
 or destroy them. They are ranked among the venial 
 errors and infirmities of human nature; and, by de- 
 grees, they infect and corrupt the whole soul. This 
 leads me, 
 
 II. In the next place, to point out the danger of this 
 class of sins. This danger consists in their strength- 
 ening, insensibly, the corruption of the heart, and in- 
 creasing its vicious tendencies; because they alienate 
 from the heart, the aids of the Holy spirit; because 
 they confirm our sinful habits and passions; and, 
 because the human mind, in executing, always falls be- 
 low its own purpose, in framing its plans of duty and 
 conduct. 
 
 VOL. I. K k 
 
250 On the Nature and Danger 
 
 1. They alienate, from the heart, the aids of the Ho- 
 ly Spirit. The doctrine of the Holy Spirit, however it 
 has been abused by weak and enthusiastic sects, seems 
 to be a dictate of natural, as well as of revealed religion. 
 In some secret and ineffable manner, he guards the heart 
 against the power of temptation, he suggests and illus- 
 trates our duty, and often sheds a peculiar evidence and ^ 
 persuasion on all its motives. But, as his aids are bestow- 
 ed to render us faithful, so, our fidelity is necessary to 
 secure their continuance. The voluntary indulgence of 
 sin, tends to extinguish his lights. If he is resisted, he 
 withdraws; and, in his holy Word, there are many ex- 
 amples, and many threatenings of his forsaking those 
 who depart from him. " My spirit (saith the Lord) 
 shall not always strive with man.^ The h art shall 
 cease to feel the emotions and constraints of piety, in 
 proportion as it persists to violate the affections inspired 
 or the duties imposed by rehgion. 
 
 The Holy Spirit frequently enables a good man to 
 combat the force of sudden and unexpected temptation, 
 by the inward energy of bivine grace; but more com- 
 njonly he secures his virtue by disposing him to shun 
 its finest impressions. If, contrary to his faithful admo- 
 nitions, however, we invite its dangers, and unneces- 
 sarily expose ourselves to the influence of situations, 
 and of objects unfriendly to piety; if, for example, we 
 enter too freely those circles, whose high and un- 
 guarded gayeties are dubious, at least, in the aspect 
 they have on piety; if we amuse ourselves too often with 
 writers, whose principles or manner is unfavourable 
 to purity of morals; if we permit ourselves, through 
 a display of wit, to sport sentiments which our own 
 
 I 
 
Of Small Faults. 251 
 
 hearts do not perfectly approve; if we voluntarily fre- 
 quent scenes, that are calculated to inflame the pas- 
 sions and corrupt the soul: if, in instances hke these, 
 we thwart the tendency of the Divine Spirit, and rush 
 into dangers, against which he would mercifully guard 
 us; if, in these small combats, these preludes, as it 
 were, to vice, we resist his ojovements, and quench his 
 grace; may we not expect, that, in greater trials, he 
 should leave us to ourselves, and withdraw that holy 
 influence which we have abused? Doth not our own 
 experience, my brethren, verify the threatening of 
 religion? Are not our hearts growing more callous to 
 the impressions of Divine truth? Is not vice losing its 
 deformity, and becoming more practicable to the heart? 
 And while, without reserve, we indulge in small sins, 
 is not the guilt of great ones lessening in our view? 
 Are not these the symptoms of the departure of the Ho- 
 ly Spirit? This is the first danger. 
 
 2. The second, is, that they strengthen the passions 
 and the habits of vice. The human mind is ever in 
 progression. Dispositions and habits increase by in- 
 dulgence. Moral principles, in this, resemble the 
 growth of the natural powers. Every exercise of the 
 heart strengthens its tendencies. The indulgence of 
 small sins contributes to inflame all the vicious passions. 
 Its pleasures excite the appetite, and at length, ren- 
 der it too powerful for reason and principle. They 
 weaken the force of conscience, which they have often 
 violated; and they are tending, by degrees, Ut dissolve 
 the obligations of duty, which they have so often relax- 
 ed. Each gradation of vice is so minute and imper- 
 
252 On the Kature and Danger 
 
 ceptible, that we are hardly conscious of our progress; 
 and, as exevj indulgence increases the tendency to gra- 
 tification, it impairs, by degrees, the power of reflec- 
 tion, and the habit of self-command. What, then, re- 
 mains to guard the weakness of the heart? What is 
 there, of sufficient force, to restrain it from proceeding, 
 at length, to every vice to which passion may prompt, 
 and opportunity invite? Yes, my brethren, the habits 
 of indulgence, created amidst small or dubious gratifi- 
 cations, cherish those vehement desires, which finally 
 arrive to spurn at all control. 
 
 If, then, you indulge those loose and sensual emo- 
 tions that agitate the heart, when it is not subjected to 
 habitual restraint; if you use those perpetual flatteries 
 to the sex, or those doubtful assiduities, which tend to 
 suspicious attachments; are you not ultimately in dan- 
 ger of taking the most criminal licences? Or, to give 
 an example of a different kind, if you cherish in your 
 breast, those emotions of aversion or contempt, which 
 are apt to rise against others, who differ froin you in 
 interest, in rank, or in manners; if you give yourselves 
 an incautious liberty in ridicule, or in satire, and severe 
 wit; if you indulge your tongue in expressions of disdain 
 towards those who have displeased you, or in those little 
 tales of obloquy and censure, that are perpetually crea- 
 ting dissentions in society; will not your affections, by 
 degrees, be alienated from your brethren? Will not 
 that meekness and benevolence, which ought to charac- 
 teiize a Christian, be extinguished? Will not animo- 
 sities grow to be unforgiving and eternal? In like 
 manner, if an excessive love of interest hath tempted 
 you to little frauds, to be hard and overreaching in your 
 
Of Small Faults. 253 
 
 contracts, and to press with severity on your neighbour's 
 wants; doth not the heart, in time, become unfeehng? 
 Is it not preparing to go to the extremes of dishonesty 
 and cruelty, when any great advantage may be derived 
 from them? If you attend the ordinances of religion 
 with a careless and irreverent mind; is not this the 
 way, at length, presumptuously to profane them? If you 
 treat virtue with derision, or with levity, in your conver- 
 sation; if you use habitual and indecent profanations of 
 the Divine name; are not the strongest obligations of 
 piety thereby dissolved? Are you not in danger of 
 mounting, step by step, to the extreme of vice, which 
 sets at defiance both the fear of God, and the opinion 
 of the world? 
 
 Besides the strength and irritation of the passions, 
 created by small indulgencies, sin itself is gradually di- 
 minished, in the sense of its guilt, and becomes daily 
 more practicable to the heart. The heart, not yet en- 
 tirely corrupted, shrinks from great crimes; but decoy- 
 ed and allured on, from one stage to another, it boldly 
 reaches, at least, a degree of vice, to which it would 
 once have looked up, and trembled. Each minute gra- 
 dation is familiarized, by repetition and by habit; and 
 the sinner, in his conduct, rests there perhaps, till, by a 
 thousand apologies of self-love, and a thousand decep- 
 tions of the passions, offence begins to wear the face 
 of doubtful innocence. The next superior degrees of 
 vice are then considered as small sins, and, on the prin- 
 ciple I am combating, we first venture upon them, and, 
 finally, learn to justify, or to excuse them. Thus, is 
 the heart insensibly seduced; and it may possibly ar- 
 
2o4< On the JS'ature and Danger 
 
 rive to commit the highest crimes, under the idea of 
 their being only small offences. Ah! how difficult is it, 
 when once you begin to say, of any sin, " thou shalt 
 not surely die," not to plead the same encouragenjent 
 for all? It is easier, perhaps, to forego every unlawful 
 gratification, than, after we begin to yield, to set any 
 bounds to compliance. Appetite, accustomed to few 
 indulgences, claims but few, and can, with less difficul- 
 ty, resign them all; but, flattered and pampered, it soon 
 becomes impatient of restraint, and, while it has power 
 to enjoy, is still soliciting for new pleasures. 
 
 3. In the last place, the voluntary commission of 
 small sins exposes to greater crimes, because the hu- 
 man mind, in executing usually falls below its own pur- 
 pose, in resolving. If, therefore, men will take all those 
 criminal, or doubtful freedoms, which they may deem, 
 in any way, compatible with their general duty; if they 
 aim, in practice, just to escape great sins; will they not, 
 probably, be permitted to fall into them.'^ The ball, 
 that is too exactly levelled at its mark, sinks below it. 
 To strike it, with certainty, we must take a higher aim. 
 In like manner, we must, in morals, aspire to an eleva- 
 ted pitch of virtue, we must aim at perfection; if we 
 would rise even to that imperfect degree of goodness, to 
 which the pious sometimes attain, in the present life. 
 
 To those who observe the human mind with care, 
 this will appear a natural effect. She forms her reso- 
 lutions in retirement, when the objects of temptation are 
 withdrawn, the passions are subsided, and the beauty 
 and importance of religion appear, in their proper glory, 
 to the eye of faith and reason: But, when she descends 
 
Of Small Faults. 255 
 
 into the world, and applies herself to carry her views 
 into operation, the vigor with which she resolved is 
 weakened, the livehness of faith is obscured, amidst 
 the impressions of sense, and the conflicts of passion. 
 A thousand objects oppose her purposes. Indolence, 
 interest, pleasure, ourselves, mankind, the universe, all 
 tend to hinder their execution. It may be received as 
 a sure and general principle, that he, who voluntarily in- 
 dulges himself in small faults, will in the natural pro- 
 gress of moral habit, become a greater sinner. Virtue, 
 indeed, is never secure, that does not guard against du- 
 bious as well as against acknowledged vice; nay, that 
 does not renounce all appearance of evil, and aspire 
 after hohness. 
 
 Having thus, from reason and experience, explained 
 the nature, and the danger of small faults, and illustra- 
 ted these remarks, by many appeals to our own feel- 
 ings and observation, permit me, in the conclusion of 
 this discourse, to urge on every hearer, as an object of 
 the highest importance, to remark, with attention, the 
 insidious progress of vice, and to guard, with diligence, 
 against its beginnings, and its first impressions. Small 
 faults are the dangerous seeds of higher sins. And all 
 the most atrocious crimes in human society^ may, or- 
 dinarily, be traced to these commencements. Vice, 
 enjoyed in fancy, allures and corrupts the soul. The 
 cherished ideas of sensual pleasure, that offer, for 
 themselves, a thousand palhations and excuses, be- 
 tray, or impel it to actual crimes. Places of Hcence 
 and danger frequented, ensnare and enflame it; render 
 vice, at first, familiar to the view, and, at length, prac- 
 
256 On the JVature and Danger 
 
 ticable to the heart. Temptations, not resisted in time, 
 and banished from the imagination, acquire too firm a 
 hold. Omitting, or precipitating the duties of religion, 
 or suffering their warmth and spirit to be relaxed, 
 weakens the sentiments and affections of piety, and 
 gives, to every dangerous and criminal object, an op- 
 portunity to impress its idea with vivacity and strength. 
 This is the artifice of sin. It betrays insensibly. One 
 gradation opens the way to another. Sin never could 
 tempt us, with success, if all its deformities were open 
 to the view at once. But the gradual and impercepti- 
 ble access of temptation, offers no alarm to the heart. 
 Pleasure, which gilds its object, justifies compliance, 
 and throws over it a veil of innocence. And, at each 
 gradation of vice, the next above it appears as a small 
 fault. How many persons come, by these means, free- 
 ly to indulge in vices, on which they would once have 
 looked with aversion, or with horror.^ How many vi- 
 ces are there, that, once condemned and shunned, as 
 threatening the destruction of the soul, now enter into 
 the plan of fife, and are incorporated into the charac- 
 ter.^ For example, how often may habitual intoxica- 
 tion have grown out of a convivial humour, imprudent- 
 ly indulged^ How often may a profligate impiety have 
 sprung, from the apparently innocent ambition of plea- 
 santry and wit? How often perhaps may conjugal infi- 
 delity, and the loosest passions have arisen, from the 
 smallest of all vices, an extreme desire to please.'^ Oh! 
 what pernicious consequences flow from these apparent- 
 ly inconsiderable sources.'^ The beginnings of sin are like 
 the letting out of a flood, which wears itself a wider. 
 
Of Small Faults. 257 
 
 aud a wider passage, till, at last, it deluges the whole 
 land. 
 
 Finally, therefore, let me urge it on every serious 
 hearer to avoid these sins, as being among the most 
 dangerous, as well as insidious enemies of the soul. 
 Do you not perceive, my brethren, what ruinous conse- 
 quences they bring in their train '* and how insensibly 
 this ruin steals upon the heart r While you are say- 
 ing peace and safety! then sudden destruction cometh. 
 While you are repeating, " thou shalt not surely die,^' 
 the decree of death issues from the sovereign and irre- 
 sistible justice of God. Beware of small faults; they 
 terminate in great sins, and, eventually, in certain per- 
 dition. What ever pleasures they offer, or by whatever 
 deceptions they beguile the heart, you are. called, reso- 
 lutely, to sacrifice them to the glory of God, and to your 
 own present peace, and your eternal salvation. Chris- 
 tians! is this an arduous labour.'^ Ijaveyou not, already, 
 resisted the greatest temptations'" Have you not, alrea- 
 dy, overcome the greatest sins.'* Is not the most pain- 
 ful conflicts, already past.^ Nothing remains to you, 
 one would think, but light victories over an inconsider- 
 able enemy. Engage, therefore, in this warfare, with 
 resolution and decision; resolve to destroy every sin, 
 the smallest, as well as the greatest. If they are small, 
 do not, for such trivial gratifications, endanger your 
 eternal hopes. And in this pious and noble labour, 
 cease not, till you have rendered the work of virtue and 
 holiness complete. Fervently implore the aid of the 
 Holy Spirit, without whose grace our own resolutions 
 will be. ineifectual. And, may the God of all mercy and 
 
 VOL. I. • L 1 
 
259 On the Mature and Danger, ^c. 
 
 love strengthen our virtue, and animate^ our holy pur- 
 poses, for Christ's sake. Amen. 
 
 Mow, to Him, who is able to keep you from fallings 
 and to present you, faultless, before the presence of 
 his glory, with exceeding joy, to the only wise God, 
 our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and pow- 
 er, both now, and forever. Amen. 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 But the greatest of these is charity. 1 Cor. xiii. 13. 
 
 The history of human greatness is found almost ex- 
 clusively written in the revolutions of empires, and the 
 records of actions which fill the world with miseries 
 and crimes. Religion entering more truly into the real 
 value of things, and framing its estimate according to 
 the rule of the divine will, would fix our esteem su- 
 premely on those silent virtues of the heart which, 
 without noise or ostentation, tend to proniote the hap- 
 piness of mankind. Charity, which is only another 
 name for that pure benevolence and love which chief- 
 ly assimilates man to God, is the constant theme of 
 its praise, and the principle which it lays at the foun- 
 dation of all its duties. The whole fabric of religion, 
 .indeed, may be regarded as the temple of love; its al- 
 tars burn only with the fires of a holy love; and the 
 consummation of its hopes in the kingdom of heaven, 
 is but the perfection of that spirit of love which con- 
 nects all intelligent and moral natures in the sweetest 
 bonds with one another, and with God the centre of 
 their common union. This is that heavenly principle 
 in the heart of a good man, which the apostle, in this 
 chapter, exalts above all intellectual attainments, above 
 all the external rites and offices of religion, and even 
 above all other graces and virtues of the heart. 
 
^^0 On Chanty. 
 
 Let me, then, on this occasion, christians, turn your 
 pious meditations for a moment, on the nature and 
 the excellence, of the grace of charity; and endeavour 
 to awaken your pious zeal to fulfil its duties. 
 
 The subject, indeed, is so trite that it hardly affords, 
 in a christian assembly, any novelty of thought to in- 
 terest your sympathies; but its utility, and its benign 
 aspect on the happiness of society, will speak for me 
 in the goodness of your own hearts, and procure an in- 
 dulgent ear to the repetition of the most common 
 truths. 
 
 Charity, in its original and most extended meaning, 
 embraces in one vvord, the whole moral law of the gos- 
 pel; — tliou shalt love the Lord thy God ivith all thy 
 heart, ivith all thy soul, with all thy strength, and with 
 all thy mind; and thou shalt love thy neighbour as thy- 
 self. But because in the moral order of the world, 
 much the most numerous class of our active duties 
 terminate directly on our fellow men, the sacred wri- 
 ter has described this grace chiefly by its effects on 
 our social relations. The term, however, has, by time 
 and custom, received, in common usage, a more Hmi- 
 ted application, to a part only, though a most impor- 
 tant part, of those social duties, — the assistance, and 
 comfort of the most destitute and afflicted portion of 
 our species, — provision for their wants, consolation 
 for their sufferings, and that benevolent care of their 
 instruction in the elements of christian knowledge, 
 which will preserve them from the fatal temptations 
 of vice, naturally resulting out of their unhappy condi- 
 tion, and restore them to some consciousness of the 
 
On Charity. 261 
 
 dignity of their immortal nature. To this limited 
 
 idea of christian charity, the present occasion invites 
 us, in a great measure, to confine our views. And a 
 noble and godlike virtue it is, to take the poor and the 
 distressed, and especially, the helpless widov^^ and for- 
 saken orphan under its protection. Or rather, should 
 I not call it, a heavenly grace? For, till the system of 
 grace and mercy was revealed from heaven, and its 
 spirit had descended into the hearts of men, had the 
 world ever witnessed such charitable cares, such bene- 
 volent institutions, as have grown up since that period^ 
 for the comfort of the desolate children of sorrow. 
 
 Let me intreat you, therefore, christians! disciples of 
 the merciful Redeemer, to lend me your patient and 
 candid attention, while I unfold, a little more in detail, 
 some of the most obvious characters of this grace. — 
 It is universal in its objects; — most pure and benevo- 
 lent in its designs; — and in all its actions most benefi- 
 cent. 
 
 i. This genuine philanthropy diffuses its benevolent 
 regards, and, within the compass of its means and op- 
 portunities, its benevolent deeds, to the whole hunjan 
 race. No rank or condition of men, no sect, or name 
 of religion excludes them from its kindness and pro- 
 tection. " I am a man, said a virtuous heathen, and 
 nothing that concerns human nature can be indifferent 
 to me." There brofke forth a sentiment not unworthy 
 a disciple of Jesus Christ. A sentiment springing out 
 of that felicity of nature which we sometimes see dis- 
 closing itself beneath the darkness of paganism; but 
 which, cultivated by the grace of the gospel, exalts 
 
262 On Chanty. 
 
 man to the perfection of his being. Such a man, 
 surrounded by the spectacles, and assailed by the claims 
 of human misery, is ever prone to forget hitnself, ab- 
 sorbed in the emotions of his own benevolence. Health, 
 fortune, talents are to him only so many precious means 
 of doing good. To the destitute he becomes a pro- 
 tector, to the oppressed a defender, to the orphan a fa- 
 ther, to the wretched a comforter. Even the miseries 
 of vice, if it may yet be reclaimed, find in him, as in 
 the Deity, a Saviour. All the distinctions which sub- 
 sist among mankind are sunk in the common relations 
 of humanity: — for all are of one flesh; the equal off- 
 spriiig of God. 
 
 2. But the true nature of this grace appears, in the 
 next place, in the sincerity of its affections, and the pu- 
 rity of its aims. 
 
 Let MS not love in word and in tongue, saith St. 
 John, but in deed and in truth. What doth it profit, 
 saith another apostle, though a man say to his poor 
 brethren, be ye warmed, and be ye filled, notwithstanding 
 ye give them not those things that be needful for the bo- 
 dy? — Men may sometimes speak well, or even declaim 
 eloquently, on the virtue which they do not practise: 
 And charity, alas! has often flourished in good words 
 and wishes, while it has been starved and barren in 
 good deeds. 
 
 Not frequently, hkewise, have the most liberal alms 
 lost their acceptance wiih God, by the impurity of their 
 aims, or the corruption of the source from which they 
 flowed. Vanity has fed the hungry, and clothed the 
 naked. Ostentation has reared uia^niflcent hospitals: 
 
On Charity. 268 
 
 and still more strange, the most splendid acts of mu- 
 nificence have sometimes, been merely a shameful 
 commutation for crimes? — What then, is the genuine 
 principle, and the standard of christian charity? Hear 
 it from tiie mouth of the Divine lawgiver himself; — 
 Thou shall love thy neighbour as thyself. In doing your 
 alms let only the pure impulses of a benevolent mind 
 prompt your hands and your hearts. No calculations of 
 interest or of vanity ought in this holy service, to sway 
 you: for thy left hand shall not know what thy right hand 
 doth. And whatsoever you would that men should do to 
 you, do ye even so to them. Behold the equity of the gos- 
 pel! It makes your self-love the measure of your charity 
 to your fellow men. — In imagination transfer the feel- 
 ings of the afflicted, the miserable, the dependent, to 
 your own bosom, and whatever your consciousness that 
 the claims of humanity, in your case would demand, in 
 those claims, my beloved christian brother, read the 
 benevolent law of your Saviour. Oh! merciful Saviour! 
 if thy disciples always drunk deep of this divine spirit, 
 would the children of wretchedness and poverty so of- 
 ten have cause to mourn that they were despised and 
 forgotten by their happier brethren? would modest but 
 unfortunate merit be so often comprlled to retire from 
 the eye of contemptuous wealth? Would Lazarus so 
 often beg in vain for the fragments which daily fall 
 from the table of purpled luxury? W^ould the peni- 
 tent Magdalen be rejected, and her returning virtue be 
 discouraged by reminding her, like the unfeeling Pha- 
 risee, that she had been a sinner. Would even the 
 miserable offspring of idleness and vice be cast away 
 
264 On Chanty, 
 
 like a polluted thing from the pure bosom of charity, 
 when they are not yet so far lost^ but that they might 
 be redeemed to society and to God? 
 
 Blessed Saviour! thy most benevolent example has 
 taught, what thy precepts have enjoined, ever to culti- 
 vate a tender sympathy with the suiferings of our fel- 
 low men; — to cover, with the mantle of love their im- 
 perfections; — to console the mourning; — to raise the 
 afflicted from the dust; — to embrace in the arms of 
 our christian affection, the most necessitous, and 
 wretche J of mankind, who, notwithstanding their mul- 
 tiplied miseries, are still our brethren. Be such the 
 purity and sincerity of those holy affections in which 
 you are required chiefly to imitate Jesus Christ, your 
 Lord, who deigns also, to be called your Elder Brother. 
 — Let love be ivithout dissimulation. JVot only rejoice 
 with those that do rejoice; but, as still more becoming 
 the lot of human nature, and the disciples of him who, 
 for our sakes, became a man ofsorroivs, and acquainted 
 with s^rief, weep with those who weep. 
 
 Finally, true charity is distinguished by that active 
 beneficence which is employed in doing good. If it 
 rests in those instinctive emotions of sympathy which 
 are the involuntary impulses of huaian nature on see- 
 ing an object in distress; — if it goes no farther than in- 
 active wishes, and barren prayers, this is the mocke- 
 ry of virtue. Christian benevolence is ever operative, 
 studying in proportion to its means, and often beyond 
 its immediate means, to diffuse its blessings to that por- 
 tion of human nature that is within its reach. What 
 a noble and dehghtful employment! — to enter into the 
 
On Charity. 265 
 
 i plans of the Father of mercies! To dry the tears of the 
 afflicted! To turn into acts of praise the sighs of the 
 disconsolate! To pour a refreshing balm into the 
 wounded spirit! to be like the angel of God to the wi- 
 daw and the orphan! Blessed is the lot of those whose 
 riches are neither hoarded with niggard selfishness, 
 nor scattered in an ostentatious and effeminating lux- 
 ury, but, llowing, like a beneficent Providence, with 
 diffusive munificence, carry along with them the streams 
 of happiness throughout society. 
 
 But, christian brethren, is great wealth always ne- 
 cessary to fulfil the duties of charity? May not medi- 
 ocrity redeem from so many factitious wants, from so 
 many useless gratifications of vanity the funds for doing 
 good? Nay, will not benevolence find its resources 
 in the very bosom of poverty? If it has not gold and 
 silver to bestow, has it not its sympathies, its assiduities, 
 its thousand nameless services, which are often more 
 precious than silver or gold? 
 
 Chanty is a habit of the soul, always in action; per- 
 petually alive to whatever affects the comfort and hap- 
 piness of human nature. Every event in Providence 
 it connects with some benevolent emotion of the heart; 
 congratulating with the happy, sympathizing with the 
 distressed. Is the cold piercing? Is the atmosphere 
 filled with contagion? It sheds a tear over the mise- 
 ries of the poor. It devises the means of their relief. 
 Does the storm rage? -It sends to heaven its prayers 
 for the houseless child of want, for the desolate travel- 
 ler, or the perishing mariner. — Charity feels for every 
 mortal. As it has opportunity, it does good to every 
 
 VOL. 1. Mm 
 
266 On Charity. 
 
 creature. It carries in its bosom, if I may speak so, 
 the human race. 
 
 II. Christians! I have spoken to you of the nature 
 of charity: hsten, if you please, in the next place, to a 
 few reflections on the excellence of this grace. 
 
 In its most extended view it is the principal end of 
 all the instructions of the holy scriptures; it forms the 
 most distinguishing character of the Redeemer of the 
 vrorld; it is the band of the moral union of the universe; 
 it is the supreme source of the felicity of heaven. And, 
 in the more limited view I am now taking of it, all 
 these considerations concur to form the most endear- 
 ing union of the believer with his fellow christians. 
 
 Thi'oughout the sacred writing you perceive it every 
 where inculcated with the most affecting and persua- 
 sive eloquence. It is the scope of all their histories, 
 their laws, their moral maxims, their divine songs, their 
 ritual institutions. The whole force of the Spirit of 
 inspiration seems employed to kindle and cherish this 
 holy fire in the bosoms of the faithful. One would 
 think that the sole end of the incarnation and ministry 
 of the Saviour, besides making atonement for the sins 
 of mankind, and bringing life and immortality to light, 
 to the miserable heirs of death, was to announce and 
 reiterate to them these two commandments; — Love 
 God, your Creator and Redeemer — and love your fel- 
 low men, ivho are your brethren. He who could have 
 unfolded all the mysteries of nature, He who could 
 have laid open the secret and infinite chain of causes 
 and effects in the universe, has limited his instructions 
 only to forming good men. Instead of gratifying the 
 
On Charity. 267 
 
 vanity of science, his doctrine is designed to be the 
 consolation of humanity — to unite mankind in one har- 
 monious body in him who is the Head, — and to con- 
 nect heaven with earth by the holy ties of beneficence 
 and love. 
 
 If our blessed Saviour has given such importance to 
 this principle in his divine instructions, with infinitely 
 more beauty and force has he recommended it in his 
 most holy example. 
 
 If the works which he effected for our redemption 
 are too sublime for the imitation of mortals, behold him 
 in his humanity, and in the whole course of his bene- 
 ficent life, the amiable pattern of our virtue. It was 
 one illustrious scene of benevolence. He went about, 
 saith the sacred writer, doing good. When the Holy 
 Spirit, who speaks in the Evangelist, would bestow on 
 him the highest eulogy, he does it not in the pomp of 
 artificial eloquence, so often eaiployed to impose on 
 the imagination, and mislead reason; — but in two sim- 
 ple words, doing good. Oh! virtue most worthy of the 
 Son of God! — It is also, as I have said, the blessed 
 bond of the moral union of the universe. Descending 
 from God through all pure and intelligent natures, and 
 returned from them to him in devout affection, it em- 
 braces and binds together the whole in the most de- 
 lightful and harmonious ties. When God would re- 
 unite the universe to himself, and connect in one holy 
 family the whole brotherhood of mankind, he sent forth 
 upon earth the spirit of charity in his own Son. A 
 mutual and immortal charity forms the perfect state of 
 all holy minds. It was the glory of Paradise. — And 
 
■268 On Chanty. 
 
 it is the state to which the gospel is tending, through 
 the power and grace of the Redeemer, to restore our 
 imperfect nature in the everlasting kingdom of the 
 just. 
 
 Love is the true principle of the happiness of hea- 
 ven, — that love which unites all holy and intelligent 
 natures to God, the centre of their being, and unites 
 them to one another in him. It is for this end in order 
 to strengthen the root and habit of this heavenly affec- 
 tion, and to prepare its perfection, that we are placed 
 under the present disciplhie of charity, if I may call it 
 so, in his church and kingdom upon earth. Great 
 part, without doubt, of the felicity, as well as of the 
 employment of the celestial state, where God unveils 
 the immediate splendors of his throne, shall consist in 
 high and rapturous acts of devotion. But even the 
 immortal powers of the saints made perfect in glory, 
 will not be able to sustain an eternal ecstasy: nature 
 will alternately require more gentle movements, and 
 those softer pleasures which will be found in the de- 
 lightful exercise of all the heavenly charities. j 
 
 To recapitulate these ideas in a single sentence. 
 The principal end of the Creator in forming this sys- 
 tem seems to have been the happiness of man: or, if 
 we would rather say his own glory, his glory consists 
 in the happiness of the creatures he has made. That 
 happiness is placed chiefly in the exercise of a mutual 
 and universal charity. To teach the law of charity, the 
 Son of God descended from heaven. Charity is the 
 scope of all the instructions, the institutions, the exam- 
 ples of the holy scriptures. Charity is the image of 
 
On Chanty. 269 
 
 God, the glory of the Redeemer, the moral bond of the 
 universe, the supreme source of the fehcity of heaven. 
 M)w, therefore, abide these three, faith, hope, charity; 
 hut the greatest of these is charity. Faith embraces 
 the gospel as the word of God, the rule of life, and the 
 foundation of hope; charity is its spirit, and its sum. 
 Hope discloses to the believer the motives of obedience, 
 in the immortal rewards of piety and duty; of which 
 charity is the essence and the sum. And in heaven 
 the perfection of charity shall form its own eternal re- 
 ward. Faith shall cease, being lost in vision. Hope 
 shall be consummated, being realized in possession. 
 But charity, but love shall exist forever. In the pre- 
 sence of the Eternal King, commencing a new career, 
 freed from all obstruction and imperfection, it shall con- 
 tinually advance our nature nearer to the perfection 
 and felicity of the Supreme and all perfect mind. 
 Many reflections will naturally have suggested them- 
 selves to a christian assembly from the preceding prin- 
 ciples and illustrations. A very few only I can select 
 for your reconsideration. Among the first, a devout 
 ■disciple of Christ, can hardly fail to recognize with 
 holy joy the character of the living and true God whom 
 we adore, w^hose nature is love. With what divine 
 superiority does the gospel exhibit him who is the 
 source of all being, above the multiplied shapes of er- 
 ror which bewildered and disgraced the reason of the 
 blinded nations before the advent of the Saviour. 
 Among all the phantoms which superstition has ever 
 offered to the veneration of mankind, can any resem- 
 blance be found to him who places his glory in the fe- 
 
270 (hi Chanty. 
 
 licityofthe universe which he has created? Where 
 superstition and vice, for they always go together, main*- 
 tain their blind dominion, we behold ignorance and 
 cruelty trembling before the bloody altars of Moloch, 
 or sensuality rioting in the groves of Syrian pollution. 
 Shows, festivals, and fantastic rites are substituted in 
 the room of those virtues of the heart, and that divine 
 love which alone should reign in the temples of the 
 Eternal. Merciful Redeemer! who has taught thy dis- 
 ciples to love one another, endue us richly with that 
 spirit of charity which is thine image, the distinction, 
 and glory of thy most blessed gospel! That interesting 
 discourse, out of which my text is taken, proposes to 
 us, in the next place the truest estimate of the respec- 
 tive value of religious principles. Speculative truth 
 has, undoubtedly, its importance; the rites and ceremo- 
 nials of religion, which give it its visible form and body, 
 are not without their price; but that which is most es- 
 sential to the spirit of the gospel is its tendency to pro- 
 mote the happiness of mankind. The true test of piety 
 is its good works, — its imitating the benevolent labors, 
 the munificent pattern of the great Teacher and Exam- 
 ple of all virtue. What was the life of Jesus Christ but 
 a constant exemplification of that active beneficence to 
 the bodies and the souls of men, which should form 
 the honorable distinction of all his disciples? What 
 was the whole scope of his discourses, but to teach men 
 to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with 
 God? On what shall turn his decisions in the last 
 judgQient, when seated on thethroneof eternal justice, 
 the destinies of the universe shall proceed from his lips? 
 
On Chanty. 271 
 
 I was hungry and ye gave me meat; I loas thirsty and ye 
 gave me drink; naked and ye clothed me; a strajiger ai\d 
 ye took me in; sick, and in prison, and ye came unto me. 
 And how does he himself interpret the spirit of this 
 divine sentence? In as much as ye have done it unto one 
 of the least of tliese, ye have done it unto me. 0, Al- 
 mighty and most gracious Saviour! what thanks and 
 praise do we not owe thy condescension and grace, 
 who hast so identified the humhle children of poverty 
 and affliction with thyself, as to make our charitable 
 cares for them, the test of our obedience, and the mea- 
 sure of our final rewards from thee! 
 
 In the remaining portion of this discourse, let us, 
 my christian brethren, turn our attention more directly on 
 those objects of our benevolence, which have so deeply 
 engaged the efforts of this amiable association, at whose 
 request the present assembly has been convened. And, 
 on this subject, I have the pleasure of believing that 
 no prejudices arising from diversity of opinion, either 
 on religion, or on poHticks, can be suffered to enter 
 this temple of charity, to obstruct the free current of 
 your benevolent emotions. Here humanitj^- alone pleads 
 for her afflicted children. 
 
 The unprotected widow, and the helpless orphan, 
 present themselves before you, to solicit your alms, at . 
 the commencement of a season always filled to them 
 with peculiar distress. They have no language in 
 which to express their own griefs. And they offer 
 themselves to you this evening, through the medium of 
 this benevolent society, the exquisite sensibilityof whose 
 sex has taught them to feel, and the sympathy of whose 
 
212 On Charity. 
 
 pious hearts has carried them into the thousand retreats 
 of female suffering in this city, to collect the simple 
 and unaffected details which they here present to your 
 charity, for the love of God. They lift, for a moment, 
 before your eyes, the veil that covers the scenes of 
 sorrow which every where surround you. Ah! could 
 you enter into the innumerable receptacles of penury 
 and want, and personally witness the infirmities of age, 
 and the emaciated forms of weakness and disease, des- 
 titute of every con}fort which sick and exhausted na- 
 ture requires, pouring their disconsolate sighs to Hea- 
 ven, w'hile they seem forsaken of every human aid, 
 could you, amiable children of affluence and ease! could 
 you restrain the synipathy of your tears, and the mu- 
 nificence of your charitable hands.^ 
 
 If, to the other distresses of abject penury there be 
 added, what often happens, a family of helpless chil- 
 dren weeping round a disconsolate mother; who has 
 no means of relieving their painful necessities; let the 
 heart of a mother picture to itself the deep anguish of 
 her soul! They ask for food, but she has only her 
 tears to give them ; they cry for a garment to cover them 
 from the piercing cold; she can answer only with her 
 groans; tortured with their incessant importunities, she 
 can only weep with them, looking to Heaven, and to you. 
 If, from the precarious supplies of charity, she can glean 
 a scanty pittance for the most pressing wants of the 
 present day, alas! how often does she know not where 
 to find her next meal, or the next fragment of wood to 
 light and to warm her hearth! How many, alas! strug- 
 gling in the extremities of want, do I seem to see, like 
 
On Charittj. 373 
 
 the poor widow of Zarephath, addressing the prophet 
 Elijuli; As the Lord thy God livelh I have but a hand- 
 ful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruise, and 
 behold I am 2;atherin<j; two sticks, that I may go in and 
 dress it for me and my son, that we may eat it and die. 
 Then surveying the melancholy scene around her, and 
 anticipating the still more melancholy prospects before 
 her, her full heart is ready to burst. And, indeed, she 
 must sink down overwhelmed with her sorrows, if your 
 charity do not come in, like the heaven-directed pro- 
 phet of God, to restore life to her and her children. 
 Christians, these are not pictures presented from a 
 too ardent fancy. Those whose benevolence prompts 
 them, and whose activity and leisure enable them per- 
 sonally to examine these abodes of affliction, often have 
 their feelings harrowed up by scenes' that the benevolent 
 heart hardly dares to contemplate, and that language is 
 too feeble to express. In its anxiety to relieve only the 
 most urgent wants, which continually press on the be- 
 nevolence of this society, it is, alas! constrained to suf- 
 fer all the anguish of an impotent charity. Oh! could 
 the delicacy of those amiable females who shine before 
 me in all the elegance of taste and wealth, consent, not 
 to take these representations from my lips, but, fbrsa- 
 kins: for a moment the chambers of ease, to look into 
 these receptacles of human misery, what new views of 
 life would arrest your feeling hearts! What new im- 
 pulses would be given to your christian chanty, alrea- 
 dy so conspicuous? But another class of female suf- 
 ferers, permit me to bring forward to your attention, 
 christians! not less to be pitied perhaps, though they 
 
 VOL. I. !V n 
 
214, On Charity. 
 
 do not offer to the eye such obvious spectacles of dis- 
 tress. They have once been more happy, and their 
 timid dehcacy, M^hich shrinks from contempt, and per- 
 haps, some proud remembrance of the past, long re- 
 strain them from revealing their necessities; as long as 
 they are able to support their sufferings, they devour 
 their tears in secret. Their griefs, which they cannot 
 resolve to disclose, consume their spirits and their 
 health; and it is only the wan and anxious countenance 
 of wo, that betrays to the discerning eye those cruel 
 wants which they have long endeavoured to conceal 
 from the world. Do you, whose feeling hearts under- 
 stand the modesty and delicacies of an amiable woman, 
 pity the deep and covered griefs that often fatally prey 
 upon the finest sensibilities of human nature. 
 
 But the highly meritorious and benevolent association 
 who apply this evening to your charity, have, for their 
 objects, not only the comfort of distressed widows, suf- 
 fering under accumulated afflictions, but the protection, 
 nourishment, and moral culture of destitute orphans. 
 And christians! what can be more worthy the disciples 
 of Jesus Christ, who is himself the example of all mer- 
 cy and grace, than to rescue from misery and vice, and 
 to restore to society and virtue, those helpless infants 
 who have no parent, no friend but God and you. 
 
 And for them we dare to solicit your benevolence in 
 the name of your country, of religion, and hun}anity. 
 No evil can more dangerously affect the peace and or- 
 der of the community, than throwing into it that njass 
 of ignorance and vice, which must result from aban- 
 doning the children of poverty without instruction, or 
 
On Chanhj. 215 
 
 protection to all the infelicities of their unhappy state; 
 whereas, by extending to them the hand of a munificent 
 charity, you prepare for your country, a class of useful 
 citizens, serving it by their labour, attached by the 
 grateful remembrance of the benefits (hey have received 
 from it, and stengthening its social ties by virtuous 
 habits, and religious principle. Yes, christians, by this 
 benevolence, you are discharging one of the noblest 
 duties which, as good citizens, you owe your country, 
 or, as christians, you owe the church of God. But, if 
 society possesses its claims, does not religion impose 
 its commands.'^ Has not God declared himself the 
 protector of the fatherless? And by bestowing on you 
 the means of fulfilling this beneficent design, has he 
 not devolved on you, also the sacred trust of protecting 
 them in his name.-* Oh blessed Saviour'- who, in the 
 days of thy flesh, didst take little children in thine 
 arms and cherish them; from that throne of glory, to 
 which thy charity and love to mankind did raise thee, 
 inspire our bosoms, here in thy holy temple, with 
 the same divine spirit! and deign to accept the sacrifi- 
 ces of our charity, which, on this evening, we make 
 in thy courts to the praise and glory of thy heavenly 
 grace! Permit me, now finally, christian brethren, to 
 address our invocation to you in the name of huma- 
 nitv. 
 
 When you consider the friendless condition of these 
 orphans, thrown by the hand of Providence, on the cold 
 neglect of the world, do not the strongest sympathies 
 of nature plead for them in your breasts.^ Who, alas! 
 remains to mitigate to them the injuries of their forlorn 
 
276 On Charity. 
 
 condition? Who to administer the soothings of pity to 
 their wretchedness? Despised and forgotten, or passed 
 with contemptuous scorn by every casual wanderer, 
 they seem to have no interest in hunian nature, not 
 even in its sympathies. From their first capacities of 
 action, encompassed only with the incentives and ex- 
 amples of vice, they speedily lose every ingenuous sen- 
 timent that should attach them to society, every con- 
 sciousness that can remind them, for a moment, that 
 they belong to an order of beings above the brutes that 
 perish. And, when you look forward, christians, dis- 
 ciples of that blessed Saviour who hath brought life and 
 immortality to light, who is there to implant one prin- 
 ciple of piety, to cherish one spark of immortal hope 
 in their y<»ung bosoms? How strong then is the appeal 
 which these wretched outcasts make to your charity 
 as christians, and to your feelings as men? If you 
 regard them only as helpless children, most tenderly do 
 they solicit your commiseration. But if you view them 
 as immortal beings, the heirs of everlasting life, or ev- 
 erlasting death, how much more forcibly do they knock 
 at the hearts of the disciples of the Redeemer of man- 
 kind? 
 
 If you will permit me, my christian brethren, in the 
 conclusion of this address, to suggest an inferior, but 
 certainly, a most interesting consideration; your be- 
 nevolence this evening is not less necessary to soothe 
 the hour of dissolution to the dying parent, than to pro- 
 tect the beginning of hfe to the destitute orphan. Death, 
 so terrible in its own nature, is often aggravated a thou- 
 sand ibid to the feeling heart, by the prospect ot leaving 
 
On Chanty. 211 
 
 a dependant family where there is no asyhim to receive 
 them from the contempt and injuries of the world. 
 What must be the sensations of an affectionate parent, 
 in bidding a last adieu to his beloved offspring, in this 
 dreadful extremity? He is poor indeed, and we are 
 too apt to think lightly of the feelings of poverty, but 
 poverty has not quenched natui'e in his heart. Oh! 
 dear but wretched portions of my self! What retreat 
 now remains to you from that dark, dark cloud which 
 I see bursting over you! Had I been spared, these 
 hands could still have laboured for you. But who will 
 be a parent to you when I am gone.^ Oh! my God! 
 my own sorrows I could have born. But when I look 
 on these children who exist, and are miserable, only 
 because I once loved, my heart dies within me before 
 thy last stroke. Merciful Father of the universe! To 
 thy compassion, may I dare in this last moment, to 
 commend them.^ Be thou their father and I die in 
 peace! 
 
 Yes, christians, from heaven he hears the anguish 
 of a parent's heart pleading for his wretched offspring: 
 and he commits to your charity this evening, the duty 
 and the privilege of saving them for him. Pity, dis- 
 ciples of your Redeemer! the griefs of a dying father, 
 of a dying mother. Commiserate the tears and the 
 sufferings of an unhappy orphan; or if it is yet ignorant 
 of all its calamities, let that very ignorance prove a new 
 plea for it to your humanity. 
 
 But, is there not another class of forsaken infants, 
 the offsprings, on one hand, of unfeeling licentiousness, 
 on the other of error and cruel deception, which no 
 
278 On Charity. 
 
 less powerfully claim your charitable protection, not 
 for the sake of the guilty parents who merit your 
 deepest abhorrence, but for the sake of the unoffend- 
 ing little sufferer, whom, not its own, but their vices 
 have doomed to be an heir of misery and shame- 
 Christians! disciples of that gracious Master who re- 
 ceived the penitent Magdalen to the asylum of his 
 mercy! to that charity by which you chiefly resemble 
 him, would I appeal in its behalf Nay, to that sex 
 conjoined in this benevolent association, whose virtues 
 are most justly offended, may I not dare to appeal? 
 Ah! let not your chaste and virtuous indignation against 
 the crime of a wretched mother, stifle the sympathies 
 that would move you to rescue a perishing infant. God 
 forbid that I should endeavour to repress one indignant 
 emotion in your bosoms against a vice, the bane of 
 public morals, of domestic tranquillity, purity and hon- 
 our. But ah! remember, that she has, most probably, 
 fallen a sacrifice to cruel, villainous seduction. Unfee- 
 ling wretches! who can cooly inmiolate to your bru- 
 tal appetites inexperienced innocence; who first intox- 
 icate the heart by a well dissembled passion, — betray 
 its too easy confidence by vows and oaths, — and then 
 plant in it the stings of an eternal remorse! on you 
 chiefly should fall the vengeance of public opinion, and 
 the justice of the laws. Yet such is the perversion of 
 our manners that you still continue to enjoy a certain 
 indulgence in society, while the deluded victim of your 
 perfidy is abandoned to despair. Gracious Heaven! 
 what could impel a mother to desert her own infant.'* 
 The weakest and most timid animals are inspired with 
 
On Charity. 279 
 
 courage to defend their young: women for them will 
 rush upon the weapons of death, or plunge into the 
 midst of flames. Are then the sentiments of nature ex- 
 tinguished in her heart? Has vice converted her into 
 a monster? No; the all-subduing power of shame has 
 *irged her to this act of horror. Great God! thou wast 
 witness to the anguish of her soul while she perpetrated 
 this deed. Penetrate with repentant compunction the 
 heart of her destroyer! Let her deep contrition be the 
 pledge of her restoration to virtue! And let a wretched 
 infant, though surrounded with crimes, find an asylum 
 in the charity of so many virtuous matrons, whom their 
 own virtue permits, without shame, to snatch it from 
 perdition! And do you, venerable fathers, do you, young 
 men of virtuous principles, and generous feelings, en- 
 deavour by your charities, and by the moral and reli- 
 gious culture extended to these children of shame, to 
 expiate, in some measure, the vices of so great a por- 
 tion of your sex. Do I speak to one person whose 
 criminal arts, perhaps, whose perjuries, have plunged 
 a woman into infamy, or thrown a helpless outcast on 
 the benevolence of the world? Oh! for once be honest: 
 for once let a sentiment of virtue touch your heart; 
 and here^ in this temple, make some atonement for 
 the sighs, the tears, the anguish you have created. Ah! 
 cruel father! unhappy mother! how near were you be- 
 ing stained with the blood of your own infant, if the 
 charity of those chaste and delicate minds who most 
 deeply abhor your crime, had not rescued it from impen- 
 ding death, and you from so horrible a deed! Father 
 of mercies! if ever vice, by such deeds of infamy. 
 
280 On Charity. 
 
 shall outrage the morals and purity of a christian city, 
 let not charity be ashamed to clasp the little sulferers 
 to her bosom, and rear up ciiildren to virtue and to 
 thee! 
 
 In behalf of female orphans, especially I address my- 
 self to that sex distinguished for the purity of their sen- 
 timents, the delicacy of their feelings. When you re- 
 flect to what vice, to what profligacy, their ignorance, 
 their wants, the abandoned society with which they 
 will be compelled to mingle, must expose them, unless 
 redeemed from ruin by your charity, can stronger mo- 
 tives be proposed to the benevolence of your hearts? 
 To a virtuous woman this is a state worse than death. 
 Mothers! secure in the virtue of your amiable daughters; 
 daughters! happy in the protection and exaujple of 
 such virtuous mothers! pity the unfortunate orphans of 
 your own sex; and save them from vice and infamy. 
 Christians! I have now appealed to your charity in be- 
 half of your country, of rehgion, and humanity: suffer 
 me finally to appeal to it in behalf of yourselves. ^ 
 
 Your own benevolence will furnish you with your 
 purest and noblest pleasures. What enjoyments are 
 so sincere, or so nearly allied to heaven as those which 
 are tasted by the heart in doing good? What so much 
 ennobles human nature, as bearing the image of Him 
 whose beneficence extends to all being: Every grief 
 which you extinguish, every sigh which you suspend, 
 every consolation whicli you pour into the bosom of 
 the afflicted, redoubles, by reflection, your own happi- 
 ness. And at last, when you shall rest Irom the labors 
 and sorrows of hfe, how sublime will be your fehcity! 
 
On Charity, 281 
 
 to be surrounded in the presence of God by those whom 
 you have contributed to save! to draw down on your- 
 selves the blessings of those who were ready to perish! 
 and to have the benedictions of your charity. Amen. 
 
 VOL. 1. o 
 
PAUL PLEADING BEFORE AGRIPPA, 
 
 And Paul said, I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that Lear 
 me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except 
 these bonds. Acts xxvi, 29. 
 
 Paul, in this eloquent discourse made in the pre- 
 sence of Agrippa, displays, as he had formerly done 
 in that which he deli\ered at the tribunal of Felix, the 
 talents and address of a consummate orator. This 
 king, the son of Herod the great, had been educated 
 in the principles of the Jewish religion; and, although 
 a man of pleasure, was not unacquainted with the wri- 
 tings of Moses and the Prophets, nor, perhaps, wholly 
 incredulous of their divine authority. The apostle, 
 availing himself of this incident, boasts to Agrippa his 
 Jewish origin, and displays his zeal in the Jewish reli- 
 gion, which nothing could abate, or divert from its fer- 
 vent and excessive course, till the blessed Saviour of 
 the world, arresting his career, poured round him a 
 light from heaven beyond the brightness of the sun, 
 and at once subdued both his prejudices and his rea- 
 son, and cured his unbelief, by appearing to him in all 
 his glory. The strength of early prejudices in 
 Paul, and the ardor of his exterminating zeal, were 
 vouchers for him that nothing but the most full con- 
 viction, the most illustrious miracles, could have led 
 
Paul before £gnppa. 28S 
 
 him to embrace the gospel of Christ, and to be ready to 
 suffer imprisonment and death, in that cause which 
 he had, so lately, been persecuting with the bitterest 
 fury. He now saw the scriptures in a new light; — he 
 saw the types and prophecies all pointing, not to a 
 conquering Messiah who should vindicate the Jewish 
 nation into liberty, and subdue the world by arms, but 
 to a suffering Saviour who should conquer only by his 
 death. On this subject his tongue glowed, till the Ro- 
 man governor, who understood none of these things, 
 exclaimed, Paul! thou art beside thyself; much learning 
 doth 7nake thee mad. With dignity, but with the pro- 
 found respect due to this illustrious magistrate, he re- 
 pels the imputation; at the same time he takes occasion 
 from it to appeal to the prejudices of Agrippa as a 
 Jew. The king knoweth of these things, saith he, be- 
 fore ivhom I speak freely. They are known to him not 
 only from their publicity in Judea, but from their an- 
 alogy to events which he believes in our ancient scrip- 
 tures. — King Agrippa! believest thou the prophets? 1 
 know that thou believest. This appeal, so full of art, 
 and so happily applied, this apparent confidence in his 
 principles as a Jewish prince, touched the heart of 
 the king. Almost, saith he, thou persuadest me to be a 
 christian. How noble, how benevolent, how anima- 
 ted, and yet delicate, the reply of the apostle, — would 
 to God, that not only thou, but also all who hear me this 
 day, were both almost, and altogether such as lam, ex- 
 cept these bonds! The address discovered by the ora- 
 tor in this conclusion cannot be too much admired. 
 Finding that he had gained the ear of his principal 
 
284) Paul before dgrippa. 
 
 judge; perceiving, in the language of Agrippa, a 
 rising interest in his favour, he instantly, and in the 
 most masterly manner, turned it to his own advantage. 
 After wishing for them, and for all the vast assembly 
 which heard him, the happiness which he enjoyed as a 
 christian, as a disciple of Jesus, and an heir of the re- 
 surrection, he just points to his chains as the only de- 
 duction from the sum of his felicity, and the only thing 
 which he would not include in his wishes for them. 
 Those chains speak powerfully for him to hearts alrea- 
 dy predisposed both to pity and admire him. He fore- 
 saw the impression they would produce; it was suffi- 
 cient now merely to point to them, to make every spec- 
 tator feel their cruelty more sensibly than could be 
 done by a thousand harangues. Festus and Agrippa 
 rise from the tribunal, and, penetrated with his inno- 
 cence, take measures, with all expedition, to transmit 
 him to Rome according to his desire. Sublime ora- 
 tor! of whose eloquence the master of Grecian critics 
 has already made the eulogium, thou wast still more 
 excellent and worthy of our esteem as a christian mi- 
 nister. Let us then, my brethren, consider the import 
 of his prayer for Agrippa, for Festus, and for all that 
 immense assembly whom curiosity had attracted toge- 
 ther to hear this celebrated discourse. The apostle, 
 feehng the strongest conviction of the truth, as it is in 
 Jesus, and glowing with the love of his Saviour, and 
 conscious of the ineffable happiness which flows from 
 the belief and the hopes of the gospel, dares, though in 
 the humblest station, though exposed to labours, af- 
 flictions, persecutions, and though now just drawn forth 
 
Paul before Agrippa. 285 
 
 from a prison, to wish for kings, and princes, the same 
 fehqity in the reception of that precious gospel which 
 he himself experienced. 
 
 What then, is the happiness flowing from a sincere 
 believer in the doctrines of Christ, which emboldened 
 his com'age and prompted his benevolent zeal to utter 
 such a prayer in their behalf? In ordinary cases, it 
 would have been deemed insulting to men of their sta- 
 tion and rank in the world, to desire for them the hap- 
 piness of a prisoner in chains; but the holy apostle, 
 inflamed with a subject so interesting to him and to 
 mankind, was moved by the consciousness that he was 
 imploring for them the highest of temporal and eter- 
 nal blessings. 
 
 The religion of Christ, embraced on the ground of 
 conviction, and with the sincerity and ardor with which 
 St. Paul received it, is a source of the most exalted 
 happiness to the greatest and wisest, as well as the 
 humblest, of mankind; — because it composes and 
 settles the doubts and anxious inquiries of the human 
 mind, with regard to subjects the most important and 
 interesting to man, on a basis of immovable truth, — it 
 offers to the affections of heart the most perfect ob- 
 jects to fill them, — it affords the only true consolation 
 under all the calamities of life,— it elevates our nature, 
 strengthens virtue, and opens to us the sources of the 
 highest felicity in a future, a blessed, and immortal ex- 
 istence. 
 
 1. It composes and settles the fluctuating and doubt- 
 ing mind, tossed among a thousand anxious uncertain- 
 ties concerning subjects the most important and inte- 
 
286 Paul before Agiippa. 
 
 resting to man. Without the aids of those lights from 
 heaven which we can follow with security in exami- 
 ning them, reason is agitated in a chaos of doubt. In 
 the deep of security which surrounds us, its feeble ta- 
 per seems only to mislead us the more. Abandon re- 
 velation, and what can we know of the Creator; of the 
 origin, or government of the world; even of our own 
 nature, our duties, or our destination? What various, 
 what incoherent, what contradictory conjectures have 
 the wisest of men framed on these subjects which, 
 above all others, they have sought to understand! 
 God! if by the efforts of reason alone we attempt to 
 lift our souls to thee, and unite them to the infinite 
 source of being, how are we lost and confounded! Ig- 
 norance repels us from thy throne, and we seek to 
 know thee, in vain! Nay, could we be assured amidst 
 the evils of the world, if there were a God; or if all 
 things were governed by capricious accident, or by a 
 senseless fate.? If our destiny were indifferent to him, 
 or if frail mortals might hope to find in him a father 
 in whose good u ess and compassion they might take re- 
 fuge even in death.? — Would not as many anxious in- 
 quiries arise also with regard to our own being.? What 
 are we? For what end do we exist.? What are our 
 duties either to heaven or earth.? What shall be our 
 destiny beyond this life.? These are questions, and 
 they might be multiplied without end, which involve 
 interests the dearest and most precious to man; ideas 
 which the eager curiosity of the reasonable mind is 
 most solicitous to imderstand. But has reason, has all 
 the wisdom of the wise ever been able to resolve them, 
 
Paul before Agrippa. 287 
 
 or to bring to light any solid grounds on which an anx- 
 ious inquirer after truth can rest? No, we find, in 
 the revelation of the Spirit of Christ alone, those lights 
 which can lead the heart to solid repose. Agrippa was 
 at this moment agitated by an important doubt. He was 
 irresolute, and undetermined whether he should yield 
 himself to the instructions of this great apostle of 
 Christ, or resign his understanding again to all the 
 uncertainties of his former state. Conviction on the 
 one side, or rather the dawning rays of truth, and, on 
 the other, habit, honor, pleasure, drew him different 
 ways Would to God! saith this holy minister, that I 
 could withdraw you from the dark and dubious re- 
 gions of nature in which you are involved! that I could 
 make you partaker of those holy and consolatory truths 
 on which my own mind reposes with such unspeaka- 
 ble satisfaction! That I could shed into your heart 
 those precious lights which would fix all its waverings, 
 and lead you, as they have done my own soul, to a per- 
 fect rest in God! 
 
 2. The faith of Christ is a source of the highest 
 happiness, in the next place, because it offers to the 
 heart the noblest objects of its affections. Would to 
 God, saith St. Paul, that you were as / am, for my con- 
 solations are complete in Christ. And Avell might this 
 prayer be made for Agrippa and for Festus, lor prin- 
 ces and for people, for all who bound their pursuits 
 and hopes by this world. What is necessary to hap- 
 piness.'^ Interests which are stable, friends who are 
 sincere, pleasures which are worthy of our nature. 
 And, alas! what are the pleasures which the world 
 
288 Paul before Agrippa. 
 
 affords? What are the pleasures, especially, which 
 reign in the courts of such princes as Festus and 
 Agrippa? Are they not those of appetite, of intempe- 
 rance? Pleasures which are such, only during the 
 moments of passion and intoxication; but leave behind 
 them guilt, remorse, and humiliation. 
 
 What in the next place, are the friendships of the 
 world? cold, interested, treacherous. For friends, do 
 you not too often find rivals, enemies, secret assassins 
 of your name and happiness? And are not the most 
 splendid conditions of fortune still more than others, 
 subject to these infelicities? And what is the ordina- 
 ry state of society in the world, but an intercourse of 
 insipidity, of frivolity, of indifference, of insincerity, in 
 which the heart is deserted, or pleases itself only with 
 delusions? What, finally, are the interests of the 
 world? Is there any thing durable in them? Any 
 thing which can completely satisfy an immortal mind? 
 Are they not continually disappointing our hopes, and 
 perishing from our embrace? Is not their pursuit tu- 
 mult, their possession anxiety; and, if these are our on- 
 ly goods, their loss despair? Do not these agitations 
 and fears more frequently harrass the prince than the 
 peasant? Do not the vicissitudes of the world more 
 dreadfully assail the throne than the cottage? The 
 hearts of those who are elevated to high stations and 
 to power, have still less to fill the void that is in them 
 than those of the meanest of their dependents. Sur- 
 rounded with sycophants and interested flatterers, they 
 seldom possess a single friend with whom they can 
 confidentially reciprocate one frank and tender feeling 
 
Paul before A^rippa. 289 
 
 of the soul. — King! if you would seek for sincere 
 happiness, happiness that shall be durable and worthy 
 of your nature, expect not to find it in the splendor of 
 your throne, in the dissipations of your court, in that 
 crowd of flatterers and dependents who surround you, 
 in a word, in any of the enjoyments of the world. It 
 is to be found only in the religion of that Heavenly 
 Master whose grace arrested my criminal career, and 
 illuminated my darkened mind, and in whose name I 
 now preach. Would to God that I could impart to 
 you the principles of that joy which passeth all under- 
 standing, now reigning in my breast, which the world, 
 in all its prosperity, cannot yield, nor can all its adver- 
 sity take away. This furnishes the highest and the 
 only certain sources of felicity to a reasonable mind. 
 But it must be a mind renewed, purified from the 
 grossness of the flesh, cultivated by the spirit of God 
 himself, to be able to relish, and truly to enjoy them. 
 In God, in Christ, in the law of charity and love, ia 
 the contemplation of a blessed and immortal existence, 
 the heart of a good man enjoys its richest treasures, its 
 supreme consolations. In the Creator he finds the 
 sum of all that is sublime and beautiful, that is excel- 
 lent and perfect in the universe. In him all the pow- 
 ers of the soul may expatiate with eternal and unwea- 
 ried delight. But Christ is the mirror in which the 
 glory of the Deity shines with the most transcendent 
 beauty to man. In him the penitent soul finds peace 
 with God. The fears, the apprehensions, the disquie- 
 tudes of guilt are allayed. Without a mediator, no 
 
 frail and sinful mortal can look up to the supreme tri- 
 voL. I. pp 
 
^90 Paul before Jlgrippa. 
 
 bunal, or approach to the borders of the grave without 
 fear. JButin Christ repentant guilt his nothing to ap- 
 prehend even from the justice of heaven. And let 
 every believer say, if he does not afford to the heart the 
 object of its sweetest and most delightful affections. 
 Behold, God manifest in the flesh! behold, God recon- 
 ciled to offending man! behold yourself redeemed from 
 eternal death, and made an heir of everlasting life! 
 What cause is here for the unbounded flow of grati- 
 tude and joy, for the holy ecstasies of love! 0, Agrip- 
 pa! thou hast never experienced, in all the pomp of 
 royalty, in all the flatteries which wait on power, in all 
 the excesses of criminal pleasure, joys to be compa- 
 red to these. Would to God, saith the apostle, anima- 
 ted with all the fervors of divine love, that thou wert 
 a partaker of my felicity, so pure, so exquisite, so sur- 
 passing all understanding! 
 
 Other objects of the heart in the law of charity, and 
 love to our fellow men, I omit particularly to present to 
 you, lest I exhaust your attention; but proceed to re- 
 call to your minds, 
 
 3. Another source of the happiness afforded by re- 
 ligion in the consolation which it affords in all the ca- 
 lamities of life. 
 
 Of this, experience had rendered Paul himself a most 
 competent judge. Stripes and imprisonments, insults, 
 and the excesses of popular fury, dangers and fatigue, 
 hunger and thirst, by land and on sea, on the highway 
 and in the desert, had constantly pursued him ever 
 since, obedient to the heavenly vision, he had con^e- 
 erated himself to the service of Christ. He had often, 
 
Faul before Agrippa, 291 
 
 as he says himselt, been in the midst of deaths, for the 
 cause of truth and of his ever blessed Redeemer; but 
 the consolations of reUgion were superior to all his 
 sufferings; and, at that moment, though a prisoner and 
 in chains, he felt himself happier than kings and pro- 
 consuls on their tribunals and their thrones. Whence 
 did these consolations arise to the apostle? and whence 
 do they arise to every sincere believer? From the glo- 
 ry of God, from the mercy, the grace, and salvation of 
 the Redeemer, which, absorbing all the soul in the 
 most delightful contemplations, and wrapping it often 
 in the ecstasies of admiration, gratitude, and divine 
 love, render it superior to all its afflictions. They 
 arise from the conviction that all these temporary pains, 
 which are part of our discipline upon earth, are, under 
 the direction of a most wise and gracious parent, who 
 does not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men; 
 a merciful correction that will ultimately be converted 
 into a peculiar blessing to those who love God; and 
 that these light afflictions, which are but for a moment, 
 work out, in the end, afar more exceeding and eternal 
 weight ofglonj, to those who enter heaven through ma- 
 Kiy tribulations. 
 
 The world is full of calamities; and, conniionly, as 
 we advance in life, and, especially, as we verge to- 
 wards its decline, the strokes of misfortune fall so hea- 
 vily, and are repeated in such quick succession, that, 
 were it not for the supports of religion, the tender and 
 sensible heart would sink under them. And are thrones 
 exempted from afflictions, more than cottages? wealth 
 and splendor of fortune, more than poverty? A grip- 
 
292 Paul before Agrippa, 
 
 pa more than Paul? Nay, are not elevated stations 
 more exposed than the humble, to the fury of the 
 tempest? Prosperity, while it skives an increased va- 
 lue to the world, and renders it more necessary to our 
 happiness, at the same time softens, and weakens the 
 heart, and makes all the vicissitudes of life the more 
 terrible. High fortune commonly finds, in the latter 
 end, men more treacherous, and the world more de- 
 ceitful. But, when the world, and all its enjoyments, 
 are about to pass away forever, how fearful is the 
 grave, how fearful is eternity,, to those who have no 
 higher portion! Life was troubled, anxious, insecure: 
 but despair rests upon the tomb. 
 
 4. Another excellence and felicity of religion, there- 
 fore, and one which gave the state of the apostle an in- 
 finite preference above that of his illustrious hearers, is 
 the precious hope which it yields a good man of a bles- 
 sed immortality. It removes from the grave that des- 
 pair which covers it to the guilty, and adds to the con- 
 sciousness of being a higher and purer enjoyment by 
 the consoling assurance that we shall not perish in the 
 dust; that life is there suspended only for a moment, 
 to be restored improved to inconceivable degrees of 
 felicity and perfection. Blessed and glorious hope! 
 What ideas can contribute so much to elevate our na- 
 ture, to strengthen the principles of virtue, and, from 
 both causes, to promote the happiness of a sincere be- 
 liever in Jesus Christ? Paul, when rapt to the third 
 heavens, he saw and heard what it was impossible to 
 express in the language of mortals, had still but faint 
 conceptions of the glory that is to be revealed; but it 
 
Paul before Agrippa. 29$ 
 
 taught him to rejoice in persecution, it inspired hira 
 with a desire to depart and be with Christy it enabled 
 him to triumph over the last enemy of man — O grave! 
 where is thy victory/ death, where is thy sting! — Was 
 it not with reason then that the holy apostle prayed for 
 his princely hearers, that they might be persuaded to 
 embrace that blessed gospel, the divine fruits of which 
 he had found to his own unspeakable consolation; that 
 blessed Redeemer who by his death hath purchased, 
 by his resurrection has assured to all his faithful disci- 
 ples, everlasting life? Paganism, philosophy, that lax 
 Judaism which Agrippa professed, could give no dis- 
 tinct ideas, no certain hopes of a future and happy ex- 
 istence. But without this hope, what are the pomps, 
 what are the fortunes, what are the pleasures of the 
 world, which are hastening to pass away, and be swal- 
 lowed up by death? It is not merely the gloom of an- 
 ticipated annihilation which is shed upon them; but con- 
 science, with a boding voice often shakes the heart in the 
 midst of its crimes with the most fearful apprehensions of 
 a future retribution. And at no time, perhaps, are these 
 bodings louder, or these apprehensions more severe 
 than in the intervals of the excesses of pleasure. What 
 are those blue hours as they are often called by the 
 world, those distressful feelings of which the intempe- 
 rate so often complain, but dismal anticipations of fu- 
 turity? Oh! Proconsuls of Rome! Kings of the east! 
 dissolved in luxury, enervated by pleasure, dazzled by 
 the splendors which surround you, yet often trembling 
 at that airy hand which, to the eye of conscience, is 
 writing your condemnation, how supremely blessed is 
 
^94 Paul before Agrippa, 
 
 a humble, persecuted apostle in chains, compared with 
 you! Oh! ineffable consolation to have beyond this 
 life the hope of living forever, of beholding God in 
 peace, of being united in the blessed society of all those 
 pure spirits who have been redeemed from the earth 
 by the blood of the Lamb; of pouring into the bosom 
 of the Saviour the eternal ecstasies of our gratitude, 
 and of advancing forward, by an endless progression 
 in the perfection of our being, towards the infinite 
 source of existence, and of happiness. Ah! would to 
 God! that all who hear me this day were both almost 
 and altogether such as was this holy and fervent apos- 
 tle, except his bonds! But why need I make this ex- 
 ception? You would be happy in bonds, in imprison- 
 ment, or death, if it were necessary in the service of 
 Christ. 
 
 But, my brethren, remember that, for this end, you 
 must be not only almost but altogether christians. You 
 must not rest, like x4grippa, in partial convictions of 
 the truth; in resolutions and wishes imperfectly form- 
 ed: you must not rest in rites and exterior forms, and 
 in a merely nominal and exterior profession of the gos- 
 pel of Jesus. You must imbibe, you must be anima- 
 ted by his spirit. Let the same spirit be in you which 
 was also in Christ Jesus our Lord. The higher you 
 rise in your attainments in virtue and piety, the more 
 richly will you drink of those rivers of pleasure which 
 flow at God's right hand. 
 
 Endue us, God! with thy Holy Spirit! Elevate 
 our views, our tastes, our affections, above this world,. 
 
Paul before Agrippa. 295 
 
 that, partaking copiously of the communications of thy 
 grace, we may begin on earth, the feUcity oi' heaven! 
 Amen! 
 
THE DESIRE OF THE APOSTLE TO 
 
 DEPART, AND BE WITH CHRIST. 
 
 Haviug a desire to depart and be with Christ, which is far better. 
 
 Phil. i. 23^. 
 
 When we regard the present life as a period of 
 trial destined to prepare our nature for a higher con- 
 dition of existence: it will be the tendency of a genuine 
 faith in the truth of the gospel, often to look beyond 
 all the imperfections of life, to the full maturity of our 
 being, and the glorious rewards, with which a faithful 
 and merciful Saviour shall ultimately crown the obe- 
 dience of his sincere disciples. The hope of the glory 
 to be revealed, bestowed by the grace, and enjoyed in 
 the presence of the Redeemer, affords the supreme 
 consolation to humble piety under all the distressing 
 vicissitudes of the present life. And when the evils 
 of the world are multiplied, and the frailty of human 
 nature is ready to sink beneath their pressure, often 
 will the good man lift to heaven the eye of faith, as to 
 his proper home, pouring his sighs into the bosom 
 of his heavenly Father, that the moment may at length 
 arrive, when he shall be permitted to rest from his la- 
 hours. And in the progress of his pilgrimage, where 
 harassed by temptation, or overwhelmed with grief for 
 
Desire of the Apostle, ^c. 297 
 
 the remaining imperfections of'his nature, when hope is 
 ready to forsake him, and the feeble and obscure disco- 
 veries of faith are insufficient to satisfy the ardent long- 
 ings of his soul, will he not often be ready anxiously to 
 exclaim, lohen ivill the day daimi, and these shadows flee 
 away? when shall I lay aside this body of sin and death; 
 and my soul arrive at its desired rest! 
 
 Such were the fervent aspirations of this holy apos- 
 tle, under the numberless perils, and the unceasing 
 persecutions to which he was exposed for the sake of 
 the gospel of his Lord and Saviour. Nature almost 
 exhausted, and sinking under the weight of his suffer- 
 ings, panted for repose like the weary hireling at the 
 close of day. And nothing reconciled him to enduring 
 the load of life but the prospect of rearing to maturity 
 those churches which he had planted amidst the most 
 imminent dangers. Earnestly he desired to depart and 
 be with Christ, nevertheless, saith he, to abide in the 
 flesh is more needful for you. 
 
 1. Let me, then, in the first place, consider the im- 
 port of this pious aspiration of the holy apostle, which 
 has been frequently repeated by other believers the 
 imitators of his faith. 
 
 2. And, in the next place, illustrate the principal 
 reasons for which a sincere disciple of Christ may de- 
 sire, when such is the will of God, to be absent from 
 the body, and present with the Lord. 
 
 1. This holy desire of the apostle, and of every true 
 believer by whom it is repeated, implies as an indis- 
 pensible pre-requisite an humble and confiding trust in 
 the righteousness of the Redeemer, and in his most gra- 
 
 VOL. 1. _^ Q q 
 
298 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 cious promises of eternal life. Out of Christ, saith the 
 Holy Spirit, our God is a consuming fire to the irm^k- 
 ers of iniquity. To them, therefore, the dissolution ot 
 the body, and the appearance of the soul before the 
 Supreme tribunal, far from being an object of desire, 
 is an event which necessarily fills them with dismay. 
 It is only when our faith can rest its hopes upon tlie 
 rock of ages, that it can overcome the painful appre- 
 hensions of our approaching dissolution. It is only when 
 the soul, confiding with a holy assurance in Christ, can 
 fill her view with that celestial glory to which he is 
 raised, as the head of all his people, that she aspires to 
 enter with him into her eternal rest. In this confi- 
 dence she is able to meet the last enemy with a divine 
 tranquillity, and, often, to rejoice, in the stroke which 
 breaks the ties that hold her enchained to the corrup- 
 tions of the (lesh; and rends the veil which obscures the 
 vision of all that she has longed most ardently to en- 
 joy. Hence the saints in scripture are so often heard 
 to speak the language of triumph in the prospect of 
 death, and under the pressure of sufferings more for- 
 midable than death to the devout and holy soul. Be- 
 ing justified by faith, saith the apostle, we have peace 
 ivith God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Who shall 
 separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, 
 or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or 
 peril, or sword? JS'ay, in all these things we are moi^e 
 than conquerors through him that loved us. For lam 
 persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor 
 piincipaUHes, nor 'powers, nor things present, nor things 
 to come, nor height, 7ior depth, nor any other crecdure, 
 
To depart and he uith Christ. 299 
 
 shall he ahle to separate us from the love of God which 
 is in Jesus Christ, mir Lord. Here then, holy hrethren, 
 you perceive the first principle of that fervent aspira- 
 tion expressed by the blessed apostle, and which has 
 often been breathed forth by the saints, to dcjmrl and 
 be with Christ, — a firm trust in the righteousness of the 
 ever blessed Redeemer, and founded on this, a lively 
 hope in the future rewards and glory which aw^ait all 
 true believers. Why, indeed, should not an afflicted 
 christian earnestly desire this happy release from a 
 suffering and sinful world, if, with the venerable pa- 
 triarch, in similar circumstances, he can say, / knoiv 
 that mil Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand in the 
 latter day upon the earth: — and though after my skin, 
 ivorms destroy this body, yet, in myjlesh, 1 shall see God. 
 
 2. This breathing of the soul, implies in the next 
 place, that the apostle had risen, by the power of a di- 
 vine faith, above the undue influence of all the ordinary, 
 and even lawful causes, which usually attach a good 
 man, most strongly to life. 
 
 I do not mean those natural appetites for the com- 
 mon blessings of divine Providence which are insepara- 
 ble from human nature as long as we remain connect- 
 ed with this system of sense. Desirable and lawful 
 they are while pursued with moderation and enjoy- 
 ed with temperance. But what are the highest delights 
 of the perishing body, compared with those rivers of 
 pleasure, which spring eternally from the throne of 
 God .^ What the products of your most fruitful fields 
 compared with the fruit of //le tree of life which grows 
 in the midst of the paradise of God.^ And although H is a 
 
SOO Desire of the apostle 
 
 pleasant thing to behold the sun, will not the humble 
 christian joyfully close his eyes upon it, who believes 
 that he is entering into that city which hath no need of 
 the sun, neither of the iuoon to shine in it, for the 
 glory of the Lord doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the 
 light thereof? 
 
 But the causes to which I i^efer, and which are 
 adapted to take the most powerful hold on the heart of 
 a truly pious man, are the desire of being more exten- 
 sively useful to mankind; soHcitude to strengthen 
 the habits of piety and virtue in his own breast, before 
 he is called to appear in the immediate presence of his 
 Supreme judge; and finally, the wish to promote the 
 comfort and happiness of those who at once are most 
 immediately dependent on his protection, and are the 
 dearest objects of his affections upon earth. 
 
 1. Of these causes, I place first, the desire of being 
 more extensively useful to mankind. 
 
 This holy apostle, notwithstanding his solicitude to 
 exchange his labours for his reward, his conflicts for 
 his crown, was ready, if such were the will of his hea- 
 venly Father, to continue in the midst of his sufferings 
 and dangers, to rear by his care, and nourish with the 
 word of life, the churches which he had planted by his 
 labours. To promote the glory of God in the salvation 
 of mankind, is the object of supreme desire to every 
 faithful servant of Christ. United in affection to those 
 to whom he has been made the instrument of spiritual 
 good, he may wish still to live with them, to encourage 
 and assist their progress in their heavenly journey. 
 Ever attentive to the interests of the church, he may 
 
To depart and be mth Chnst. 301 
 
 be anxious to see, with regard to it, the issue of new 
 and uncommon aspects of divine providence. Per- 
 ceiving with grief how httle he has hitherto done to 
 advance the kingdom of his Redeemer, so dear to all 
 the faithful, he may be sohcitous still to remain upon 
 earth, to repair, if possible, the imperfection of his 
 past services. He may have laid down new resolu- 
 tions of duty, new and more holy purposes of useful- 
 ness, which he may pray only to have time to accom- 
 plish. Yet these motives, however laudable, must be 
 submitted to the sovereign disposal of Almighty God. 
 If it is his will that you should leave the harvest in the 
 midst of your labours, go without a murmur; go with 
 cheerful resignation to receive a reward, in your own 
 esteem so little merited, knowing that he hath other 
 labourers whom he can send into his harvest. On the 
 other hand, however ardently he may long for his eter- 
 nal rest, he will be willing to encounter all the afflic- 
 tions of this earthly pilgrimage, as long as his Saviour 
 lias one work for him to perform, or one trial for him 
 to endure. He is in a strait betivixt two; but the will 
 of Heaven shall decide his choice. 
 
 2. If a zeal for public usefulness contribute to 
 strengthen his desire of life, it may, perhaps, be aug- 
 mented by a pious solicitude to become more conform- 
 ed to the image and the will of God, before he is call- 
 ed from this state of trial to receive his final reward. 
 
 This is a case, however, in which the deceitfulness 
 of the human heart may easily mistake, in ascribing to 
 a desire of increasing sanctification, only some feeble 
 purposes of future duty. If it were simply his desire 
 
o02 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 to rise to the full maturity of his christian virtue; 
 where can he so certainly attain the perfection of holi- 
 ness as in heaven, when he shall have put off this body 
 of sin and death? Ought not a believer therefore, to 
 find, in these considerations even stronger motives to 
 desire to be absent from the body and present with the 
 Lord; and to look forward, as his chief joy, to those 
 celestial habitations where he shall sin no more? 
 
 3. But a much more powerful tie to life, is the de- 
 sire which is natural to all men, and which is often 
 most strongly felt by the best of men, of remaining to 
 provide for the happiness of those who are most de- 
 pendent upon his protection. Those affections which 
 attach us to family and friends far from being weaken- 
 ed, are strengthened and refined by the habits of vir^ 
 tue, and the spirit of piety; so that often they increase 
 to a good man, in his last moments, the difficulty of 
 parting with these tender objects of his affections; 
 with the companions and partners of his purest joys, 
 with the sharers and soothers of all his griefs, with 
 whom he has mingled his soul, and who are become 
 the dearest portions of himself Ah! how hard the 
 trial, if he knows that he must leave an afflicted and 
 unprotected widow, orphan and helpless children, in 
 the midst of a deceitful and ensnaring world. He has 
 himself keenly suffered from its afflictions; he has ex- 
 perienced its coldness, perhaps its enmity, and to pro- 
 tect them from the same ills, and ward the anguish 
 from their hearts, he would wilhngly encounter alone 
 its severest assaults, and bare his own breast to receive 
 all its shafts. But when he thinks of them, and that 
 
To depart and he tvith Christ. 303 
 
 he can no longer be their shield or their guide, his 
 spirit faints. 
 
 Above all, the vices which are continually present- 
 ed to youth in the manners of the world; the seductions 
 which assail them, the snares which encompass their 
 inexperienced years, fdl him with afflicting apprehen- 
 sions. If Heaven should prolong his life, he could 
 protect their weakness, and direct their footsteps in 
 the path of virtue; a thousand pangs he could ward off 
 from their bosoms; but he is about to leave them, he 
 knows not to what lot: on earth he shall see them no 
 more, and he knows not if he shall meet them in Hea- 
 ven. Ah! painful separation! how must it rend the 
 heart of an affectionate parent, husband, or friend! 
 Ah! the pang which must mingle itself even with the 
 hopes of heaven in the last look which he casts on these 
 precious objects of his love. In the midst of these 
 overwhelming emotions, however, tlie believer finds 
 a refreshing consolation in the faithfulness of the di- 
 vine promise. The mercy of the Lord is from ever- 
 lasting to everlasting upon them that fear him, and his 
 righteousness unto children^ s children. Leave thy father- 
 less children, and I will protect them, and let thy ividoivs 
 trust in me. 
 
 Although the love of these dear connections, which 
 have so powerfully twined themselves about his heart, 
 forms the strongest tie that binds the believer to life, 
 yet the love of God is, in his breast, a superior prin- 
 ciple. Although his heart bleeds at the stroke which 
 separates him from them: yet, leaving them in the 
 hands of a merciful Saviour, he is resigned, and will- 
 
304 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 ing to go to that land of vision, where he shall more 
 clearly behold all the gracious designs of their heaven- 
 ly Father toward them unfolded, and where, waiting 
 for them, he shall drink eternal consolations from the 
 river that, springing irom the hill oi" God, carries im- 
 mortal life and joy through all the regions of the ce- 
 lestial Eden. My flesh and heart, may he say with the 
 holy Psalmist, dothfaint and fail, yet God is the strength 
 of my heart and my portion forever. 
 
 4. In the last place, the language of the text im- 
 plies an earnest aspiration of soul to attain the perfect 
 vision of God, the blessed fruition of his heavenly in- 
 heritance. 
 
 It is not the language of resignation merely, that the 
 apostle speaks: it is the sighing of a labourer to finish 
 his toils and be at rest — the anxiety of a traveller agi- 
 tated with tempests, and worn with fatigue, to find 
 again a secure and settled home — it is the prayer of a 
 regenerated soul to escape from this region of temp- 
 tation and sin — it is the longing of an exiled child to 
 return to his father's presence, and to taste again in 
 a father's love, those pure and heart-felt joys which, 
 among strangers, he could never find. 
 
 Such will frequently be the aspiration, also, of all 
 sincere believers during their passage through this af- 
 flicted pilgrimage, or as they are approaching its se- 
 rious and interesting termination. In God their af- 
 fections are centered. With him they daily hold de- 
 lightful communion. But impeded by the weakness 
 of the flesh, and the obscurities of sense, they often 
 have reason anxiously to exclaim. Oh that I knew 
 
To depart and be with Christ 305 
 
 where I might find him! Oh! that God would rend the 
 veil that hangs upon my mortal vision! Oh! that the 
 time vj^ere come when I shall know even as also I am 
 known! when, released from all earthly attachments, 
 my soul may be lilled only with God! And now, O 
 Lord! through all my remaining pilgrimage, so help 
 me to live above this world, that, whenever it shall be 
 thy will, I may with the holy apostle be ready and 
 willing and desire to depart and be with Christ! 
 
 2. I now further request your attention, for a few 
 moments, while I point to some of the principal rea- 
 sons for which a humble and devout christian may 
 justly desire, when such is the will of God, to be ab- 
 sent from the body and present with the Lord. These 
 may be reduced to a very few and simple considera- 
 tions. 1. The imperfection of the world viewed as 
 the portion of the pious soul. 2. The afflictions with 
 which the world abounds. 3. And finally, the hopes 
 of a higher and immortal life, when the transient 
 scene of the world shall have passed away. 
 
 The imperfection of the world will weaken his mo- 
 tives for continuing in it. Its manifold afflictions will 
 render him more willing to depart from it — And the 
 hope of eternal hfe beyond all its painful vicissitudes, 
 will awaken his holy desires to take possession of his 
 heavenly inheritance. 
 
 The imperfection and vanity of the world as the 
 portion of a rational and immortal mind has, in all 
 ages, been a fruitful theme of moral reflection. And 
 the experience of all who have ever pursued it with 
 the greatest eagerness, or enjoyed it with the great- 
 
 VOL. I. R r 
 
306 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 est pleasure has, in the result, confirmed the humilia* 
 ting testimony ofthe sacred preacher; vanity of vanities, 
 all is vanity!— FdLY would I be from indulging the com* 
 plainings of disappointment, or the mistaken spirit of 
 ascetic mortification, as if the present state furnished 
 no sources of lawful enjoyment to a sincere christian. 
 Pleasures undoubtedly, of a very elevated kind, he may 
 derive from the consolations of piety ; though greatly im- 
 paired from the frailties of a corporeal and sinful na* 
 ture, and from our inadequate conceptions ofthe glory 
 of Cod, and the boundless mercy of the Redeemer. 
 Many exquisite satisfactions he may taste from the 
 temperate gratification of all the senses in their proper 
 place, though from the same sources often spring his 
 keenest pains, and his most severe afflictions. And plea- 
 sures of a more refined and exquisite nature, he often 
 enjoys from the delightful sympathies of society, the 
 confidential intercourse of friendship, or the tender 
 endearments of domestic love. But, ah! how short 
 lived! and how often the spring of deep and exquisite 
 suffering! With infinite pain the dearest ties are torn 
 from our hearts. The most cruel separations divide us 
 from those whom we have most tenderly loved, and 
 rend us as it were from ourselves, till death consigns 
 them, one after another, to the house of silence, and 
 leaves us, at length, nothing more to wish, but to fol- 
 low them. 
 
 On the other hand, the happiness which the warmth 
 of our hearts had once taught us to expect from the 
 pleasures of society, and still more from the sympa- 
 thies and endearments of friendship, is, but too ii-e- 
 
To depart and he nnth Chnst 307 
 
 quently blasted by the chillness of indifference, and the 
 treachery of selfishness. Suspicions and rivalslnps, 
 vanity or pride, rise up and poison the cup of humaa 
 felicity. The whispers of malignity, the arts of dis- 
 ingenuousness, infuse jealousies and distrust between 
 the nearest friends: and each, aware of the insincerity 
 of all, learns to surround himself with an atmosphere 
 of selfishness, which blights the early blossoms of so- 
 cial happiness. Hence few have lived long in the world 
 who have not contracted a distrust of the world. And 
 often it happens that the most open, candid, and be- 
 nevolent hearts, having met the most ungrateful re- 
 turns from a false friendship, are liable to fall intoth<j 
 most sullen misanthropy, and to wrap themselves up 
 in unsocial retirement. 
 
 In what, indeed, consists the greater part of the 
 commerce of society.^ A good man finds in it little be- 
 sides associations for criminal pleasure; parties of fri^ 
 volity and idleness, comedies of ridicule and scandal; 
 every thing that wounds the feelings of sincere piety, 
 and genuine benevolence. With so many causes of 
 dissatisfaction with the world, is it wonderful that a 
 real disciple of Jesus should sometimes sigh to h ave 
 its infected atmosphere and be at rest with his Ke- 
 deemer.^ Is it wonderful that, wearied with the insin- 
 cerity, the dissimulation, and malevolence of mankind, 
 he should long to be translated to that immortal so- 
 ciety who are forever united in the blissful charities of 
 Heaven ? 
 
 2. I remark, in the next place, that our impotence 
 to gratify the ardent thirst of divine knowledge, ^iwa- 
 
308 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 kened in the heart of a behever, by the Holy Spirit, 
 may become a powerful reason why he should be will- 
 ing to emerge from this sphere of darkness and error 
 into the light of his countenance^ in which is the per- 
 fection of knowledge, and tfie fullness of joy. The 
 thirst of knowledge is natural to man; but piety seeks 
 to turn this powerful propensity to the purposes of de- 
 votion. It aspires to understand God our Maker, that 
 it may more profoundly adore him; to form just ideas 
 of the ever blessed Redeemer in his eternal existence; 
 in his descent from Heaven to redeem the world; in 
 his reascension to his primitive glory, that it may con- 
 tinually pour forth to him the devout effusions of its 
 gratitude and love; it aspires to investigate the astonish- 
 ing works of God, and the awful mysteries of his pro- 
 vidence, that it may derive from them more abundant 
 materials of admiration and praise. But, ah! how 
 small a portion of his works can we understand! Every 
 object which we behold, baffles, in a thousand ways, 
 the weakness of the human mind. With what la- 
 borious efforts she strives to enlarge herself to embrace 
 the idea of God. She would penetrate all her pow- 
 ers with the love of God in Christ. She would mingle 
 her essence with that Being of Beings. In these 
 painful efforts to unite herself with him, she would al- 
 most burst the dark and narrow sphere in which she 
 is confined. But she is imprisoned; she is encompassed 
 with thick clouds, she is oppressed by the weight and 
 the corruptions of the body; and in submissive faith, 
 is constrained to retire into herself, waiting till this 
 corruptible shall have put on ineorruption. 
 
To depart and he ivith Christ. 309 
 
 But in these ineffectual endeavours to raise our na- 
 ture to God, and to mingle with that infinite fountain of 
 being and of love, in these ardent but impotent de- 
 sires to penetrate into the spiritual and eternal world, 
 the christian finds new reasons to be willing to forsake 
 this imperfect lodgment where we know only in part, 
 and to look foivvard with hope to that higher condition 
 of existence, when that which is perfect is come, and 
 all that is in part shall be done away; and where we 
 shall no more see thr-ough a glass daikly, hut face to 
 face in immediate vision. 
 
 3. If the world offers few enjoyments which should 
 render the sincere disciple of his Saviour reluctant to 
 leave it at the call of Heaven: the afflictions, on the 
 other hand, with which it abounds, may well reconcile 
 him to the stroke which parts the frail cord of life, and 
 brings them all to an eternal period. 
 
 The portion allotted to man from the beginning, was 
 labour, and toil, and sorrow, till he return to the dust 
 from which he was taken. Innumerable pains are 
 continually avenging upon him the sin of human na- 
 ture. And, in the order of Divine Providence, we not 
 unfrequently behold the most virtuous of mankind 
 subjected to the severest sufferings, which constrain 
 the humble penitent to exclaim with the holy Psalm- 
 ist; verily I have cleansed my heart in vain, and loashed 
 my hands in innocency;for all the day long have I been 
 plagued, and chastened every morning. 
 
 But our personal afflictions, are far from being the 
 only evils which urge the behever to seek, beyond this 
 desolate empire of pain, disease, and death, a more 
 
310 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 peaceful habitation with Jesus Christ who has conquer- 
 ed death, and opened the gates of eternal life. Our 
 sympathies intimately unite us with our fellow men: 
 and often, in the families of our friends, do we see one 
 desolating calamity, or a succession of afflicting be- 
 reavements, turn a pleasant garden into a disconsolate 
 wilderness, and impress a face of mortal gloom on all 
 the prospects of life? How often do we perceive those 
 who yesterday were at the summit of the wheel of 
 earthly fortune, to day precipitated to the bottom, and 
 plunged into the depths of wretchedness? Here the 
 head and stay of a lovely family is removed from them; 
 and those who were lately accustomed to competence, 
 ease, and respect, are left to want, to dependence, to 
 the cold neglect of the world, to a melancholy which 
 will never cease to prey upon their hearts. Here you 
 behold Jacob rending his clothes, and putting sackcloth 
 on his loins, his heart pierced with an inconsolable 
 grief for the loss of his beloved Joseph: and though all 
 his sons and his daughters rise up to comfort him, he re- 
 fuses to be comforted, saying I mil go down into the grave 
 to my son mourning. Are these rare examples of hu- 
 man misery? Far from it. They are calamities which 
 every day almost obtrudes upon our sympathy. What 
 is usually the effect of long hfe, but to have the heart 
 broken by breach after breach, till it has hardly the 
 power of enjoyment left? To have one comfort, and 
 one friend after another taken, till we are left almost 
 alone upon the earth, and the world becomes to us, 
 a vast and melancholy solitude. In the midst of so 
 many, and such deep afflictions, how naturally does 
 
To depart and he with Christ. 311 
 
 piety cast a longing look to that land of rest where 
 sorrow and sighing shall flee away! 
 
 The catalogue of these evils 1 shall conclude with 
 one which, however can be truly understood only by a 
 soul fervently touched with the love of God, and glowing 
 with zeal for the glory of his Redeemer. The sins that 
 are in the world, the madness and fljlly of mankind who 
 seem eagerly bent on pursuing their own destruction, 
 the desperate impiety of sinners, who are labouring 
 to extend the kingdom of darkness, often occasion to 
 sincere piety the sentiments of a profound grief Ri- 
 vers of water, saith the Psalmist, run down mine eyes 
 because tJiey keep not thy laiv. 
 
 But if the humble disciple of Christ is affected with 
 grief at being a witness of the sins of others, much 
 more sensibly will he be afflicted by the evils which 
 lodge in his own heart. The apostle Paul speaks in 
 the name, and addresses himself to the feelings of every 
 christian, when he complains; — Oh! ivretched man that 
 I am! who shall deliver me frorr tlie body of this death? 
 
 Is it surprising, then, that, under the full and peni- 
 tent impression, of these sentiments, he should ardent- 
 ly desire to arrive at that state of perfection in which 
 he shall know God in a degree infinitely more clear, 
 and serve him in a manner infinitely more complete 
 than he can do in the present life? Is it surprising 
 that he should long to quit the church below, with its 
 obscure ritual of types and symbols, for the sublime 
 and immortal devotions of the temple above; this cold, 
 and dark, and imperfect region obscured with the 
 mists of ignorance, and the clouds of human corrup- 
 
312 Desire of the Apostle 
 
 tion, for those habitations of everlasting hght and truth 
 where he shall behold tlie Sun of Righteousness in all 
 his glory? 
 
 For the strongest of all reasons for which a true be- 
 liever should ever desire to be absent from the body, 
 is the hope of possessing that immortal inheritance 
 which the gospel reveals to an enlightened faith. In- 
 stead of being surprised, therefore, that in the closing 
 scene of life, he should desire to depart and be with 
 Christ, may we not ratiier wonder that this devout 
 aspiration is not constant, and almost impatient. It 
 is the ardent wisJi of a traveller wearied with inces- 
 sant agitations, to find a secure and settled rest — of 
 an exiled child, who feels himself a />?ig"nm and stran- 
 ger upon earth, to arrive at a settled home, and return 
 to the embraces of a father's love. Blessed are the dead 
 who die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours, 
 and their ivorks do follow them. 
 
 But the blessedness of Heaven consists, not mere- 
 ly in exemption from the sorrows of the present Hfe, 
 but in the possession of a glory which eye hath not seen, 
 and which it has not entered into the heart of man to 
 conceive. But, oh! in what language shall we de- 
 scribe; by what images represent that celestial city, the 
 distant outlines of which could only be sketched by 
 the Spirit of inspiration.-^ Yet, in those happy moments 
 in which faith can attain even a faint vision of that 
 land of peace, all the evils of hfe are forgotten in the 
 blissful prospect. All the splendid temptations of the 
 world fade, as the stars are lost in the radiance of the 
 day. 
 
To depart and he mth Christ. 313 
 
 Often have these principles displayed a divine pow- 
 er in minds constitutionally the most feeble and timid, 
 and in circumstances the most formidable to human 
 nature. Often have they enabled the martyr to tri- 
 umph in the midst of flames; and often have they 
 shed a glory on the dying bed of the saint. Happy 
 the humble and pious soul who, in descending into the 
 valley oftJie shadow of death, can say, with the apostle, 
 I am now ready to be offered up, and the time of my 
 departure is at hand; I have fought a good fight, I have 
 finished my course, I have kept the faith. Henceforth, 
 there is laid up for me a crown of rigliteousness, which 
 the Lord the righteous Judge shall give me at that 
 day; and not to me only, but to all them that love his 
 appearing. 
 
 Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord! Yea, 
 saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours, 
 and their works do follow them! Amen! Even so 
 Gome Lord Jesus! 
 
 VOL. 1. s s 
 
RELIGION NECESSARY TO NATIONAL PROSPERITY. 
 
 I, the Lord thy God, am a jealous God, visiting^ the iniquities of the fa- 
 thers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them 
 that hate me, and showing mere} to thousands of those that love me 
 and keep mj' commandments. Exod. xt. 5, 6. 
 
 The immediate government exercised by God over 
 the people of Israel, was the visible model of that se- 
 cret Providence which presides over all the nations of 
 the earth. The text discloses one of the most certain 
 and invariable rules according to which the divine ad- 
 ministration is conducted; which is, that the prevalence 
 of virtuous manners among any people, and their re- 
 spect to the institutions of religion, is usually connected 
 with national prosperity; and on the other hand that 
 impiety, and a general di -^solution of the pubhc man- 
 ners prepares the way for a succession of national ca- 
 lamities, which are followed, at length, by some disas- 
 trous and fatal revolution. — Various interpretations 
 have been given to this passage, and various attempts 
 made to illustrate and vindicate the principle involved 
 in it, expressed by visiting the iniquities of the fathers 
 upon the children; but any application of it which has 
 ever been made to the case of individuals, and their 
 offspring, is evidently unfounded, and wholly unsup- 
 ported by the state of the world. For, neither the suf- 
 ferings of the posterity of vicious men, nor the pros- 
 perity of those who have descended from pious ances- 
 tors have verified the application of this sanction to 
 
Religion necessm^, ^c. 315 
 
 them in the extent which the terms obviously imply 
 We do not always see the childreii of the most profli- 
 gate miserable to the third and fourth generation; still 
 less do we see the descendents of the virtuous and 
 pious invariably happy. The strained explanations 
 which conjmentators are obliged to employ, and ihe 
 exceptions they must necessarily admit in order to sup- 
 port this interpretation, demonstrate that the object of 
 the Divine Legislator has been wholly misconceived. 
 But when we regard it as indicating a general princi- 
 ple in the government of divine Providence over the 
 nations of the earth, no fact is more certain, or more 
 decisively confirmed by the universal testimony of his- 
 tory; that righteousness exalteth a nation^ but sin is the 
 reproach of any people; which last expression in the 
 sacred scriptures, signifies the righteous chastisements, 
 and, often, the total excision inflicted by God upon a 
 sinful generation; when he visits the iniquities of the 
 fathers upon the children to the full accomplishment 
 of his just displeasure. When a nation has abandon- 
 ed religion, the firmest basis of civil government is dis- . 
 solved. Voluptuousness and effeminacy , avarice and pro- 
 digality, a restless ambition, dark treacheries, and a uni- 
 versal disregard of justice, which are the natural conse- 
 quences of a general impiety, accumulate every spe- 
 cies of misery on a wretched people, forsaken of God, 
 and lost to virtue. The precious ties of society are 
 broken; the national imbecility invites insult and inva- 
 sion from abroad; it perishes under a fatal internal 
 weakness, — and hastens to sink them in irretrievable 
 ruin. Such is the course of divine Providence over 
 
316 Religion necessary to 
 
 the great communities of the world; such, according 
 to the universal testimony of experience, is the rapid, 
 and fatal career of impious and corrupted nations; and 
 such, appears to me, to be the genuine interpretation 
 of this divine denunciation, which has commonly been 
 so ill explained. J| 
 
 If it be asked how this great political doctrine can 
 be derived from a law which is aimed primarily against 
 idolatry; and what connexion exists between this law, 
 and the sanction with which it is armed? To answer 
 ttiis inquiry, it is necessary to recur to the constitution 
 of the government of Israel. Being administered by 
 God himself, through the oracles pronounced from the 
 sanctuary of the Holy of Holies, it has not improperly 
 been denominated a theocratic institution, in which 
 Jehovah was regarded as the immediate ruler and 
 king. Idolatry, therefore, in that nation, is not only 
 to be considered as treason against the commonwealth 
 of Israel, but was, in truth, the public and open dere- 
 liction of God; the abandonment of their religion, and 
 the introduction of all that corruption of manners 
 which is the natural consequence of the utter destitu- 
 tion of religious principle. This law, therefore, hav- 
 ing an immediate reference to the establishment of 
 the national religion and government of Israel, its sanc- 
 tions, also, in order to their right interpretation, should 
 be regarded as having chiefly a national aspect. They 
 rest, however, upon principles, in the moral govern- 
 ment of the world, which are common to all the great 
 communities of mankind. When a nation has become 
 conspicuous for an open and avowed neglect and con- 
 
JVational Prosperity. 317 
 
 tempt of the principles and institutions of religion, and 
 for those profligate vices which are the natural conse- 
 quences of impiety, it is hastening to be chastised by 
 those direful calamities which usually attend the de- 
 cline £^nd fall of nations. Almighty God visits upon 
 the guilty inhabitants their iniquities, with the iniqui- 
 ties of their fathers, to the third and fourth generation; 
 and the accumulated sum of their crimes and punish- 
 ments sinks them in deep and irretrievable perdition. 
 Do you ask again, where is the justice of this order? 
 and if it does not involve a principle inconsistent with 
 the benignity of the divine nature, and unworthy of 
 the Father and Judge of the universe? No, christians! 
 it is a principle immutably ingrafted into the system of 
 nature. And the language of the text points to a fact 
 in the moral order of the universe, and in the conduct 
 of Divine Providence over the nations, acknowledged 
 by all wise and good men, and verified by the whole 
 history of the world. Obvious it is, however we may 
 explain the equity of the arrangement, that children 
 every where suffer from the vices, the follies, and even 
 the misfortunes of their parents. And it is the infal- 
 lible order of human society, arising out of the consti- 
 tution of man, that, when nations have sunk into spe- 
 culative or practical atheism, and the pubhc manners 
 have grown generally corrupt, each race becomes by 
 a natural progression, more profligate than the past 
 The crimes and disorders in each preceding genera- 
 tion become only the foundation of new crimes and 
 disorders in the following, till, in a: *few descents, an 
 impious and abandoned progeny is ripe for a terrible 
 
318 Religion necessary to 
 
 and accumulated destruction. The limitation of the 
 sacred writer to the third and fourth generation will 
 be found to correspond with the usual course of the 
 decline and extinction of empires. After they have 
 fallen into gross impiety and corruption of manners, 
 seldom do they pass that period before they suffei; 
 some disastrous revolution, or before they cease to be 
 a nation. 
 
 On the other hand, where have we seen a people, 
 under the full influence of religious and moral princi- 
 ple, in the full vigor of frugal and virtuous habits, 
 which has fallen a prey to internal disorders, or to for- 
 eign domination? While they love God, and keep his 
 commandments, the blessing of Heaven will be upon 
 them; their prosperity will be coextended with the 
 reign of virtue and religion in the midst of them. 
 
 Having brought the subject to this point, 1 lay down 
 the following proposition, as resulting from the prece- 
 ding illustrations, that the belief of the principles of re- 
 ligion, and the practice of its duties, under some form 
 which is calculated profoundly to impress the public 
 mind with the sentiment of God, and the righteous go- 
 vernment of his Providence over human affairs, is es- 
 sential to the prosperity of nations; whereas national 
 impiety becomes, at once, the parent and the nurse of 
 disorders and crimes which hasten their approach to 
 destruction. 
 
 The principle, then, which I have laid down, and 
 which 1 suppose to be embraced in the text, derives 
 force from the opinions of all wise legislators; and I may 
 add, the unequivocal testimony of experience. We 
 
JVational Prosperity. 319 
 
 need but open the pages of antiquity: the historians, 
 the poets, the legislators, the philosophers oi" all na- 
 tions concur in one sentiment, that religion forms the 
 only sohd basis of states. It is but in very recent 
 times that this maxim has ever been railed in question. 
 In every region of the earth, priests have been coeval 
 with magistrates; and in the earliest periods of the 
 world, we often find the sacred united with the regal 
 functions. The wandering tribes of barbarians could 
 never have been reduced to social order, and softened 
 to civilized manners by any power less than that of 
 religion. 
 
 On such minds laws could have but a feeble opera- 
 tion, and abstracted principles of civil policy, so op- 
 posed to all their former ideas and habits, could never 
 have induced them by any anticipation of the benefits 
 of civil order to renounce the wild liberty of their na- 
 tive forests. — As examples of what took place in all 
 other nations, let me recall to your mind those illus- 
 trious priests, who first civilized Boeotia and Thrace.'* 
 putting the principles of their moral, civil, and religious 
 institutions into verse, they subdued the savage spirits 
 of the natives by the authority of religion, and soften- 
 ed them by the united influence of poetry and song. 
 The more we examine this subject by the purest and 
 best lights of antiquity, the more we shall be convin- 
 ced that to religion alone the world, in the beginning 
 was indebted not only for its social order, but for its 
 arts, its morals, and the elements of its science. 
 
 i have said that the proposition 1 have laid down de- 
 rives confirmation li*om experience as well as from the 
 
320 Religion necessary to 
 
 concurrent testimony of the wiser portion of all nations^ 
 Where do we find a people in history who have aban- 
 doned religion, and become sunk, in consequence, in- 
 to effeminate and profligate manners, who have not 
 been, at the same time, treading on the brink of des- 
 truction. To this cause Polybius ascribes the loss of 
 Roman liberty — to this cause Greece having become 
 effeminate and factious, owed her subjugation to Rome 
 — this was the fatal cause which subjected impious 
 and idolatrous Israel to a long and distressful captivity 
 to the empire of Babylon — and this finally extermina- 
 ted them from the land which, under the favour and 
 protection of Jehovah^ they had enjoyed for so many 
 ages. And, have we not recently seen, in a great na- 
 tion, a bold and impious attempt to govern without re- 
 ligion, by the speculations of philosophy, and the brute 
 force of violent and momentary laws.-^ What has been 
 the result? Bursting from order, she plunged into an 
 abyss of crimes. Philosophy herself perished in the 
 tempest which she had raised; and religion has been 
 again invoked to restore justice and peace to an un- 
 happy people. Her mild but powerful voice alone 
 could calm the raging of the storm, which despotism 
 found herself unable to control, and say to the waves 
 of that furious sea, peace! be still! 
 
 So strongly were the philosophers of Greece and 
 Rome persuaded of the connexion of religion with pub- 
 lic happiness that, though far from being themselves 
 believers in the popular superstitions, they esteemed it 
 essential to the interest of the republic that the reve- 
 rence of the people for these forms should be preser- 
 
JVational Prosperity, 321 
 
 ved for the sake of that awful sentiment of religion 
 connected with them, which threw its majesty over the 
 laws, and imparted its energy to the great principles 
 of morals. 
 
 The necessity of religion to the interests of civil so- 
 ciety arises out of the necessity of morals. Without 
 religion, on what could the public morals rest? On 
 the laws? The laws depend on morals for their own 
 force. — On reason? Are the abstractions and doubt- 
 ful conclusions of reason able to combat with the force 
 of the passions? Were reason a more accurate stand- 
 ard and efficient principle of duty than it is, I hesitate 
 not to maintain that, where the mind, in its moral rea- 
 sonings, is not under the commanding influence of an 
 authority believed to be divine, its refinements, its ab- 
 stractions, its deductions will forever be only more in- 
 genious vindications of its own passions. Will politi- 
 cians, then, rely on the native sentiments of justice, 
 of temperance, of chastity in the human heart, to give 
 effect to those laws which are most necessary for the 
 order and happiness of society? I acknowledge the 
 existence of these sentiments; and will, farther, main- 
 tain that all the principles of natural morality, in the 
 popular mind, are the dictates of feeling rather than 
 the results of reasoning. But, as they exist in nature 
 they are vague and indefinite. It is religion which, 
 impressing a divine authority on the sentiments of na- 
 ture, its moral instincts and feelings, gives clearness 
 and precision to all the laws of duty. By reducing 
 them to a few simple and positive precepts, it reaches, 
 by a single word, an end which could hardly be at- 
 
 VOL. I. T t 
 
S22 Religion tiecessary to 
 
 tained by volumes of disquisitions. Thou shall not 
 steal — Thou shall not commit adultery — Thou shall not 
 bear false ivitness against thy neighbour — Nay, entering 
 into the very fountains of action in the heart, thou 
 shall not covet, or extend thy desires to any of the pos- 
 sessions of thy neighbour. What a circle would be 
 necessary to establish these principles by reason? And 
 to how many exceptions, would they constantly be lia- 
 ble! By one word, religion determines the rule, and 
 cuts off all the modifications and evasions of the pas- 
 sions. When the question is to practise all our duties, 
 as men and citizens, could any cold and general con- 
 siderations of political convenience produce obedience 
 to them in opposition to those warm impulses which 
 are continually urging men to their violation? Does it 
 not require all the majesty, — does it not require all 
 the sublime motives, — does it not require, if I may 
 speak so, the omniscience of religion, which no secre- 
 sy can escape, which no deception can elude, effectu- 
 ally to enforce them? Religion has a power which no 
 other considerations possess, by entering into the heart, 
 and rectifying its principles, and by arresting the very 
 beginnings of vice in its desires and intentions. Where 
 religion is respected, and virtuous moral habits are es- 
 tablished under its influence, the seeds of justice, of 
 civil order, and obedience to the laws, are already 
 sown in the heart. 
 
 If reason and political convenience are the only 
 foundations of obedience to the laws, will not every ci- 
 tizen be disposed to examine "them by the narrow 
 scale of his own understanding? Will he not be dis- 
 
jyatimial Prosperity, 323 
 
 posed to make his own feelings of convenience the test 
 of his duties to the pubhc? Have the mass of citi- 
 zens, and those too who are placed in the most disad- 
 vantageous positions in society, comprehension of mind 
 sufficient to combine the general interests of a nation? 
 Can they be supposed to have that high regard to an 
 abstracted idea of public good, which will dispose them 
 patiently to sacrifice to it their private feelings of hu- 
 miliation and want, while others seem to reap exclu- 
 sively all the benefits of society? — But do your philo- 
 sophic pohticians rely for obedience to the laws, in 
 the mass of the people, on their native sentiments of 
 justice? What then! does the actual state of pohtical 
 order, and civil justice in any country, perfectly coin- 
 cide with the natural sentiments of eqnity in the popu- 
 lar mind? Will the poor forcibly perceive the justice 
 of that order in which, by the effects of time, and the 
 operation of the laws, indolence, imbecility, and vice, 
 have come into the possession of the most enviable 
 stations in society, and have amassed together the 
 greatest portion of wealth, which no labours and no 
 merits can wrest out of their hands, or even share with 
 them? No, the sentiments of justice, as it exists in 
 the minds of the people, would militate against the 
 views of the legislator; and, without the control of a 
 divine power, would rather impel the multitude to per- 
 petual revolutions, and reorganizations of the state. — 
 On the other hand, religion assumes the laws already 
 existing, and recognizing the authority from which 
 they emanate, enjoins obedience to them. While she 
 invigorates the sentiments of justice in the heart, she. 
 
824 Religion necessary to 
 
 at the same time, associates them with the rules of 
 justice and order established in the state, and impres- 
 ses the awful seal of her authority both on the laws, 
 and on those sacred sources from which they are le- 
 gally authorized to flow. With silent majesty she pre- 
 sides over the peace of the republic, with an influence 
 infinitely more powerful than that of the laws them- 
 selves. — Will these same pohticians, in the next place, 
 rely on the rigor of tribunals to supply the defect of 
 moral principle.^ — In vain; for, without virtue the tri- 
 bunals are impotent. The efficacy of laws depends 
 upon opinion. And impiety soon breaks down all the 
 barriers which restrain the indulgence of vice, and 
 impairs the moral springs which give energy to the 
 laws. 
 
 Impiety is purely and absolutely selfish. And, if 
 there be no God, wifl not his own indulgence be, to 
 each man, his chief good? — the centre to which he 
 will point all his actions? If there is no moral law, no 
 judge, no future state of being, why should we not de- 
 vour the present moment which alone is ours? why 
 should not sensual pleasure be our only good? why 
 should we submit to the painful self-denials, the .use- 
 less sacrifices of virtue? Why should the poor man 
 permit the rich to enjoy unmolested all the benefits of 
 society? Why should he not with a bold hand, equa- 
 lize their conditions? Why should the voluptuary ab- 
 stain from the delicate honors of chastity? Or why 
 should chastity disdainfully reject his pursuit? Why 
 should not all, with one consent, plunge into those bru- 
 tal pleasures which alone are worthy of a sensual na- 
 
National Prospetity. 325 
 
 ture? — pleasures which dissolve the bands of society, 
 effeminate and weaken the public force, and, absorbing 
 every thing in the vortex of self, abandon the care of 
 the public interest, and fill the nation with assassina- 
 tions, murders, adulteries, incests, unnatural crimes, 
 and all the basest and most horrible vices. Such have 
 ever been the fruits of impiety where it has infected 
 the mass of any people; — such has been its tendency 
 to national prostration of manners, and to national 
 ruin. 
 
 One benefit of a public and positive religion, and 
 that far from being the least important, is its impres- 
 sing, by sacred rites and forms, the principles and ha- 
 bits of piety and virtue profoundly on the heart. If 
 man were purely an intellectual being, ceremonies 
 and rites would be useless; perhaps they would only 
 clog and encumber the active and fervid energies of 
 the soul. But, constituted as he is, the heart must be 
 seized through the senses, and the imagination. The 
 influence of principles will soon evaporate unless they 
 are fixed and strengthened by form. Weak is that 
 mind, and ignorant of the true principles of human 
 nature, which affects to despise the rites and forms of 
 rehgion; which is not, on the contrary, deeply impres- 
 sed by them. — But what institution can be more fa- 
 vourable to virtue, to civility, to humanity, than that of 
 the Sabbath? In the church men meet in the name 
 of God to recognize their common fraternity. Every 
 social affection is cultivated, every unsocial passion is 
 repressed by the very ideas of the place where they 
 are assembled, by the instructions which are received. 
 
S26 Religion necessary to 
 
 and the objects presented to them in the house of God. 
 The most important truths are brought down to the 
 level of the weakest understanding by the simplicity of 
 the gospel; and they are brought profoundly home to 
 every bosom by the authority of God, in whose name 
 they are published, and by the grandeur of the hopes 
 and fears of religion. If then society is governed more 
 by manners than by laws; if laws themselves derive 
 their principal force from the good morals and virtu- 
 ous habits of the people, of what importance, even in 
 a civil view, are the public institutions of religion! — 
 On the other hand, what instructors would philoso- 
 phers prove .^ Of what instructions would the people 
 be capable, if they did not come to them clothed in the 
 simple precepts, and sanctioned by the sacred authori- 
 ty of religion.^ The experiment has been tried in a 
 great nation which put itself into the hands of the phi- 
 losophers, to be moulded by them according to their 
 fancied ideas of perfection. What has been the effect 
 of this trial? Hear it from the people themselves — 
 hear it from the universal voice of all their best and 
 wisest men assembled in the general council of the de- 
 partments. — " We find, say they, there can be no in- 
 struction without education, and no education without 
 morals, and no morals without religion. The instruc- 
 tion of the last ten years has been of no effect, because it 
 has been separated from religion. Children have been 
 let loose to a most alarming state of vagrancy. Desti- 
 tute of any idea of the Divinity, they have grown up 
 without any true notions of justice and injustice. 
 Hence have ensued among us savage and barbarous 
 
JVational Prosperity. S21 
 
 manners, and the mild and polished French are in 
 danger of becoming a ferocious people." — Such are 
 the ideas which have resulted in a great and enlighten- 
 ed nation from a decisive, experiment made on the 
 principles of this national irreligion. 
 
 From every view which we can take of the subject, 
 this conclusion continually meets us, that religion is 
 absolutely necessary to the peace, the ordei", the solid 
 interests, the durable prosperity of a nation.* 
 
 What then is the conclusion which we should draw 
 from the preceding illustrations.? That religion is the 
 only solid bat>is of morals, and of the republic. On 
 that people the blessing of God will rest among whom 
 religion continues to maintain its practical influence. 
 He has so laid the plan of divine Providence, and ar- 
 ranged the moral course of things, that piety and vir- 
 tue lay the surest foundations of social happiness and 
 civil order; vice and irreligion infuse into the state the 
 principles of disorder and ruin. Need we recur to his- 
 
 * Will it be said that relig-ion tends, on the one hand, to superstition, . 
 and on the other to fanaticism — that superstition debases hnman nature, 
 that fanaticism disturbs civil society? I answer, that religion does not ne- 
 cessarily lead to the one, or the other. If we find it sometimes connected 
 with superstition, superstition itself is preferable to atheism, a cold and 
 selfish principle which destroys all certainty or oblig-ation in morals; 
 which first relaxes, and finally bursts asunder the bands of society. If re- 
 ligious zeal sometimes kindles into fanaticism, it is a fervor which soon 
 spends its force, if it is not unjustly opposed, and the human mind, in that 
 case speedily returns from its highest paroxysms to its natural and reason- 
 able tone. Fanaticism, however, is not peculiar to religion. It is a flame 
 of the soul which may be kindled by any strong public passion.- There 
 are fanatics in literature; there are fanatics in politics; and have we not 
 seen that there are fanatics even in atheism, infinitely more dreadful than 
 all others.'' 
 
328 Religion necessary to 
 
 tory, the whole train of which demonstrates these in- 
 fallible and experimental conclusions? The conse- 
 quence is involved in the nature of things. Public 
 virtue rears impregnable barriers against internal 
 tyranny and foreign domination, and plants the most 
 immovable foundations against the tempests of revo- 
 lution. "Blessed is that people whose God is the 
 Lord." 
 
 But, when the ties of religion are once broken from 
 the mind, all the most effectual restraints of moral prin- 
 ciple are instantly dissolved; public sentiment is ab- 
 sorbed in private interest — public virtue is lost. Sen- 
 suality insulates every citizen; he has no country but self; 
 all the energies of patriotism are enfeebled; and voluptu- 
 ousness, in its progress, creates a base servility of soul 
 which is prepared to submit to any master who will fa- 
 vour its indolence, and afford it the means of indulging 
 its effeminate pleasures. Mutual faith is perished— =- 
 vows are broken without scruple; for what remains 
 to enforce their obligation.^ Deceit and treachery 
 are but ordinary means to accomplish unworthy ends. 
 Lust, jealousy, and dastardly revenge disturb the or- 
 der and destroy the happiness of society. When man- 
 ners have arrived at this stage of degeneracy, they can 
 then be purged only by the destructive power of a for- 
 eign master, or by some dreadful internal and extermi- 
 nating revolution.— Such has ever been the ultimate pro- 
 gression of national dereliction of morals and religion 
 — republics have fallen a prey to internal tyranny, em- 
 pires to foreign conquest. To cite to you proofs of 
 this truth would be to repeat the records of universal 
 
JVational Prosperity. 329 
 
 history. Nor is it applicable to nations only, but is illus- 
 trated in the fortunes of individual families. Profligacy 
 of manners, poisoning the very fountains of life, a vi- 
 cious and debilitated race becomes extinct in a few 
 generations. — This is the curse which God has inflict- 
 ed on practical atheism, and its constant companion, 
 extreme corruption of manners. He has so laid the 
 plan of his providence over the world, that the course 
 of nature shall avenge the violated majesty of his law, 
 and become itself, the minister of his justice. When uni- 
 versal depravity of morals has invaded a people, each 
 race becomes, by obvious causes, more corrupted than 
 the last; the evils of the preceding are still accumula- 
 ted upon that which follows, and seldom, as I have be- 
 fore said, does the third, or the fourth generation pass 
 away till they are ripe for the exterminating judgments 
 of Heaven. Thus does a righteous and jealous God 
 visit the iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the 
 third and fourth generation of those that hate him. 
 
 In the conclusion of this discourse, let us briefly re- 
 view the state of our own country. Considering the 
 recent origin of the American nation, have we not just 
 cause to deplore the declension of religion? Is not the 
 holy zeal, and the primitive disciphne of the churches 
 of all denominations lamentably relaxed ? Is not domes- 
 tic education and government reproachfully neglect- 
 ed, to the infinite injury of the public morals, and the 
 hazard of a total dissolution of manners? With what 
 unreasonable jealousy has rehgion been viewed in the 
 establishment of all our political constitutions! How 
 little is the sacred charter of our immortal hopes studi- 
 
 VOL. I. u u 
 
^30 Religion necessary to 
 
 ed and understood! With what avidity have the doc- 
 trines of a licentious philosophy, which emancipates 
 the heart from all moral control, been received even by 
 the multitude, although unable to comprehend its spe- 
 culative principles! Have we not especially to lament 
 the prostitution of the Sabbath, which, if rightly used, 
 is one of the most excellent institutions ever established 
 in any nation? And what is the consequence of this 
 irreligious tendency in our manners? The public 
 mind is agitated with the most violent and uncorrect- 
 ed passions. — Deadly and murderous quarrels are mul- 
 tiplying beyond all former example. Station and virtue 
 are indiscriminately attacked by the most atrocious 
 slanders. Every man of sentiment and feeling will 
 soon be driven from all public functions. Worth will 
 seek to hide itself in profound retirement; and the state, 
 unless Heaven, in mercy, interpose to preserve us, will 
 be tossed between alternate factions of unprincipled 
 men, who will stop at no measures for their own ag- 
 grandizement, — of audacious demagogues who are 
 restrained by no moral sentiments, — of vile intriguers 
 who will stoop to any baseness to advance their merce- 
 nary and ambitious aims. Licentiousness is in danger of 
 proceeding to atheism, and atheism of aggravating licen- 
 tiousness, till a miserable people, lacerated by their own 
 crimes, and tired with the misfortunes which they bring 
 upon themselves, will be willing, at last, to seek a dread- 
 ful refuge in the despotism of a master. Do you say 
 these are idle and visionary predictions? They are 
 predictions founded on the nature of man, and the cer- 
 tain and invariable course of human things. Remem- 
 
JVational Prosperity. 851 
 
 ber the same predictions already verified with regard 
 to the dreadful fate of France. And yet, perhaps, 
 even this fate is less dreadful than the horrors of their 
 abused liberty, the consequence and the curse of a de- 
 lirious impiety, which they proudly and ignorantly call- 
 ed by the name of philosophy. These evils are the 
 curse which God has worked up in the very order of 
 the universe as the punishment of public and national 
 vice. But, brethren, let us, in the language of the apos- 
 tle, hope better things of you though we thus speak. May 
 that God who has so often extended his arm in our fa-' 
 vour yet arise for our salvation! Religion still has a pow- 
 erful hold of the public mind — among the great body of 
 the people its institutions are still respected — the pub- 
 lic manners are hitheito comparatively simple. God! 
 arrest, in thy mercy, the spirit of impiety, and restore 
 among us in all their purity and energy, the primitive 
 institutions of the gospel! 
 
 • Behold, my brethren, in these reflections, new mo- 
 tives to animate your pious zeal. I speak not here of 
 those motives derived from peace of conscience, from 
 the hope of the divine mercy, from your eternal inte- 
 rests; but liom ihe interests of your country. Your 
 piety, your virtue has an important aspect on its felicity. 
 Even in a corrupted age the piety of a few individuals 
 may sometimes^ delay the execution of the judgments 
 of God; and may prove a cement to society which will 
 long serve to bind together its disjointed fragments, and 
 prevent it from being utterly dissolved. Five righteous 
 men would have saved the devoted city of Sodom. 
 Every good man contains in himself a large portion of 
 
33^ Religion necessary to 
 
 the public safety. How consoling, how sublime is the 
 reflection that, by his virtues he is promoting the hap- 
 piness of millions, and that, by his christian graces, how- 
 ever imperfect and unworthy, he is drawing down on 
 millions the blessings and protection of Heaven. 
 
 What then christians! is your duty, in this respect, to 
 God, and to your country, as good citizens'' I might 
 recount all the sacrifices of piety which you owe to God 
 — all the offices of justice and charity due to mankind, 
 but to confine my view to a single object — it is the faith- 
 ful discipline, ihe virtuous and pious education of your 
 families. Families are the elementary parts of the re- 
 public. While domestic manners are preserved pure, 
 particularly while parental government and instruction 
 on the one hand, and filial duty on the other, are main- 
 tained in their vigor, these are the surest pledges of the 
 public virtue, and the public felicity. 
 
 This idea leads to the true meaning of that com- 
 mandment, which has been as little understood as the* 
 words of our text; — Honor thy father and thy mother , 
 that thy days may be long upon the land ivhich the Lord 
 thy God giveth thee. Not surely, that filial duty shall be 
 a pledge of long life to the individual, which is not 
 warranted by the course of human events; nor, accord- 
 ing to the answer in the Catechism of the Westminster 
 assembly, that excellent compilation, in general, of 
 christian science, " that it shall be a pledge of long life, 
 and prosperity, as far as shall serve for God's glory, 
 and their own good, to all such as keep this command- 
 ment," which is saying nothing more than is equally 
 true of every other precept of the decalogue. But, ad- 
 
J^ational Prosperity. S3 3 
 
 dressed to the nation of Irsael as a universal law, it evi- 
 dently implies, that, if in its proper spirit, it were incor- 
 porated into their national manners, and domestic ha- 
 bits, they should long prosper in that happy land into 
 which Jehovah their God had brought them, A wise 
 and virtuous education is the only true ground of filial 
 duty, and fihal duty is the genuine principle of all the do- 
 mestic virtues. By such a discipline, religion, and 
 good morals will continue to be handed down from race 
 to race: and the state, strong in the virtue of its citi- 
 zens and purity and innocence of the public manners, 
 will continue to flourish for ages. The days of such a 
 nation, or their continuance on the land of their fathers 
 shall be prolonged, under the blessings and protection 
 of Almighty God, — to thousands of generations, saith the 
 divine legislator, of those who love God, and keep his 
 commandments. Be ours then, christians and fellow 
 citizens, the praise of the patriarch Abraham, whose 
 resolution and glory it was, that he would bring up his 
 children, and household after him to fear the Lord. Be 
 ours the pious purpose of the heroic and patriotic 
 Joshua, " as for me, and my house, we will serve the 
 Lord." 
 
 Christians! on your fidehty and care depend the most 
 precious interests of your beloved children. In every 
 child an immortal soul is entrusted to your charge. 
 And may I not add, though an inferior, yet a most im- 
 portant consideration, a sacred pledge is committed to 
 you for the commonwealth. You have a deep stake in 
 the happiness of your country. And remember that 
 its prosperity is most securely bottomed upon religion 
 
334 Religion necessary to 
 
 and virtue. Train up virtuous citizens then, for the re- 
 pubHc, immortal heirs for the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 From reflections such as these, ought not every citi- 
 zen, animated by the spirit of true piety, to regard it as 
 among the first, and most important of his social duties, 
 by his example, by his instruction, by all his active 
 energies, to extend the practical influence of vital reli- 
 gion, and to multiply the means of religious knowledge 
 through every grade of the people. On such a nation 
 God will shower his distinguished blessings, and spread 
 over them the shield of his holy protection. 
 
 Christians! we see men sufficiently concerned about 
 their political constitutions, and the administration of 
 their government. Indeed, they suffer themselves to be 
 inflamed with an excessive and culpable zeal on these 
 subjects, as if the public felicity depended exclusively 
 on the laws, and on the men appointed to administer 
 them. But be assured, and it is a truth vouched by 
 the experience of ages as well as by the word of God, 
 that the prosperity of republics depends infinitely more 
 on their religion, than on their legislation. When the 
 public morals are pure, even bad laws hardly produce 
 any sensible ill effect; but when the general manners 
 are corrupted, the best laws often operate the most in- 
 jurious consequences. Regard not the vices, then, 
 which prevail in society, as evils which affect merely 
 the guilty individuals who practise them ; but deplore 
 them as containing the stores of accumulated calami- 
 ties which threaten one day, to fall upon your country. 
 Silently they diffuse a contagion which is infecting 
 the whole mass of society; they are gathering in secret, 
 
JVational Prospenty. 335 
 
 a fearful cloud over our heads, which, in God's appoint- 
 ed time, that is, when it grows dark and heavy with our 
 iniquities, shall burst upon us and upon our children. 
 Deeply should it be borne in your minds, christians, that 
 every good man is, in proportion to his rank and influ- 
 ence, a pillar and a bulwark to his country ; but that every 
 vicious and profligate citizen is, contributing to under- 
 mine the foundation of its happiness and safety. 
 
 It is unusual to urge the duties of religion, or to de- 
 claim against the prevalent vices of the age, from con- 
 siderations drawn from our public and national inte- 
 rests? Listen to the addresses of the prophets to the peo- 
 ple of Israel; are they not replete with exhortations and 
 remonstrances derived from the same source? Let 
 me, however, conclude this discourse by making an ap- 
 peal to your hearts from a different quarter. If your 
 piety and virtue be useful to your country, how much 
 richer a blessing is it preparing, through the mediation 
 of your Redeemer, for your own souls, in the everlasting 
 habitations of the righteous? If your iniquities contri- 
 bute to bring down the judgments of Heaven on a guil- 
 ty land, remember a more awful truth, that every im- 
 penitent sinner is treasuring up for himself " wrath 
 against the day of wrath, and the revelation of the 
 righteous judgment of God.'^ If, in the national de- 
 reliction of morals and religion, God visits the iniqui- 
 ties of the fathers upon the children; — if we see pesti- 
 lence and war, wasting and desolation afllict the guilty 
 nations, does not a doom infinitely more dreadful await 
 the sinner in that world, where justice, freed from the 
 restraints which arrest its course in a probationary 
 
^36 Religion necessary, ^c. 
 
 state, shall pour its vials with unmitigated vengeance on 
 the reprobate children of folly and vice. 
 
 Christian brethren, this is not the picture of a gloomy 
 fancy which delights in fearful images, nor the decla- 
 mation of a tragic eloquence which loves to try its skill 
 upon the passions of men; it is the word of God, which 
 in its greatest simpHcity, carries with it the greatest 
 majesty and terror; "he that believeth not shall not see 
 life, but the wrath oi' God abideth on him/' 
 
THE ORIGINAL TRIAL, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 FALL OF MAN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FIRST SIN, AND ITS CONSEaUENCES. 
 
 In the day thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die. Gen. ii, 17. 
 
 The introduction of moral and physical evil into the 
 world, has been a subject of anxious and fruitless spe- 
 culation among men, ever since the origin of philoso- 
 phy. — That a Creator, who was himself good, should 
 form an impure and vicious being, seemed impossible 
 — that a Creator who was omnipotent, as well as good, 
 should suffer the introduction of evil into his works 
 seemed improbable. Reason, involved in darkness, 
 and fatigued with inquiries that only ended in disap- 
 pointment, had recourse to the wildest conjectures. 
 For, so painful to the mind is a state of uncertainty 
 and doubt, that often, it would rather rest on any fan- 
 cy, however extravagant, than continue unfixed, and 
 vibrating in perpetual suspence. Some of the eastern 
 nations maintained an eternal principle of evil as well 
 as of good, the confines of whose respective dominions 
 met, and were blended together in this v<^orld, and in 
 the nature of man. — Many of the Greeks believed in 
 the eternity, and the essential perverseness of matter 
 
 VOL. I. XX 
 
338 Fall of Man. 
 
 which could not be corrected even by the omnipotent 
 hand of the Divine power of the universe, and which 
 gives the body such a vicious ascendency over the pu- 
 rer faculties of the mind — And not a few of the mo- 
 derns, unable to reconcile the miseries of the world 
 with the goodness of a Deity, or the vices of men with 
 infinite moral perfection in the Creator, have boldly 
 denied his existence, and sunk their doubts in the 
 gulf of atheism. — Reason, indeed, if we rely on it alone 
 on this subject, soon plunges us into endless hypothe- 
 ses and doubts, and can propose no satisfying solution 
 of the difficulties which arise out of its own conjec- 
 tures. God alone is able to unfold to man his own 
 works; and we must trace the source of our corrup- 
 tion, of the afflictions with which the world is filled, 
 and of our universal mortality, in the history of the 
 fall which he ha?h dictated to Moses. — But, does this 
 history remove every difficulty, or answer every inqui- 
 ry which human curiosity has raised with regard to 
 the existence of evil.*" No, the mind of man is not 
 yet sufficiently expanded to take in the principles of 
 the Divine government, which have a relation proba- 
 bly to the whole universe; and, certainly, to a much 
 higher condition of being than the present. We re- 
 semble children attempting to judge of the economy 
 and discipline of families, and the policy of nations. 
 A few facts, or a few didactic precepts, is all that we 
 can receive on this subHme and comphcated subject, 
 so far in advance of its present improvements.^ — Some 
 inexplicable questions must still remain: but the his- 
 tory of Moses recommends itself by its simplicity and its 
 
Fall of Man. 339 
 
 probability before all the fabulous traditions of the Pa- 
 gan nations, which seem, however, to rest upon the 
 same basis with his; and far before those idle conjec- 
 tures which have ever amused, peiplexed, and divided 
 the schools of philosophers. Does an enemy of reli- 
 gion ask, why God should have left any difficulties in 
 a revelation which is designed to teach us his will? 
 For this plain reason that it is impossible to be other- 
 wise. We are extremely limited in our powers of 
 knowledge. Ignorance will forever be the source of 
 difficulties. And if a thousand questions had been sol- 
 ved which we now raise on the subject of religion, they 
 would only have given rise to ten thousand more equal- 
 ly embarrassing. Nor could this process ever stop, 
 nor inquiiies and difficulties come to an end till we 
 should arrive at omniscience. God has, therefore, re- 
 vealed only so much as is necessary to our present du- 
 ty — the rest he has reserved to gratify our thirst of 
 knowledge, and to feed our intellectual pleasures in the 
 career of an immortal existence. 
 
 Having made these preliminary observations in or- 
 der to prepare our minds for the following illustrations, 
 and, at the same time, to prevent too much from being 
 expected in the discussion of the present subject, I 
 proceed to say that, according to the sacred history, 
 God originally formed man a pure, a holy, and immor- 
 tal being, a work worthy of the power, the benevo- 
 lence, and the holiness, of the Creator — he placed him 
 in a garden filled with the purest delights of nature, 
 but not wholly without the necessity of being cultivated 
 by human industry — along with the privileges which he 
 
340 Fall of Man. 
 
 conferred on man, he mingled temptation to try his fi- 
 delity, and, in trying it, to confirm his virtue — he estab- 
 lished a physical law that children proceeding by or- 
 dinary descent from their parents, should derive from 
 them their whole nature, its perfections or defects; so 
 that the first man became, by this law, the federal as 
 well as natural head of his whole posterity. They would 
 have partaken of his virtue and his immortality, if he 
 had persevered in his obedience — they have been sub- 
 jected to sin, and to death by his fall. The test of his 
 obedience was his abstaining from eating the fruit of 
 the tree of knowledge of good and evil, a name proba- 
 bly derived from its fatal consequences — the denun- 
 ciation was, in the day thou eatest tliereof thou shall 
 surely die. 
 
 On this subject I shall consider, 
 
 1. In the first place, the test which God established 
 of the fidelity of our first parents, &c. 
 
 2. Secondly, the consequences of their disobedience 
 to themselves, and their posterity. 
 
 1. The test of their fidelity, the temptation which 
 was to try their persevering obedience to the Divine 
 command, was the frmt oi^ the tree of knowledge. 
 
 Of every tree in the garden they were permitted to eat 
 both for pleasure and subsistence, except of this alone. 
 One immortal tree was planted in the midst of Eden, 
 either appointed by God as a visible symbol of life — 
 or, perhaps, containing some ineffable virtue to repair 
 forever the decays that must necessarily happen in 
 such a material system as the body. Opposite to it 
 was placed this fatal tree, the fruit of which seems to 
 
Fall of Man. S4l 
 
 have contained a subtle, but delicious and intoxicating 
 poison that created such irregular movements in all 
 the senses, the appetites, and the passions, as tarnish- 
 ed the purity, and destroyed the virtuous and holy 
 power of the soul over its own actions; and that be- 
 came the natural mean by which the offended Crea- 
 tor inflicted on the body the curse of mortality which 
 he had denounced on their disobedience. 
 
 Piety has sometimes humbly inquired why was the 
 trial of man^s fidelity rested upon, apparently, so tri- 
 vial a command? Ignorance and infidelity have de- 
 manded with a sneer, if virtue and vice, if the safety 
 and ruin of mankind, could depend upon the eating of 
 a little fruit? Christians! attend to the circumstances 
 of the period and of our great father, and you will see 
 that, far from being a trivial, it was a most important 
 prohibition — and if not this, at least something of the 
 same kind, was, perhaps, the only trial that, in the 
 state of primitive man, could be made of his obe- 
 dience. — So that if sin could destroy our nature, its 
 ruin might depend, in the language of the objectors, 
 on the eating of a little fruit. Remember then, that 
 animal food was not yet necessary for man — even the 
 culture of grain had not yet taken place — that his 
 whole sustenance consisted of the fruits which Eden 
 as yet spontaneously produced. And if the impor- 
 tance of an object is to be measured by the interest 
 which men have in it, what in life is of so much im- 
 portance as the provisions by which it is sustained? 
 To what else are almost all the labours and cares of 
 men devoted? And, what faults are greater in them- 
 
U2 Fall of Man. 
 
 selves, or lead to greater crimes, than the abuse of 
 those provisions, in intemperance, that is, in depraving 
 the appetite, in inflaming the passions, in corrupting 
 and sensualizing our vt^hole nature. What does God 
 punish, in the course of Providence, with more dis- 
 tinguished severity? Fruit was, to the original pair, 
 every thing that the taste, the appetite, the body de- 
 manded — It might be all that the most tempting viands 
 of luxury can now offer to the epicure. And the fruit 
 of that forbidden tree was probably of such a nature as 
 to render the use of it a high intemperance, and the 
 only intemperance, of which they could then be guilty. 
 I said, likewise, that it was, perhaps, the only kind of 
 trial which could then be made of man's obedience, if 
 any peculiar test were proposed at all. — Go through 
 the decalogue, and what command is there which 
 Adam could have violated.^ Could he have denied 
 God with whom he conversed every day, and whose 
 works were shining in all the freshness of their glory 
 before his eyes in the recent creation ? Could he have 
 dishonoured his parents, who had no parent but God.^ — 
 Could he have murdered, or injured, the only compa- 
 nion of his existence.'^ Could he, who possessed the 
 only wife in the world, be guilty of unchastely violating 
 the right of another.-^ Could he steal, or defraud, or 
 envy, or covet, when all things were his, and he was 
 already lord of the universe? It would seem as if his 
 trial could relate only to some act of personal purity 
 and temperance — such as appears to have been the 
 object of this precept. Many very pious writers in- 
 deed have supposed that the trial of man's obedience 
 
Fall of Man. 343 
 
 consisted in absolute submission to the sovereignty of 
 God, without any other reason or ground for the com- 
 mand. If it were so, I do not know that we could 
 dispute the right of the Supreme Creator to impose 
 such a test. In either view, it is evidently a com- 
 mand of much higher importance than the cavillers at 
 Christianity have affected to represent it — and much 
 higher than christians themselves, who have not mature- 
 ly considered the circumstances of the case, have often 
 conceived. 
 
 This command our first parents disobeyed. It has 
 frequently been asked how minds so innocent and pure 
 as theirs could fall into sin, or entertain, for a moment, 
 the first temptation to offend their Creator.^ — We are 
 too imperfectly acquainted with the complicated and 
 rapid movements of mind, to explain precisely how 
 this was effected. But, wherever moral liberty exists 
 in a being not infinitely perfect, there exists the possi- 
 bility of change. The great enemy of God and of hu- 
 man happiness, who had previously fallen from his 
 glory and fidelity in Heaven, abusing the form, or the 
 body, of the serpent, led our primitive mother into the 
 transgression. He seems, from the very name of the 
 tree, to have awakened her curiosity and thirst for 
 additional knowledge, which at first view appeared not 
 t© be a criminal motive, that could startle her by its 
 guilt: but was calculated rather to lull and throw off its 
 guard her pious vigilance. He called in question the 
 ground and, therefore, the reality of the Divine prohi- 
 bition, and, probably by his own example in eating the 
 forbidden fruit, brought into doubt at least, the cer- 
 
344 Fall of Man. 
 
 tainty of the Divine threatening. In an unhappy mo- 
 ment she was surprized — she fell without yet being 
 conscious of her state. Intoxicated by her imagina- 
 ry success, and, perhaps, by the spirit of the fruit, she 
 brought a portion of it to Adam; and adding the force 
 of her persuasions and her charms, he yielded to the 
 multiplied temptation, and fell with her — And alas! 
 
 2. What a train of evils, both to them and to us, 
 have followed the fatal action! 
 
 When the delirium of that mortal fruit was past, they 
 became conscious for the first time of their true situa- 
 tion, and that they had lost the favour of God. They 
 feared him whom they had so often met with confidence 
 and joy, pouring at his feet the grateful and delightful 
 homage of their hearts. They fled, and vainly thought 
 to hide themselves from his sight. — They felt that 
 shame in the presence of one another, which is the 
 disgraceful effect of vice, and they attempted to cover 
 themselves with fig leaves. This is a remarkable fact 
 which deserves your attention. The nakedness, which, 
 in the age of innocence, never affected them with any 
 emotion but such as was pure, now began to cover 
 them with blushes. — Was it that the glow of a celes- 
 tial beauty which surrounded the primitive body of 
 man was lost, and the deformity of a fallen nature be- 
 gan to appear? Or, was it that, formerly, the senti- 
 ments of devotion, of friendship, of a virtuous tender- 
 ness, of a sublime sympathy, of a high, intelligent, and 
 noble conversation "which reigned between them, ab- 
 sorbed their minds, and made every sensible pleasure 
 only a gentle heightening to more pure and refined 
 
Fall of Man, 345 
 
 sensations — but now the tumults only of a gross pas- 
 sion filled their hearts, always shameful, and, in their 
 situation, incapable of being subjected to the control of 
 decency? Perhaps, both these causes contiibuted to 
 this striking and singular incident in the history of the 
 fall. Their nature, which had made a near approach 
 to the angelic, was now sunk and becoming brutal. 
 
 But this was a small part, it was but the commence- 
 i)i<?nt of that dreadful sentence which had been de- 
 nounced on their transgression — in tJie day thou eatest 
 thereof, thou shalt surely die. 
 
 Theological writers have, not unjustly, distinguish- 
 ed in this sentence a threefold death — that of the soul 
 to virtue, and the high and celestial life of holiness 
 which it lived in Paradise — that of the body in its dis- 
 solution, and that of both soul and body in their eter- 
 nal rejection from God. The Supreme Judge called 
 the trembling criminals before him, not to receive their 
 apology or hear their defence, but to convict them of 
 their guilt — and, having pronounced his fearful decree, 
 he ordered his angel to expel them from the garden, 
 the abode of innocence, the theatre of so many sub- 
 lime beauties, the scene of so many happy and exqui- 
 site hours; and, the more effectually to cut off all hope 
 of return, he commanded him to plant at the entrance 
 a flaming sword, the awful symbol of their separation, 
 and of his inexorable justice. — Stripped of their pri- 
 mitive glory, retai)Hng little of their former nature, but 
 the memory of joys that were now forever lost, they 
 descended, oppressed with their grief and their guilt, 
 into a world rendered barren and unkind, to draw their 
 
 VOL, 1. Y y 
 
346 Fall of Man. 
 
 subsistence bv the siveat of their brow, from the re- 
 luctant soil. The serpent, the instrument of their 
 temptation, was ordered to follow them, to crawl upon 
 his belly, and to lick the dust, not so much as a pu- 
 nishment inflicted on the senseless animal, as to keep 
 them humble and penitent, by a perpetual image be- 
 fore their eyes of their degraded state, and to be a con- 
 stant monitor of the fearful evil of sin which involves 
 in ruin its instruments, and every thing connected with 
 it. Through life they were subjected to labour and 
 toil — to the tumults, the conflicts, the shame, the re- 
 morse of sinful passions — to disease and pain — to be- 
 reavement and disappointment — and, finally , they yield- 
 ed all the remnants of worldly enjoyment and hope to 
 the dreadful dominion of death. But this was the 
 lightest portion of those calamities ^vhich have suc- 
 ceeded tlie fall. His whole posterity were involved in 
 the same ruin. This would drive the sting of guilt 
 tenfold deeper into his own heart. He looked down 
 through the long series of ages and behold nothing but 
 a fearful succession of crimes and miseries — the world, 
 destroyed by his fault, turned into a field of blood, a 
 place of skulls One son he saw destroyed by the 
 hand of his brother, — the beginning of so many fra- 
 ternal murders which were afterwards to stain the 
 earth — and he lived to be a melancholy witness of the 
 commencement of those crimes which prepared the 
 deluge that overwhelmed the guilty race in the age of 
 Noah. We this day, and mankind in ev(Ty period 
 have felt the fatal effects of the original transgression. 
 TV 6 derive thence a corrupted nature — we derive 
 
Fall of Man. 347 
 
 thence an existence that groans under innumerable 
 afflictions — theme have flowed the crimes and the mi- 
 series which have filled the world — and thence the 
 universal empire of death. Oh! how fearful was that 
 transgression! how dreadful, how desolating, how ex- 
 tensive was that sentence! — Adam stood at the head 
 of his race —they were to partake of his nature, and to 
 be involved in his destiny. This was fixed by God as 
 the certain and immutable law of our being. — We see 
 the existence of this law demonstrated in the whole 
 state of the world — we reap its lamentable consequen- 
 ces in our own experience. 
 
 This doctrine has been boldly arraigned by the ene- 
 mies of religion. Is it consistent with the goodness and 
 the justice of God, they ask, that one should stand in 
 so important a relation as the representative of all? 
 That the fate of so many beings, not yet in existence, 
 should depend upon the doubtful conduct of an indivi- 
 dual who may happen to be their progenitor? My 
 brethren, those of you especially whose minds have 
 ever been shaken by the scruples of infidelity, listen to 
 me for a moment with patience and attention. It is an 
 interesting subject. It shows us our origin — It is 
 the hinge of religion. The human mind, then, is 
 too weak to penetrate into the reasons of the divine 
 government, or the causes of things either in the 
 physical or moral world. It is only by effects arid 
 events that we can arrive at any knowledge con- 
 cerning them, or judge of them at all. But, wherever 
 we see a fact clearly exist in nature, we justly ascribe 
 it to some law established by the Creator; and whether 
 
S48 Fall of Man. 
 
 we can penetrate its principles, and discern the reasons 
 on whic|i it is established or not, one truth is clear, ac- 
 cording to the just and beautiful idea of the poet, in spite 
 of erring reason, whatever is, by his appointment, is right. 
 And when one fact, or a chain of correspondent facts 
 are decisively ascertained, we may safely reason from 
 them by analogy. 
 
 In the first place, then, do we not see that vice, that 
 misery, that death, exist universally in the world? On 
 the subject of universal vice which is the most doubted. 
 I appeal to the whole history of man — I appeal to every 
 man^s consciousness. Whether, then, is it more con- 
 formable to reason, and to our ideas of divine goodness 
 and justice, to suppose that these evils are the direct 
 and immediate work of God; or, are derived to man- 
 kind through a progenitor who abused his mercies, and 
 forfeited his immortality along with his virtue.'^ Is it 
 more difficult, or, on the other hand, is it not much less 
 difficult to account for them on the scripture doctrine 
 of representation, than on the principle of direct crea- 
 tion? If God can be justified in giving them existence 
 without the supposition of the original innocence and 
 the fall of man; can their introduction by the fall 
 render them unjust? But to produce almost demon- 
 strative evidence for this doctrine laid down in the his- 
 tory of Moses, and confirmed by the whole authority of 
 the sacred writings, is it not conformable to the laws 
 of nature in all similar and analogous cases, that is, to 
 the system of God in the government of the world? 
 Do not children inherit the nature of their parents? If 
 the first parents of the race, then, possessed only a fallen 
 imperfect, corrupted, and mortal nature, could they have 
 
Fail of Man. S49 
 
 communicated to their offspring one that was pure and 
 immortal — one that resembled their original and para- 
 disiacal constitution? Must not those then who sprung 
 from them, have partaken of their degeneracy? that is, 
 have suffered the same evils which they had brought 
 upon themselves by their unhappy catastrophe? Again, 
 do not children inherit the poverty, the humiliations, 
 the ignominy of parents? Do we not even see them 
 inherit their diseases? Is that in consequence of their 
 own faults? or is it not in consequence of that universal 
 law of nature, of which our doctrine affords only the 
 principal example? Does not mind, in this case, fol- 
 low the law of body? Take other examples — In a vi- 
 cious, profligate and effeminate age, are not the children 
 who are born, placed, by the order of Providence, with- 
 out any antecedent crime of their own, in a situation in 
 which it is almost impossible for them to acquire the 
 manly and noble virtues? See the Copts, the descen- 
 dents of the ancient Egyptians, the modern Greeks, the 
 dispersed and wandering Jews, the wretched remains 
 of so many other nations — degenerate, vicious, misera- 
 ble, contemptible, are they not suffering under the very 
 law which is called in question by this objection of infi- 
 dehty? Children among them spring from their fathers 
 under every circumstance of wretchedness and base- 
 ness. And, if an individual, if a nation, why not a 
 world? Do you ask me how I vindicate these appoint- 
 ments, these laws of the Creator? That is not my pre- 
 sent duty. It is sufficient for me that they exist, to 
 vindicate the sacred scriptures. What then is the im- 
 port of this threatening to us? It is to the children 
 
650 Fall of Mm. 
 
 and parent the same — death spiritual, temporal, and 
 eternal. We derive from him a nature not merely im- 
 perfect, but corrupted — we are doomed, after many 
 sufferings, to return to* the dust — we are liable to ever- 
 lasting perdition, being by nature, saith the apostle, chil- 
 dren of wrath. From these fearful evils we can be 
 delivered only by the virtue, and the glorious power of 
 the Second Adam, the promise of whose coming was 
 interposed by the compassion of God, to relieve the 
 terror, the distraction, the despair of our wretched first 
 parents, when they perceived their abandoned state, 
 and saw the extent of the misery which they had crea- 
 ted. 
 
 Let us, then, contemplate, for a moment, the deplo- 
 rable state into which we are fallen, that, feehng our 
 miseries and our guilt, as we ought to feel them, we 
 may be persuaded more earnestly to flee to the refuge, 
 and embrace the hope of the gospel. " By one man 
 sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and death 
 hath passed upon all men, because all have sinned. Be- 
 hold," saith the Psalmist, "I was shapen in iniquity, 
 and in sin did my mother conceive me. Marvel not," 
 saith the Saviour himself, "that I said untoyou,you must 
 be born again — that which is born of the flesh is flesh." 
 Would you know the full import of this last expression ? 
 Saint Paul interprets it, when he says, " the carnaV 
 that is, the fleshly, "mind is enmity against God — it is 
 not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be." 
 We are born then inclined to evil when we begin to act 
 —subjected to the impure dominion of sensual appetites, 
 and disordered passions — unholy in the sight of God— 
 
Fall of Man. 35 1 
 
 and in ourselves, and separated from our relation to 
 Jesus Christ the promised Saviour of men, subjected 
 to the fearful curse of his righteous law. 1 do not en- 
 ter into the inquiry whether sin is seated in the soul, 
 in the body, or in both? the decision of it is little ma- 
 terial to the vindication of the justice or the goodness 
 of God, for which it was instituted — I do not say that 
 we are born in the actual exercise of malignant vice; 
 but that we are so constituted as to tend to sin as soon 
 as we grow to be capable of moral action — I do not say 
 that we are absolutely and totally corrupted without 
 any remaining tendency to good, for then we should be 
 devils, but that we are so depraved in all oui* moral 
 powers that evil predominates over the good — we fail 
 in every point of the law of God, and therelore are sub- 
 jected to its holy, but its fearful curse; " for it is written, 
 cursed is every one who continueth not in all things 
 written in the book of the law to do them." These are 
 gloomy and humiliating ideas, indeed, and therefore, 
 not only have unbelievers denied the original depravity 
 of man; but many christian writers, and many hearers 
 ot the gospel, endeavour to soften this mortif} ing pic- 
 ture of human nature. They cpnceive of its corrup- 
 tion merely as its frailty — and of its sins as foibles ea- 
 sily pardonable in a being so trail. But, my brethren, 
 the whole scriptiires represent man as naturally im- 
 pure and unholy, and needing to be sanctified and pu- 
 riried by the blood and the Spirit of the Redeemer — as 
 guilty and capable of salvation only through the great 
 victim slain from the foundation of the world - as liable 
 to death, from which he could be delivered only by him 
 
252 Fall of Man. 
 
 who acquired the right to conquer Death by first sub* 
 mitting- to its power in our room. And is not this the 
 language of sacrifices, of ceremonies, of the means of 
 grace, of that precious seal of the covenant, the em- 
 blem of cleansing and purification, impressed upon the 
 offspring of believers under the dispensations both of 
 Moses and of Jesus? Was it not to the lost that a Sa- 
 viour was necessary? to the blind that light was sent? 
 Is not this the foundation of the duties of repentance, 
 and of faith, and of the indispensible doctrine of spirit- 
 ual regeneration ^ Is it not the voice of the whole history 
 of man — of the pangs of the mother — of the cries of the 
 infant — of the discipline of childhood — of the passions 
 of youth — of the restraints of government — of the vi- 
 ces of society — of the desolations of cities by famines, 
 and pestilences, and earthquakes — of the eternal mur- 
 ders which have deluged the earth with blood under the 
 name of wars — nay of that conciousness of guilt which 
 speaks in the bosom of every man? 
 
 From this view of the state of human nature, what 
 is the first and most urgent of our duties? Is it not sin- 
 cere repentance? Is it not an entire change of heart — 
 of our moral conduct and principles of action? Is it not 
 a deep conviction of the corruption of our nature — of 
 our alienation from God our Maker — and of the sen- 
 tence of eternal death which his law continually pro- 
 nounces against the sinner? What is the fearful im- 
 port of the declaration of the apostle, that we are by na- 
 ture the children oficrath? Thy wrath, Almighty God! 
 who can endure? Thy displeasure. Creator! Father! 
 Source of life! who can support? My brethren! has 
 
Fall of Man. 353 
 
 one sin destroyed the universe? cast man down from 
 an immortal and almost angelic nature, into the 
 depths of corruption and death? And, what is the 
 des-^rt of so many actual crimes added to all the 
 forf itures of the first transgression? Our state is 
 surrounded with unspeakable danger and terror — 
 but the gospel opens a door of mercy. It has pre- 
 pared a sacrifice in our room that has satisfied all 
 the claims of divine justice. Sinner! hasten to this 
 altar — Cover yourself" under the merits of this precious 
 victim. Make your peace again with God through 
 him. By him you may regain your lost holiness, and 
 your lost immortality. He has conquered Death and 
 Hell which had extended their dreadful dominion over 
 us — He has triumphed over the grave that we might 
 live forever. Believe in his name — confide in his mer-» 
 cy — obey his laws. All the evils of the fall will be re- 
 paired by him — and the primitive innocence and glory 
 of man will be more than restored in the celestial 
 Eden. Amen! 
 
 VOL. I. z z 
 
ON THE LOVE OF PRAISE. 
 
 Whatsoever thing-s are of good report, if there be any praise^ 
 
 think of these things Phil. iv. 8. 
 
 The supreme motive, in the heart of every good man, 
 to honorable and worthy actions, is, the pure love of 
 goodn«;ss and of virtue. The spirit of God, however, 
 has not di.^dained to employ, as an auxiliary principle 
 of duty, that love of praise, or of standing well in the 
 opinion of our fellow men, which though common to 
 mankind, is often fielt most sensibly by generous and 
 noble minds. 
 
 As virtue pres( nts to us only what is amiable in dis- 
 position, what is honorable and manly in conduct, or 
 what is useful to society, it is not wonderful that it 
 should be the oDject of general approbation. In like 
 manner all the noble endowments of our nature, all 
 distinguished acquisitions in science, all extraordinary 
 efforts of genius, all great talents for the management 
 of affairs, if they are seen to be directed by disinterested 
 and virtuous principles to public good, command the 
 applause of mankind. And, in return, the approbation 
 and esteem of our fellow men, being among the ujost 
 precious rewards of virtue, in this life, are also justly 
 ranked among its most powerful and laudable incen- 
 tives Youth are particularly susceptible of the influ- 
 ence of thi> principle And praise may justly be held 
 out to them, as a motive to stimulate every improve- 
 
On the love of Praise. ^55 
 
 ment of their natural talents, and their moral powers. 
 Mot that false praise which vanity solicits for superfi- 
 cial or frivolous attainments; not that corrupted praise 
 which vice bestows on the ingenuity which is employed 
 to defend its pleasures; nor those mistaken plaudits 
 which the ignorance and passions of the misguided 
 multitude too often yield to the art and cunning which 
 mislead them; — but the praise which i? bottomed upon 
 piety and virtue; upon solid goodness and usefulness; 
 the praise of actions which God, which conscience, 
 which the world, when all their ends and motives are 
 known, will approve. For this reason the apostle has 
 said, " Whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things 
 are honorable* whatsoever things are true, whatsoever 
 things are lovely," before he adds, " if there be any 
 praise, think of these things," — that is, let your desire 
 of praise be connected with truth, with honour, with 
 justice, and with all that is amiable in life and man- 
 ners. But this principle, however justifiable and lau- 
 dable, when properly directed, is susceptible also of 
 great perversion and abuse; and, instead of invigorating 
 and unfolding the germs of goodness and worth, or of 
 greatness and nobleness of character in the hearts of 
 youth, may be made the instrument of misleading tliem 
 into the most pernicious deviations from duty, or inci- 
 ting them to vice. 
 
 Let me, then propose to your consideration the love 
 of praise under two views. 
 
 * This is the meaniDg of the origioal word translated honest in our vpt- 
 sioD, 
 
356 On the love of Praise. 
 
 I. As it is a laudable and useful principle of action 
 — and, 
 
 II. As it may be corrupted, and possess a dangerous 
 influence on the heart. 
 
 I. The love of praise has, evidently, been intended 
 by our Creator as one of the most powerful incentives 
 to actions great and honourable in themselves, and bene- 
 ficial to mankind. No principle raises human nature 
 to a higher tone of exertion. And when all its activity 
 is directed to good and noble ends, it may justly be ex- 
 pected to lay the most solid and sure foundation for 
 reputation and esteem in every sphere of life. The 
 collisions of interest, indeed, or the predominance of 
 party passions may, for a season, depress merit, and 
 elevate imbecility or vice to distinction; — Vanity may, 
 for a time, be caressed by the insidious flatteries of 
 those who despise, while they court it; — Wealth, 
 though acquired by crimes, may receive a deceitful 
 and interested homage from dependants; the splendor of 
 conquest may dazzle for a while the misjudging worlds 
 and cover with a false and temporary lustre, the iriqui- 
 ties by which they were achieved, and the miseries 
 which follow in their train; but, they are talents guided 
 by wisdom and piety, and directed to promote the in- 
 terests of humanity, which unite the suffrages of all 
 mankind, and embalm to posterity the memory of good 
 men, and the fame of the benefactors of nations. 
 
 In examining the principles of human conduct we 
 will often find this passion pervading with a useful in- 
 fluence all the active springs of our nature. It serves 
 to polish the manners, arid to circulate those amiable 
 
On the love of Praise. 357 
 
 attentions which contribute so much to the pleasure 
 and enjoyment of life. The delicacies of conversation, 
 the elegancies, the refinements, the charms of social 
 intercourse which distinguish civilized from savage 
 man, all spring from the mutual desire of pleasing and 
 the reflected hope of being respected and beloved. 
 Praise often cherishes in the youthful breast the seeds 
 of future worth, and infuses into them the principles of 
 a vigorous growth. And a generous emulation to ex- 
 cel is usually regarded, at that period, as the presage 
 of all that is wise, and virtuous, and manly in after life. 
 Praise has trimmed the lamp of the student, has gui- 
 ded and animated the hand of the artist, and often ad- 
 ministered the noblest incentives to the fires of genius. 
 To what, indeed, do we owe the poets, the orators, the 
 statesmen, the patriots, the heroes, who have adorned, 
 and shed a glory on the respective nations which have 
 given them birth? I will not exclude the operation of 
 other, and of higher principles in the formation of 
 many of these great characters; but certainly one, and 
 that, by no means the weakest in its influence, has been 
 the proud hope of being rewarded with the esteem of 
 their country; or the still prouder hope of enjoying 
 that immortality in the memory of men which genius 
 so often confers on its possessor; or which the public 
 gratitude sometimes endeavours to bestow on illustri- 
 ous services rendered to the interests of humanity. 
 Those nations have, accordingly, flourished most who 
 have best known how to touch this powerful spring of 
 great and honorable actions. A statue, a tripod, a 
 triumph, even a laurel crown, or an oaken wreath, 
 
358 On the love of Praise. 
 
 bestowed as a mark? of the public favour, contributed 
 to elevate the genius of Greece and Koine, above tliat 
 of all other nations. — What dangers will not men en- 
 counter, what labors will they not undergo, what self 
 denials not endure, in order to obtain a high place in 
 the est'em of mankind? None can be entirely insen- 
 sible to it except those who are conscious to themselves 
 that they want worth to deserve it. Base and nmlig- 
 nant must be that heart which is wholly indifferent to 
 the o[)inion of the world. 
 
 The love of praise, therefore, when cherished in its 
 due degree, not only incites the youth to useful im- 
 provement, and prompts the man to the performance 
 of actions of conspicuous merit, but is intimately con- 
 nected with those respectful and benevolent regards to 
 mankind, which form the finest ties of human society. 
 Whatsoever things, then, are lovely, in themselves, and 
 in the esteem of the world, if there be any virtue, and 
 i/* there be any praise resting on these amiable and sohd 
 foundations, think of these things. 
 
 From so many considerations does it appear that the 
 love of praise, when directed to proper objects, and 
 preserved within proper bounds, is a legitimate, and a 
 laudable principle of action. Our blessed Saviour 
 himself, who was the most humble and self-denied of 
 men, has not disdained to employ it as a motive and 
 reward of good deeds in the example of the grateful 
 sister of Lazarus, who had just given him a costly tes- 
 timony of her affectionate attachment: — " Verily I say 
 unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached iu 
 the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman 
 
On the love of Praise. 359 
 
 hath done, be told for a memorial of her." And God 
 hath denounced it as a curse on the wicked, that ^^ their 
 name shall rot;'' but, '' blessed shall be the memory of 
 the just;'' " They shall be had in everlasting remem- 
 brance" 
 
 As a noble encouragement to piety, to virtue, to 
 philanthropy, to the cultivation of all your intellectual 
 and moral powers, remember that these are the quali- 
 ties which chiefly comuiand the esteem of mankind, 
 and procure for their possessor that " good name which 
 is better than precious ointment;" and is infinitely more 
 to be vahied, than the splendor of riches, or of power. 
 The one is exposed to envy, the other begets affection 
 and confidence; the one may excite admiration, the 
 other commands esteem; the one may awaken in the 
 bosom the pride of superiority, a cold unsocial senti- 
 ment, the other attracts love, than which a sweeter 
 consciousness comes not to the heart. Riches and 
 honors pass away, or descend to others who enjoy the 
 benefit, and forget the favor — the memory of a good 
 man is precious. While he lives he ujarches encom- 
 passed with his virtues, which attract round him the 
 hearts of his fellow citizens; and when he dies, he car- 
 ries with him their regrets and their tears. 
 
 Ah! did the princes and rulers of the earth know 
 wherein their true glory consists, they would find 
 it, not in the splendors which dazzle the eyes, and re- 
 pel the groans of a miserable people: not in the power 
 which imposes its yoke on subject nations; not in the 
 mercenary flatteries with which they are worshipped 
 in fife; nor, at death, in the magnificient monuments. 
 
360 On the love of Praise. 
 
 and proud inscriptions which he to posterity; but in the 
 fehcity of their country, in the blessings and prayers 
 of nations made happy by their wisdom. — Those who 
 have extorted by arbitrary force, or stolen by insidious 
 arts, a false glory during their lives, shall be held up 
 in their true light to posterity. Their private faults, 
 the public evils which have flowed fr»»m their vices, 
 will be dragged from beneath the veil with which pow- 
 er, or dependent adulation had attempted to cover 
 them; and condemned, by the faithful severity of his- 
 tory, to the reprobation and contemptof future ages. But 
 the justice and maganimity of great rulers, the wisdom 
 and integrity of able legislators and statesmen, the illus- 
 trious actions, or the generous sacrifices of patriots and 
 heroes, the talents which have adorned the age in which 
 they flourished, the extraordinary mental powers which 
 have given direction to the great movements of the 
 world shall, in the language of the sacred writer, be 
 had in everlasting remembrance. 
 
 In every station of hfe, then, in which men may be 
 placed by divine providence, they may justly regard an 
 honest fame as among the purest and holiest motives 
 of a noble and virtuous conduct. Whatsoever things are 
 of good report ; if there be any virtue, if there be any 
 praise, think of these things. 
 
 That a fair reputation is a valuable possession, that 
 the love of praise, when directed by just principles, 
 and preserved within due bounds, is not only an allow- 
 able but a laudable motive of action, will not be de- 
 nied. But, Uke all the best propensities and powers of 
 our nature, it is capable of being perverted and it of- 
 
On the love of Praise, 361 
 
 ten is perverted, to ends very different from those for 
 which it was implanted in the heart of man by his 
 Creator. 
 
 II. Of its abuses, therefore, permit me next to speak, 
 
 It may be excessive. It may be ill directed, and be- 
 come the minister of vice. 
 
 The praise of men, as has been already said, far 
 from being the governing motive of our conduct, 
 should only be auxiliary to the pure love of virtue, and 
 a pious submission of heart to the vvill, and the law of 
 God It should be subordinate, as a principle of action, 
 even to the approbation of our own consciences, and to 
 that self respect which it will ever be the care of a wise 
 and good man to cultivate. The noblest enjoy nientof vir- 
 tue and piety, next to the sense of the favor of God, 
 is derived from the conscious rectitude of our own con- 
 duct; and. that inward tranquilhty and peace which a 
 Self approving conscience sheds through the whole 
 soul. A good man will always be able to rest upon 
 himself, if the caprice of the world should deny him his 
 honest fame, or even the malignant arts of his enemies 
 should succeed for a time, to overwhelm him with ca- 
 lumnies. 
 
 The desire of praise, when it becomes excessive, 
 and this is its first abuse, puts your happiness too much 
 in the power of others, both for your comfort and your 
 duty. For although greattalents will generally be admir- 
 ed, and virtue esteemed; yet, many events may occur 
 to rob the best of men of that reputation to which 
 their merits justly entitle them. They may be sunk in 
 obscurity; they may be thrown, in tjie course of fro^ 
 
 VOL, L B A 
 
362 On the love of Praise. 
 
 vidence, into situations unfavourable to the display of 
 their talents^ or their virtues. Ignorance may not be 
 able to appreciate them; prejudice may distort them, 
 misfortune may cast them under a cloud, party pas- 
 sions may taint them, slander may tarnish then), envy 
 may corrode them, the unsuspecting candor, frankness, 
 and honesty of the most innocent minds may often lay 
 them open to the attacks of artful and designing enemies. 
 Beware, then, of setting your heart too fondly on a pos- 
 session so perishable and uncertain. For if you fail to at- 
 tain it, by having formed a wrong estimate of your own 
 powers, or the opinions of the world; or if you should 
 be deprived of it, by the arts of rivals, or of enemies, 
 you will be overwhelmed with anguish. But, seek first 
 the praise of God, and of your own hearts. Hence you 
 will derive the truest and most lasting happiness. And 
 although the approbation of your fellow men would be 
 a sweet ingredient in the enjoyment of Hfe; yet, the 
 want of it will, in that case, inflict no fatal wound on 
 your peace; you will have a happiness secured above 
 the arts of malice and the storms of misfortune. 
 
 It deserves to be particularly remarked, in the next 
 place, that when this passion becomes too visible, man- 
 kind often take a pleasure in disappointing our vanity. 
 And the truth is, vanity forfeits a great part of the es- 
 teem which would otherwise be paid to the virtues 
 with which it is sometimes connected. Not even the 
 splendid talents and illustrious services of Cicero, 
 could save him from the contempt and ridicule of his 
 cotemporaries. When he would have it beheved that 
 he was wholly devoted to the republic, he seemed to be 
 
On the love of Praise. 36S 
 
 »ot less devoted to his own glory, and was thought by 
 many of his Countrymen, to be a patriot only for fame. 
 To repress still further the criminal excess of this 
 passion, which invades that supremacy of duty and 
 love which we owe to God, reflect how often is praise 
 unjustly withheld, by ignorant or envious men from 
 your most deserving qualities, or your most meritorious 
 actions: how often it is injudiciously bestowed upon 
 the undeserving; how often it is given to the most fri- 
 volous accomplishments: how often it is won by the 
 most superficial appearances of merit; how often it is 
 stolen from the multitude by base compliances, and 
 hypocritical professions; and how often, if you possess 
 power, or wealth, or beauty, it is impossible to distin- 
 guish sycophancy ti-om esteem, and flattery from sincere 
 attachment, ileflect moreover, that the breath of mor- 
 tals, however soothing to our vanity, cannot soothe the 
 cold ear of death, or follow us beyond the grave. If 
 it hangs over our tombs for a few moments, like a light 
 vapour, it is soon dissipated by the passions which oc- 
 cupy and agitate the surviving world, or sinks down in 
 the chill night of an eternal oblivion. Nothing but the 
 testimony of a good conscience, and a sincere trust in 
 the Redeemer, can support the soul when all human 
 things are passing away, and it finds itself entering 
 alone through the valley of shades* into the eternal 
 world. Let not the praise of men, therefore, if you 
 receive it, unduly elate you; nor if it is withheld, be too 
 
 * The valley of shades, was the name by which a dark vale not far from 
 Jerusalem, was distinguished, which furnished to the sacred poet, the illu- 
 ision contained in this figure. 
 
364 On the love of Praise. 
 
 much depressed, if you have the higher praise of your 
 const ience, of your works, and of God. 
 
 As the love of praise, when it is suffered to hold too 
 high a place in the heart, will necessarily disappoint 
 you, and will often defeat its own aims; so, by receiv- 
 ing a wrong direction, it becomes the minister of sin. 
 
 If the applauses of those with whom you associate 
 are the chief objects of your ambition, what tempta- 
 tions do they not lay in your way, when you happen 
 unfortunately to be connected with men who substitute 
 fashion for duty, and who justify vice by example? 
 Your contempt of religion, and of sober manners will, 
 in such connections, often outrun fashion itself; you 
 will be ambitious to obtrude your example among the 
 first in every modish scene of dissipation. 
 
 But, most dangerous is this passion in the associa- 
 tions of young men, who are yet in the full tide of folly; 
 whose reason has not been enlightened, and whose 
 passions have not been chastened by experience; who 
 mistake sprightliness for wit, and effrontery for talent. 
 Here, he who can point out new roa Is to plea-u "e; he 
 who can most ingeniously defend the vices of fashion, 
 or with the greatest dexterity wield a stroke against 
 the authority or the doctrines of religion; he who is 
 most daring in his own conduct to overleap the bounds 
 prescribed by the prudence of wisdom, and the cau- 
 tion of experience, will always be encouraged with 
 thoughtless and giddy applause. Leaders in vice who 
 are bold and assuming, ever meet with followers and 
 imitators, sooner perhaps, than the patrons and exam- 
 ples of virtue and piety, who are modest and retiring. 
 
On the love of Praise. 3C5 
 
 Here, in the noisy plaudits of your companions, you 
 will learn to drown tl>e voice of conscience, and the 
 awful menaces of religion; here will you soon be in- 
 cited ostentatiously to trample on the restraints, which 
 you miscall the prejudices, of a pious education; and 
 to contemn the sober opinion of the world. You will 
 affect to be more impious and profligate than you are, 
 till you become as profligate and impious as you affect 
 to be. Ah! how many unhappy youth, aspiring to dis- 
 tinction among such associates, have precipitated their 
 own destruction. 
 
 Looking a little higher, among the ranks of litera- 
 ture^ and turning over the volumes of infidelity and 
 immorality, which the press has so copiously poured 
 upon the present age, I say to myself of these perni- 
 cious writings, that spring from the corrupt affections 
 of the heart; how many have their immediate source in 
 that vanity which aspires to gain the reputation of su- 
 perior wit and strength of mind, by attacking all an- 
 cient systems, by boldly assailing the sacred doctrines 
 of religion, and maintaining every extravagant novelty of 
 opinion. All the libertine, all the vain, all who are lovers 
 of pleasure more than lovers of God; that is, unhappily, 
 the greater portion of all the higher circles of society, 
 are ready to extol with excessive praise, and crown with 
 the laurels of genius, the authors who would emanci- 
 pate them from the thraldom of religious fear, and lay 
 the spectres which haunt the gloom of the grave. \u 
 an age of luxury and pleasure, this misapplication of 
 talent opens an easy path to that airy temple which 
 false wit, and superficial science, have erected on an 
 
366 On the love of Praise. 
 
 humble eminence, decorated with artificial flowers, in 
 opposition to the genuine temple of Fame, planted on 
 the summit of an arduous cliff, the ascent to which is 
 always difficult and laborious. The incessant applaus- 
 es of the giddy throng who surround it below, seduce 
 a crowd of authors, who hasten thither to offer their 
 works on the altars of vice. Alas! deplorable talents! 
 corrupted while they corrupt! Applauded by those on- 
 ly whom they are helping to destroy! 
 
 in the false and pernicious direction given to this 
 passion, we may find the cause of many of those dis- 
 orders, which have disturbed the tranquillity of free 
 governments. Often it created the most dangerous fer- 
 ments in the httle republics of Greece. And we do 
 not want examples among ourselves of the most odious 
 factions, excited and nourished by this principle. It is 
 not alv\a}s the love of a little brief authority, nor even 
 the mean avarice of gaining a few extraordinary emol- 
 uments in the public service, which sets your restless 
 demagogues on work, (although not a small proportion 
 of our pretended patriots are governed by such unwor- 
 thy motives), but, frequently, vain men, with no other 
 talents than presumption and loquacity, are ambitious 
 of obtruding themselves on the public view. Ambitious 
 of vulgar praise, they study to seize on some popular to- 
 pic to stir the commonalty into violence and frenzy. 
 The best characters are the subjects of their slander; 
 the best measures they find some low and mercenary 
 ground of defaming; while they strive to raise into a 
 flame a fickle, envious and ignorant populace, with 
 whom a violent and worldly zeal is too often the proof of 
 
On the love of Praise. 367 
 
 patriotism. Little scrupulous of the means they employ 
 to accomplish their end, the public good, which is their 
 loudest pretence, is their least concern. All their ob- 
 ject is to rise into favour on the agitated tide. And, 
 for a while, perhaps, they ride in triumph, supported 
 on the bubbles they have raised. The bubbles break, 
 and leave them to sink into their native obscurity; other 
 favourites, not less ambitious and possibly more un- 
 principled than themselves, agitate this multitudinous 
 ecean by a new storm. They hurl their predecessors 
 into the troubled waves, in the midst of which, like 
 them, they ride, for a little while, till, in their turn, 
 they are precipitated by new pretenders. In the mean 
 time, their country suffers innumerable, evils; till at 
 last, they make the very name of patriotism be ab- 
 horred: and the distracted, and so often deluded peo- 
 ple, seek some dreadful remedy for pohtical disorders 
 at length become intolerable. 
 
 Perhaps, a still more deplorable effect of this mis- 
 guided passion, is seen when it ascends to the very 
 seat of Moses and the apostles, and corrupts, in the 
 mouths of the teachers of religion, the purity and sim- 
 plicity of its truths. On this subject two opposite evils 
 •ften dishonour the sanctuary of truth. While somC; 
 studious only to please the circles of polite fashion, 
 prophesy smooth things, and bring down the standard 
 of evangelic morality to what fashion prescribes, or 
 the delicacy of luxury will bear; others, destitute of 
 talents to edify the church of God by the extent and 
 variety of their knowledge, or the powers of a cultiva- 
 ted elocution, address themselves to catch the applause 
 
368 On the love of Praise. 
 
 of zeal from the misjudging multitude, who seldom 
 are able to distinguish an assumed fervor from the ge- 
 nuine warmth of sincere piety. With noise, with rant, 
 with terror, by whatever engines will move and agitate 
 rude minds, but equally distant from the genuine spirit 
 of religion as the vicious complaisance of the former, 
 they pursue their unworthy ends. There are dema- 
 gogues in religion as well as in politics, whose chief 
 aim it is to render themselves conspicuous in a party. 
 But all the flashings of their fiery zeal cannot conceal 
 from a true discerner of the human heart, the unwor- 
 thy passions which, under the mask of humble devo- 
 tion, are helping to blow the flame, for the purposes 
 of their own vanity. Among all impieties, hardly can 
 one be mentioned more odious to Heaven, and to all 
 good men, than to stand up in the temples, and in the 
 name of the Most High, only to seek our own gl»ry. 
 To soften down to the taste of fashionable pleasure, on 
 the one hand, those holy and eternal truths on which 
 depends the salvation of immortal souls; or, on the 
 other, to convert the humble, devout, and reasonable 
 service of the living God into the frantic bowlings of 
 the idolatrous woishippers of Moloch, or of Dagon. I 
 know not which should most shock a rational and pi- 
 ous mind, to see an Adonis present himself, like a ser- 
 vant of the Graces, before the awful altars of Jeho- 
 vah; or to see an ignorant and presumptuous mortal 
 throwing himself into a counterfeited frenzy; dealing 
 out the denunciations of Heaven on his fellow crea- 
 tures, according as his own passions impel him; ap- 
 proaching his Creator and Redeemer with the most 
 indecent familiarities of expression; and pouring forth 
 
On the love of Praise. 369 
 
 his own incoherent rhapsodies, instead of the words of 
 truth and soberness; — Those divine truths which we 
 ought always to touch with the same reverence and 
 awe, with which the priests of Israel approached the 
 ark of the covenant, or Aaron and his sons entered 
 into the holy of holies. — Oh! impiety! thus hypocriti- 
 cally to employ religion to serve the base purposes of 
 our own vanity! to dare attempt to make God, if 1 may 
 speak so, pander to our vile praise! 
 
 Thus the love of praise, when it is excessive, or ill 
 directed, may, in many ways, corrupt the heart. We 
 have often seen it, when lavishly and indiscreetly be- 
 stowed, deprave those excellent dispositions which at 
 first deserved it. Acquired, in the beginning, by the 
 exercise of the most modest virtues, it has at last in- 
 flated the heart with an odious vanity, and created a 
 spirit self-conceited, arrogant, and intractable. Ah! how 
 little does vanity, or pride, become a man in the midst 
 of his fellow men! a brother in the midst of his breth- 
 ren! — above all, a worm of the dust in the presence of 
 the infinite Creator! 
 
 But though the love of praise when it is excessive, 
 or misplaced, is attended with so many evils and dan- 
 gers, yet have we seen it, when properly regulated^ 
 ever united with a generous emulation to excel, and 
 become the parent of the most valuable improvements 
 in society, and of the highest virtues. Separate it from 
 the pernicious principles with which it is often con- 
 joined, and I will again and again repeat, with the apos- 
 tle, — " Whatsoever things are of good report; if there 
 VOL. I. 3 b 
 
370 On the love of Praise. 
 
 be any virtue, if there be any praise, think of these 
 things." 
 
 But, it is time to address myself to the last duty of 
 this day, giving my parting counsels to those youth who 
 have just finished their course of studies in this insti- 
 tution, and offering up for them my most fervent 
 prayers. 
 
 Young Gentlemen, 
 
 "We now touch on the last moments of our union as 
 instructor, and as pupils. It is a moment always ac- 
 companied with many serious reflections. You are 
 parting from the retirements of your studies. The vast, 
 and various prospect of life is before you, with all its 
 uncertainties and dangers, its hopes and disappoint- 
 ments, its rivalships and contentions, its labors and 
 its duties. I look upon you like a mariner who has 
 just passed an agitated ocean, while you are, as yet, 
 only launching amidst the waves. He hopes, he prays 
 for the success of so many young and ardent adven- 
 turers; but he tren)bles at the hazards in which he 
 knows you will presently be involved. At a moment, 
 then, in which many recollections and anticipations na- 
 turally press upon the mind to dispose it to solemnity, 
 and to awaken in our bosoms many tender, as well as 
 serious emotions, may I not hope that instructions to 
 which you have often listened with deference, will 
 make upon your hearts a more lasting impression than 
 on ordinary occasions. 
 
 In the course of your studies it has ever been an ob- 
 ject with the government of this institution to nourish 
 
On the love of Praise. 371 
 
 in your bosoms a generous emulation to excel, and to 
 fan that love of praise, which, united with the love of 
 science, and the nobler sentiments of duty, would 
 stimulate you to the highest exertion of the best pow- 
 ers and faculties of your nature. Still continue to 
 cherish that useful principle which will impel you for- 
 ward in the career of honourable improvement. In the 
 youthful breast it can hardly be excessive. Not yet 
 tainted by the envy of rivalship, or the intrigues of am- 
 bition, which so often corrupt the passions of riper 
 years, its earliest tendencies are to lead you to virtue; 
 to prompt you to the cultivation of every talent, the ac- 
 quisition of every accomplishment which will awaken 
 in your favor, on all sides, the voice of praise. How 
 lovely is youth when we behold in it all the symptoms 
 of a virtuous sensibihty; all the ardor of a generous 
 emulation; all the noble purposes of duty; all the mo- 
 dest consciousness at once of worth, and of the imper- 
 fection of its attainments! all the auguries of future 
 honor, and usefulness! 
 
 Cultivate a generous love of praise. At your age, 
 it will be a powerful incentive to virtue: to genius it 
 will be Uke the animating rays of the sun, which give 
 life, action, and energy to the whole creation. 
 
 What then are those qualities which procure for 
 their possessor the highest honor and distinction among 
 men? Are they not the great endowments of the 
 mind, and the good affections of the heart? On a noble 
 magnanimity, on diffusive benevolence, on unshaken 
 integrity, on a warm, rational, and dignified piety, on 
 extensive science, on a powerful and manly eloquence^, 
 
372 On the love of Praise. 
 
 on the masterly ability of combining and applying all 
 the branches of knowledge for the purposes of public 
 utihty, are founded the most solid claims to public es- 
 teem. Superficial talents, and showy but hollow pre- 
 tensions, may deceive the multitude for a moment; but 
 experience and time, which disclose the true charac- 
 ters of men, and the sounder judgments of the wise, 
 which ultimately prevail over hasty and ill founded 
 opinions, will strip from them the laurels with which 
 ignorance had crowned them. 
 
 It is the union of talents with virtue which forms the 
 true foundation of lasting praise. Virtue will procure 
 for you higher confiidence from your fellow citizens, 
 talents spread round you greater lustre. It is on the 
 union of both that you should build your hopes of ho- 
 nou and esteem. 
 
 Be not in haste, then, to enter on the exercise of 
 those various liberal professions to which most of you 
 intend hereafter to devote your faculties. Wait with 
 patience the development of the full powers of your 
 minds; and continue long to collect, with persevering 
 industry, from every source, the treasures of know- 
 ledge, which are necessary to fit you to appear with 
 distinction and eminence, before you advance into the 
 public theatre of life. A prudent delay will, in the end, 
 be gaining both time and reputation. But if you are 
 impatient to display your talents^ or to enter on the ac- 
 quisition of a pitiful gain, and therefore content your- 
 selves with hasty and superficial preparations, you will 
 probably march through your whole course with feeble, 
 nerveless, and obscme eilbrts, which, if they do not c<^ 
 
On the hve of Praise. 373 
 
 ver you with contempt, will, at least, leave you sunk 
 among the vulgar throng who make up the mass, or 
 drag at the tail of their respective professions. 
 
 Whence is it that we hear from the pulpit so many 
 insipid, and common-place discourses, without illumi- 
 nation to gratify the understanding, and without energy 
 to impress the heart? Seldom, perhaps, is it to be as- 
 cribed to the absolute defect of natural capacity, but to 
 the want of due preparation for discharging honorably 
 and usefully the fun<tions of this holy office. Whence 
 is it that many a young preacher, after being well re- 
 ceived for a few discourses, becomes at last spiritless, 
 and insipid, and addresses only fatigued and listless 
 audiences.^ He has exhausted his scanty intellectual 
 funds, and has nothing new to produce from his im- 
 poverished treasury. 
 
 Whence is it that the noble and dignified science of 
 justice, so often degenerates into a pitiful pettifogging 
 and chicanery.^ Young men without diligence and 
 application, meanly furnished with juridical knowledge, 
 and destitute of the rich and varied powders of eloquence 
 derived from a general acquaintance with other arts, 
 have addicted themselves only to the meagre forms, 
 and the dishonourable quibbles of the law. — And is 
 it not lamentable to see, in so many instances, men, 
 ignorant of the first elemeitts of civil and jjolitical 
 science, presuming to prescribe laws to the republic; 
 and pretending, without the smallest consciousness of 
 their own insufficiency, to direct the relations, and set- 
 tle the jarring interests of the state with foreign na- 
 tions! Interests, relations, lawb, which require a con- 
 
374 On the love of Praise. 
 
 summate knowledge of the principles of civil society, 
 the most extensive information concerning the political, 
 commercial, and military state of the civilized world, 
 the most vigorous powers of combination, a penetra- 
 tion which pervades at a single glance the most com- 
 plicated systems; a comprehension able to embrace at 
 one view the most remote consequences; a perspicacity 
 fitted to unravel the most intricate questions of policy. 
 Among your most valuable attainments let me add, 
 that it is especially important, in a free country, to cul- 
 tivate a forcible and persuasive eloquence. I may 
 surely address myself to an American scholar in the 
 language which Sir William Jones has used to a young 
 British nobleman whom he was desirous of training up 
 to the knowledge and management of public affairs. 
 " I am fully convinced, says he, that an Englishman's 
 real importance in his country will always be in a com- 
 pound ratio of his virtue, his knowledge, and his elo- 
 quence, without all of which qualities httle real utility 
 can result from either of them apart." 
 
 Bui, remember, it is not the noisy declamation of a 
 town-meeting, nor the crude and incoherent garrulity 
 which so often fatigues the attention, and delays the 
 public business, in our legislatures, which will enable 
 an orator to coiiibine the great interests, and guide the 
 movements of a nation. To perform this with success 
 he should thoroughly comprehend those interests, he 
 should possess a perspicacious mind, clearly to develop 
 them, he should be able to forsee, and to obviate all 
 difficulties which will oppose the execution of his plans, 
 he should derive light and information from all ages, 
 
On the love of Praise. 375 
 
 he should understand the true character, powers, and 
 resources of his country, he should discern the best 
 means of drawing them into operation, he should know 
 how to touch all the springs of human action. Behold 
 what a field is before the real statesman! These were 
 the pow^ers which gave Demosthenes so great an as- 
 cendant over all the corrupted politicians, and noisy de- 
 magogues of Athens. These were the powers which 
 made even the ujost polished orators, who knew only 
 the modulation of periods, and charmed the ear with- 
 out enhghtening the understanding, yield to his sdpe- 
 rior illumination and energy. He did not deem it suf- 
 ficient to declaim with angry and boastful vehemence 
 against the public enemy. This would have been an 
 easy task to a far inferior orator. He penetrated and 
 displayed the artful designs of the Macedonian king: 
 — he unfolded the true interests of Greece: he por- 
 trayed in strong colours the storm which impended 
 over his country, he pointed out;, at the same time the 
 resources with which she was able to meet and dispel 
 it; he showed to Athens her own strength: he entered 
 into the minutest details of her finance; he understood 
 the views and intrigues of every state which could af- 
 fect the interests of his own country; he knew how to 
 resuscitate from the slumbers of luxury, the ancient 
 vigor of the republic; all the stores of history were open 
 to his use; all the lights of science, all the powers of 
 language, were summoned to his aid. — Were these 
 mighty effects the fruit of superficial attainments, of 
 hasty studies, of precipitately intruding himself into the 
 management of affairs ? You know his history— his la^ 
 
^76 On the love of Praise. 
 
 bors; his long continued and intense application; his 
 obstinate conflicts with the difficulties which nature 
 opposed to his success. But he resolved to become the 
 first statesman and orator in Greece; and he became 
 so. But, why propose such an illustrious and transcend- 
 ant example to young men who, as yet, are only enter- 
 ing on their literary career? — Because every young 
 man, who desires to excel, should, from the beginning, 
 have his view and his ambition fixed on the highest 
 models. But this example, while it is calculated to 
 excite the ardor of your emulation, is fitted also to en- 
 courage your hopes, and may serve to show you how^ 
 much is in your power. For it is a maxim which 
 ought to be engraven on the heart of every ingenuous 
 youth to whom nature has not been extraordinarily de- 
 ficient in her gifts, that, like the Athenian orator he 
 can accomplish whatever he is firmly resolved to do. 
 But, let me add, that the love of praise, when it is 
 not made the handmaid of vanity, but is modest and 
 well-directed, will make you studious especially to gain 
 the approbation of those whom it is your duty, and 
 whom it will be your chief honor and happiness to 
 please. To be ever ready to do good to the lowest of 
 mankind is an exalted virtue; but to be ambitious of 
 the applauses of the ignorant and fickle multitude is a 
 low aim; and to collect them is not a difficult task to 
 those who can stoop to the dishonourable arts which 
 are requisite for this end. Be it your ambition to de- 
 serve the esteem of the wise and good, whose opinion 
 will stamp a worth upon your name. Cultivating their 
 esteem, you will be supported also by the conscious- 
 
On the lave of Praise. 37 
 
 Hess of your own hearts; — that noble consciousness 
 which God has made, next to. his own approbation, 
 the most precious reward of virtue; and which will 
 console you like Socrates, and like Phocion, or, to take 
 a higher example, like Daniel, if, at any time, the ma- 
 lignant arts of rivals or of enemies should prevail 
 against you. 
 
 Prepare to deserve, hereafter, the approbation of 
 your country by meritorious and distinguished services, 
 as so many of the sons of the college have done who 
 once occupied the place in which you now stand. 
 Men who have not enjoyed the advantages of liberal 
 culture are permitted to confine their views to a nar- 
 row sphere. But education imposes higher duties on 
 her sons, and enforces them by sublimer examples. 
 Patriotism was the first of virtues to a Greek, or a 
 Roman. He sucked it in with his first milk; he inhaled 
 it with his vital breath; to strengthen this passion all 
 his studies, his discipline, his exercises were directed. 
 
 But passing all other considerations, permit me to 
 press upon you one which cannot fail to touch the heart 
 of an ingenuous youth. Among your highest aims let 
 it ever be, to deserve the praise and the love of those 
 to whom, immediately, you owe your existence; and 
 who have the deepest stake in your honor and felicity. 
 
 The sweetest recompense which, as dutiful sons, 
 you can receive for all the ^elf-denials of your early 
 virtues, must be to witness the happiness, and the hon- 
 est pride of those who have loved you with supreme ten- 
 derness, whose hearts have throbbed with ten thousand 
 anxieties over your inexperienced years, who have 
 
 VOL. I. 3 c 
 
378 (^n the love of Praise. 
 
 made so many painful sacrifices to your education, 
 when they behold all -their sacrifices, their anxieties, 
 their love, repaid by your duty, and rewarded by youl* 
 improvement. I seem to participate with them the 
 tender delight, the sweet rapture in which they are dis- 
 solved, when on your return they believe they are em- 
 bracing in their arms their worthy sons. If the world 
 were filled with your praises, methinks the idea dear- 
 est to you, must be the delicious pride which your repu- 
 tation and honor must reflect to the heart of an affec- 
 tionate parent. Ah! what a motive to improvement! 
 what a reward for excelling! The most amiable trait 
 in the character of the great Epaminondas was his 
 fihal piety. Being asked which was the happiest cir- 
 cumstance in a life distinguished, as his was, by illus- 
 trious deeds, and the admiration of his countrymen; 
 ."it was, says he, that after my victory at Leuctra my 
 father and mother were both living to enjoy the honors 
 paid me by my fellow citizens." If this virtue displays 
 a more resplendent lustre surrounded with the glory of 
 heroic actions, yet this lovely sentiment, in my opinion, 
 confers more real greatness on the Theban hero than 
 all his victories. The thought of rendering happy a 
 father, or a mother by our own virtues and honors, 
 how precious to the heart of a dutiful son! There are 
 no personal gratifications he would not forego, there are 
 no sacrifices he would not make, to enjoy it. But 
 why do I speak of sacrifices.^ When it is your own 
 virtue, honor, reputation, when it is, in a word, your 
 own happiness which makes them happy. — Imagine 
 you see the tear of tenderness and delight start in their 
 eyes at these your first honors; and, with their venera- 
 
On the hve of Praise. 379 
 
 ble and beloved forms before you, resolve that they 
 never shall have cause to blush for then' sons. 
 
 But if, in any instance, they have already descended 
 to the tomb, and left you to maintain the honor of their 
 families, let your virtues prove the noblest monument 
 to their memory. 
 
 Would to God that I could inspire this pure and vir- 
 tuous sentiment into the bosom of every American 
 youth! It would, along vsdth religion, to which it is 
 intimately allied, be the surest foundation of the pros- 
 perity and glory of my country. — " Honor t-hy father 
 and thy mother, saith the Spirit of God to the people 
 of Israel, that thy days, that is, thy existence as a na- 
 tion, may be long upon the land which the Lord thy 
 God giveth thee." 
 
 I have recommenced the praise of your friends, of 
 your country, and of mankind, as a motive to duty; 
 and pointed out the good effects that may result fi-om 
 your desire to obtain it. Bear with me however, a few 
 moments, while I caution you against the dangerous 
 consequences which may spring from the abuse of this 
 passion. 
 
 JNIany young men who have early discovered a cer- 
 tain promptness and vivacity of parts, courted and ca- 
 ressed as the life of every gay company, have cultiva- 
 ted only those superficial talents which made them en- 
 tertaining companions, and attracted the unthinking ap- 
 plauses of levity and mirth. Having glittered awhile in 
 the circles of fashion or of dissipation, they have after- 
 wards sunk into insignificance and all their early 
 promises have perished. 
 
380 On the love of Praise. 
 
 Their vanity, nourished by the praises of their 
 friends, led them to imagine that they already shone 
 with the lustre of genuine wit at the summit of the 
 mountain, while they only flashed like meteors at the 
 bottom for a few moments and disappeared. Between 
 sprightliness of parts, and the capacities of a great 
 mind, between promptness of wit, and solidity of under- 
 standing, between the brilliancy of certain companion- 
 able qualities and mature wisdom, there is a wide dif- 
 ference. i\nd young men fascinated by the noisy plau- 
 dits bestowed on these frivolous accomplishments, have 
 too frequently misapplied their time, and given a wrong 
 direction to the early efforts of their genius. Thus 
 have been blasted all the opening blossoms of hope; 
 and the first rich promise of fruit has withered and 
 dropped from the tree before it came to maturity. 
 
 When vanity assumes a merit to itself lor the novel- 
 ty, the extravagance, or impiety of the principles it 
 maintains, it presents to us one of the most fatal symp- 
 toms of a depraved heart. It is dangerous even to 
 sport opinions of which you are not firmly persuaded, 
 in order to gain the praise of ingenuity and wit. But 
 lost, and commonly beyond recovery, is the unhappy 
 youth whom the vanity of receiving the applause of 
 loose and profligate companions leads to place himself 
 at the head of associations for vice. Stimulated by 
 their flatteries, he outgoes even his own desires for 
 indulgence; and far outgoes his convictions of what is 
 consistent with reason, or with duty. In proportion to 
 the ascendance he has assumed among them, must he 
 be more profligate than they; aim a more poignant 
 
On the love of Praise. 381 
 
 ridicule at virtue, more impious scoffs against religion, 
 Oh! fatal vanity! which is hastening the perdition of 
 the soul, and laying up for them the eternal execrations 
 of those whom they have ruined by their example, and 
 who are now ruining them by their guilty praise. 
 " Of you, I may say with the apostle, I hope better 
 things, though I thus speak." 
 
 But in the conclusion of this address, suffer me to 
 repeat to you, that, however laudable in youth is a 
 generous love of praise, it should never hold the chief 
 sway among the motives of your conduct. It should 
 ever be subordinate to a pure and ardent love of virtue, 
 and reverence for religion, and even to a just and noble 
 respect for yourselves. But, the first object of desire to 
 every reasonable being should be the approbation of 
 God. He who embraces all being in himself is the 
 sovereign good. What is the transient breath of mortals 
 compared to his favour ivhich is life., and his loving 
 kindness which is better than life? Vam is all human 
 glory, separated from virtue and from the love and ser- 
 vice of the living God. The laurels of the conquerors 
 of the world have long since withered on their brows 
 — the proudest monuments of princely vanity have been 
 long since levelled with the dust, the most splendid 
 works of genius and of art consecrated to the fame of 
 illustrious men, are continually passing to obhvion, and 
 the world itself shall perish; but those who love God 
 shall inhabit with him the praises of eternity. 
 
 Never can you too profoundly impress it on your 
 hearts that God your Creator possesses the supreme 
 right to all the powers of your being. From him they 
 
382 On the love of Praise. 
 
 are derived, to him they ought continually to tend. 
 How amiable and lovely in youth is piety, which draws 
 down the spirit of heaven to earth; which opens on the 
 beginning ofhfe the fairest blossoms of hope; which 
 consecrates to our adorable Creator and Redeemer 
 the bloom of existence; and is preparing in the heart 
 the ripened fruit of a blessed and glorious immortality. 
 The early contact of the soul, if 1 may speak so, with 
 infinite purity, which is effected by the power of devo- 
 tion, at once ennobles and purifies its being, and pre- 
 pares it for those holy and ineffable joys which perfect 
 spirits taste in the presence of God. 
 
 Retiring as you now are from these studious retreats 
 in which you have spent many hours of refined and 
 social pleasure; and dissolving many pleasing ties which 
 have hitherto united you with your literary associates, 
 let these separations remind you of that more serious 
 moment when you must part with all human friend- 
 ships; and when the world fading from your view, shall 
 leave you no support in the conflict with death, and no 
 consolation at the bar of Heaven, but the mercy and 
 grace of your Redeemer, and the review of life spent 
 in obedience to his holy will. So live, and employ the 
 talents which God has given you, that the supreme 
 Judge, assembhng round you in that day your good 
 works, may, from this tribunal, proclaim them to the 
 universe, to your everlasting glory and praise. 
 
 As I am now performing the last office which my 
 station requires in superintending this period of your 
 education; for your diligence, for your laudable ambi- 
 tion, in any instance, to excel; for all that you have 
 
On the love of Praise, 383 
 
 done well for your own honor and interest, or for the 
 general interest of morals and letters in the college, 
 accept my thanks. For nothing is dearer to my heart 
 than the improvement in every useful and ornamental 
 endowment of those whose education has been com- 
 mitted to my charge. 
 
 If, in the course of your studies, I have, through in- 
 advertance or mistake, injured the feelings of one per- 
 son in the class, I trust that my motives, and the ar- 
 duousness of my situation will excuse it. All that is 
 past is forgotten, except your virtues. Henceforward 
 I regard you as equals, and, as men. One emotion 
 only occupies my heart in a fervent aspiration to hea- 
 ven, for your honor and usefulness in life; and for your 
 everlasting salvation. blessed Jesus! Saviour and 
 advocate of mankind! who dost offer the sincere prayers 
 of thy people before God, deign to present this prayer 
 
 with acceptance at the heavenly throne! 
 
 Adieu' 
 
ON RULING SIN. 
 
 And the sin which doth so easily beset us. Htb. xii, I. 
 
 Frequently, in the sacred writings, the self-de- 
 nials, and the arduous duties of the christian hfe are 
 represented by images drawn from the athletic exer- 
 cises, so customary in that age, for which the comba- 
 tants were obliged to qualify themselves by a vigorous 
 preparatory discipline, and in which during the actual 
 contlict they were obliged to exert the utmost powers 
 of nature in contending for the honorable prize. In 
 this passage the apostle borrows his allusions from the 
 race; a contest for which they prepared themselves by 
 an exact temperance as well as by a long course of 
 pirevious and active exercises. In the race itself, they 
 disencumbered themselves of every weight, that, being 
 free from whatever might obstruct their speed, or de- 
 press their energies, they might have better hope to 
 gain the goal in triumph. This analogy the apostle ap- 
 plies to the progress of a christian through the present 
 evil world. It requires all the vigor of soul, all the 
 self-denial, all the earnestness and zeal which were 
 ever exerted in the best disputed race. Heaven is the 
 glorious prize proposed to our activity and perseve- 
 rance in duty. But, inheriting as we do a degenerate 
 nature, placed in the midst of innumerable temptations, 
 
Our Ruling Sin. 385 
 
 we are impeded in our course by the weights which 
 our corru|»tions hang on ail the devout and pious ten- 
 dencies of the soul. It is a course in which we are 
 obliged continually to ascend towards the heavenly 
 hills against all the propensities of a corrupted heart, 
 and in which we are obliged, too often, to struggle 
 under an oppressive load of worldly and impure aflfec- 
 tions, which weigh down the soul, and hinder its ad- 
 vancement in its spiritual course. Christians! if you 
 would obtain the victory in this race, if you would 
 gain the immortal prize which is set before you, dis- 
 encumber yourselves of every weight, hut especially, says 
 this great apostle, of that sin which doth so easily beset 
 you. 
 
 Every sinful propensity, every excessive and world- 
 ly attachment and care, all our unsanctified passions 
 and pursuits, form so many impediments in our chris- 
 tian race; so many dangerous obstacles to the attain- 
 ment of our salvation. But, there is commonly some 
 one passion, indulgence, or pursuit, to which each man 
 is chiefly prone, which enters more into his character 
 than other sinful propensities, which may be deemed 
 his constitutional or prevailing evil, and which this 
 great writer calls the sin which doth so easily beset us. 
 Infecting all the powers of the soul, and mingling with 
 all its movements, it forms the principal hindrance to 
 the return of a sinner to God by sincere repentance, 
 and is the principal obstruction even of a believer in 
 his progress towards Heaven. It often hangs as a 
 heavy weight upon the soul; it retards his speed and 
 
 VOL. 1. 3 P 
 
386 Our Ruling Sin. 
 
 slackens his diligence, and oppresses within him the 
 springs of the divine hfe. 
 
 That we may the better understand this sin, and be 
 enabled to comply with the exhortation of the apostle, 
 let me — in the first place, point out its distinguishing 
 characters — and in the next place, offer to the peni- 
 tent sinner some means to dehver him from its dange- 
 rous power; and to throw off its oppressive weight. 
 
 1 . In order to point out its distinguishing characters 
 with the more precision, let us consider it both in its 
 operations and its causes. 
 
 1. And first in its operations. — 
 
 These you will find in your thoughts, your senti- 
 ments, your affections, your pursuits. Your predomi- 
 nant evil then may often be learned by considering 
 what are those objects and images which most fre- 
 quently offer themselves to your thoughts.'^ which most 
 readily move your affections, or at the view of which 
 your passions now quickly kindle. What are those 
 gratifications on which you are willing to bestow the 
 greatest portion of your time, for which you are rea- 
 dy to make the greatest sacrifices? What is that which 
 most readily offers itself to your mind when free from 
 other engagements.? Wliat is most apt to obtrude 
 itself into the midst of other engagements, and even 
 into the most serious moments of devotion.? To give 
 some examples; do you find these images and objects 
 in your worldly gains.? in voluptuous pleasures.^ in 
 sensual indulgences.? in the vanity and ostentation of 
 your person.? Or, do you find them in the malevolent 
 passions, the resentments, the envy, the revenge which 
 
Our Ruling Sin. 
 
 are continually rankling in the dark and malignant bo- 
 som? Like Haman does the honor of Mordecai dis- 
 turb your thoughts, and rob you of your peace? Like 
 the envious children of Jacob, are you always conceiv- 
 ing, planning, or wishing some evil towards a more 
 fortunate brother? Like Nabal, do you deny yourself 
 to all the sweet and pious offices of cJiarity and human- 
 ity, for the sake of hoarding up a vile treasure? Like 
 Sampson ensnared by the wiles of an artful seducer, 
 are you willing to desert virtue, and honor, and repu- 
 tation, for an unlawful pleasure? Like the sons of Be- 
 lial, do you find your supreme delight in riot, intoxica- 
 tion, and debauchery? Like the saunter ers in the pa- 
 rable, is it your chief gratification to stand all the day 
 idle, to gape at the corners of the streets for news, for 
 anecdote, for slander, and indolently to herd with those 
 who have nothing farther in view than to pass the 
 time? Like the young man in the gospel, though you 
 may have many amiable qualities, are you notwith- 
 standing, so devoted to the world that there is still one 
 possession which you cannot sell, one pleasure which 
 you cannot renounce that you may follow Christ? The 
 purport of these inquiries is to ask if worldliness and 
 idleness, if the love of sensual pleasure, if avarice, if en- 
 vy, the irritable and wrathful passions, give the prevail- 
 ing features to your character? Behold then the evil 
 against which the holy apostle earnestly exhorts you to 
 struggle; — the power against which he encourages you 
 to contend; — the weight which he commands you to 
 lay aside. 
 
388 Our Rulinpi; Sin.' 
 
 Ag;ain, you may know the sin which most easily be- 
 sets yon. Examine your convictions, when, at any 
 time, the divine word has been apphed with power to 
 your heart. — When convinced of your duty, when pe- 
 netrated with the sentiments of rehgion; and ahiiost 
 persuaded to be a christian; whryt is that sin which you 
 forsake with the greatest reluctance? To which you 
 cling with the fondest attachment; for which you are 
 most desirous to find apologies to your own heart? 
 which you strain the language, or the examples of the 
 scriptures to justify? or which, in the face of the Scrip- 
 tures, you press your reason to palliate or excuse? What 
 is that pleasure for which you will go the most doubt- 
 ful lengths in your condu't? that, in a word, for which 
 you would be v, Jling to make the sacrifice of all your 
 other sins if you could be permitted to enjoy this in 
 peace? By such inquiries, and such reflections upon 
 your own heart and character, may you learn to know 
 and distinguish that sin which is the most dangerous 
 enemy of our s?]vation; which requires the most holy 
 resolution and fortitude to tear the heart from its in- 
 fluence; and which, more than all others, demands un- 
 ceasing self-command and watchfulness over our 
 thoughts and actions. 
 
 Other discriminating characters of this sin we may 
 derive from considering its sources. Not unfrequently, 
 it seems to flow from a certain natural temperament 
 of constitution, we see men at different times who ap- 
 pear by an original propensity of nature, to be strong- 
 ly addicted to avarice, to lust, to envy, to revenge, or 
 pride. These vices display themselves with the first 
 
Our Riding Sin. 389 
 
 passions of childhood, and strongly mark the first open- 
 ings of the character. Having struck their roots deep- 
 ly into the soil of nature, they grow almost without our 
 consciousness, and require the greatest vigilance, the 
 greatest self command, and even the greatest powers 
 of divine grace to subdue them. If they are only neg- 
 lected they increase by those continued impulses from 
 within, which are forever pushing them on to excess; 
 and they soon add the force of habit, to the tenden- 
 cies of nature. — Habit often becomes, itself, an inde- 
 pendent and powerful principle of the sin of which the 
 apostle speaks. Even where nature has given no pe- 
 culiar bias, what strength, what almost irresistible force 
 do certain vices acquire by the influence of habit 
 alone? Is it not from this principle rather than trom 
 the remaining vivacity of sensations and appetites 
 which have been long cloyed and blunted, by excess, 
 that debauchery and profligacy, still retain their pow- 
 er over old and debilitated libertines .'' But let me in- 
 stance in two vices to which mankind are, perhaps, 
 never led by original propensity^ or taste. I mean in- 
 temperance and profanity. Intoxicating liquors are, 
 in the beginning, almost always tasted with disrelish.'* 
 But company, but example, but solicitation, but gayety 
 and levity of spirits, but idleness which requires some 
 excitement to the indolent and relaxed powers of na- 
 ture, allured on the drunkard by degrees, and at length 
 created tliat destructive and almost unconquerable ap- 
 petite, so ruinous to health, to mterest, to peace of 
 mind, to domestic happiness, to social order, to every 
 worthy and respectable quality of human nature. And 
 
390 Our Ruling Sin. 
 
 hardly can he now see his idle companions, and never 
 can he taste the ensnaring and poisonous draught, hut, 
 at once, he loses all self-command^ and to his shame 
 and ruin he is dragged as a fool to the correction of 
 the stocks. 
 
 In the next place, is there any natural impulse or 
 temptation to profanely using the holy name of Al- 
 mighty God? Yet, do we not see it, by a shameful 
 and pernicious habit, incorporated by certain individu- 
 als into the whole tissue of their discourse? Hardly 
 can they address one another, hardly can they express 
 their resentments or their pleasures, hardly can they 
 breathe but through the medium of profanity. Al- 
 though religion loudly prohibits it, although their own 
 reason condemns it, although it is an offence against 
 decency as well as against God, and to make the mild- 
 est apology for it, which can be made, it is an un- 
 meaning vulgarity of language, which those who pos- 
 sess any just sentiments of propriety as well as of du- 
 ty, frequently resolve to lay aside, yet the unworthy ha- 
 bit still cleaves to them. It is a sin which besets them 
 at every moment, and is speedily tending to destroy 
 in their hearts all veneration for God their Creator, 
 and all regard to his holy and awful inspection. 
 
 If our ruling sin sometiiries arises out of original 
 propensity and taste, if it is more frequently created by 
 habitual indulgence, does it not often spring also out 
 of situations and connexions into which in the course 
 of Providence, or by our own imprudence, we may 
 have been thrown in life? — Is not poverty, for exam- 
 ple, and a state of dependence exposed to the sins of 
 
Our Ruling Sin. S91 
 
 envy, of discontent at the dispensation of Divine Provi- 
 dence? Is not wealth exposed to the sins of presump- 
 tion and pride, of luxury and voluptuousness? How 
 often have unhappy reverses of fortune fatally tempted 
 men to dishonesty and fraud? How often has sudden 
 and unexpected wealth immersed them in worldly cares, 
 or in dissipated pleasures, which have induced, at 
 length, an entire oblivion of God and of the duties of 
 religion? How often have imworthy friendships, im- 
 prudent and vicious associations engaged men, unwari- 
 ly at first, and at length, habitually in a fatal course of 
 folly and of crimes? Hhere has the dissolute youth 
 contracted those vices which, in spite of his own con- 
 victions, are dragging him captive at their will? Where 
 has the worthless gambler learned his infamous trade? 
 Where has the contemptible lounger acquired his ha- 
 bits of idleness? The prodigal, the intemperate, the 
 profligate, where have they depraved and corrupted all 
 their powers both of body and of soul? Was it not in 
 that vicious society into which accident first has thrown 
 them, and which imprudence afterwards has cherish- 
 ed? — In innumerable ways may accidental connexions, 
 circumstances, situations contribute to form the cha- 
 racters of men, and to create that dominant and habi- 
 tual sin which becomes, at length the tyrant of the 
 soul, and the principal hindrance to their salvation. 
 
 2. But, it is not enough to expose to you this sin, 
 and to represent its dangers; it is not of less impor- 
 tance to consider by what means we may be enabled 
 to overcome its power, and lay aside its weight in our 
 christian course. Our first study it should be then, by 
 
392 Our Ruling Sin. 
 
 diligent, serious, and faithful self-inquiry to discern this 
 complexional and characteristic evil which the scrip- 
 tures emphatically call the plague of our own hearts. 
 
 Truly to understand, and sincerely to be disposed 
 to confess it to ourselves and to God, is already more 
 than half the victory gained. Against it chiefly, in the 
 conflicts of the Heavenly race, should the vigilance 
 and the holy zeal of every believer be directed, that he 
 may thoroughly eradicate it, and obtain the entire com- 
 mand over all the passions and appetites of nature 
 Ti^hich impel to its indulgence, or which tend to che- 
 rish it and increase its strength. But, if you endea- 
 vour only, or principally to correct and restrain other 
 sins to which you are less enslaved, while this beloved 
 and dominant lust still holds the throne of your heart, 
 however you may thereby promote many of the decen- 
 cies of life, the essence of the character remains un- 
 changed. It is lopping off a few branches from a 
 poisonous tree, while its root is suffered to remain fix- 
 ed in the earth. 
 
 How then .^ do you ask, are we able of ourselves 
 to lay aside the weight of this sin which so easily besets 
 us, the principles of which we carry with us, and which 
 is incorporated into our whole nature.'' Can a corrup- 
 ted heart cure itself.^ It is true that, for this end, we 
 must obtain the aids of the Holy Spirit. But there are 
 duties on our part to which in the order of Divine grace, 
 those aids are mercifully attached by God. And God 
 may be said to have placed our salvation in our own 
 power; because he has put it in our power always to 
 obtain his aid. 
 
Our Ruling Sin. 393. 
 
 Of these duties the first in order, and perhaps in in- 
 fluence, is fervent and continual prayer. God is ever 
 ready to impart his grace to those who ask in sinceri- 
 ty, and persevere at his footstool with a holy constan- 
 cy. He has promised in his blessed word, and the ex- 
 perience of the saints has verified his promise, thati^e 
 ivho asketh shall receive, he who seeketh shall find, and 
 to him who knocketh it shall he opened. These are on- 
 ly accumulated images to express the holy prevalence 
 of prayer. Prayer, at the same time that it obtains the 
 merciful assistance of God, invigorates all the energies 
 of the soul in its conflicts with the world, and the powd- 
 er of sin. In aid of prayer, employ those holy precau- 
 tions which your Irailty requires, retire from the scenes 
 which awaken your passions^from the temptations 
 which inflame impure desires — from the opportuni- 
 ties which favour indulgence — from whatever would 
 excite or call into action that sin which so easily besets 
 you. Measures of precaution are necessary to be 
 combined with the most active and vigorous resist- 
 ance. It is necessary sometimes with Job to make a 
 covenant with your eyes. 
 
 To prayer, to vigilance, to all the precautions of pru- 
 dence, unite habitual and profound meditation on di- 
 vine things. Assemble in your minds all the conside- 
 rations of religion, all the motives to duty, which can 
 either weaken the force of the passions, or encourage 
 and animate your ardor in the christian course. Often 
 profoundly occupied in the contemplation of God in the 
 courts of his house, or the retirements of your private 
 devotion, let every unhallowed passion be silentbefore the 
 
 VOL. J. 3 E 
 
^^4- Our Ruling Siii. 
 
 purity of his holiness and the majesty of his glory. In 
 the infinite changes, and the approathing dissolution 
 of all earthly things, seriously consider the vanity of 
 the world, the temptations of which nourish and keep 
 alive the power of that dangerous sin. Place before 
 your mind in all its grandeur and solemnity, in all its 
 terrors and its joys that eternal existence on which you 
 are shortly about to enter. Behold in the universal expe- 
 rience of mankind, recognize in your own experience, 
 the worthlessness and imperfection of all sinful plea- 
 sures, the emptiness of all sinful pursuits, the deplora- 
 ble issue of all those proud honors, and those vain 
 splendors with which sinners have dazzled the eyes 
 of their fellow sinners, that they may not acquire any 
 dangerous hold upon your heart. Above all, profound- 
 ly meditate on those high rewards, those crowns and 
 palms of glory which are proposed to the christian vic- 
 tor at the end of his race, and shall adorn his hands, 
 or encircle his head in the immortal kingdom of God. 
 Could a simple wreath of laurel, could the shouts of 
 the agitated and impatient spectators, inspire with such 
 resolution, with such perseverance, with such inex- 
 tinguishable ardor, those who contended for the glory 
 of swiftness in the Olympic course? For these frivol- 
 ous honors, would the eager combatants endure so 
 many self-denials, and lay out all the powers of a gen- 
 erous and noble nature in such arduous conflicts, and, 
 christians! when celestial mansions, a celestial triumph 
 are before you, how great should be your holy zeal, in 
 your Heavenly race? Shall immortal joys, shall the 
 approbation of the Universal Judge, shall crowns of 
 
Our Riding Sin. 395 
 
 glory, and the applauses of an innumerable company of 
 angels, and of the countless myriads redeemed from 
 the earth, reward your victory in this course, and what 
 self-denials, what pious labors, should you not be wil- 
 ling to endure, what active exertions in duty, should 
 you not be willing to make, in order to gain that ever- 
 lasting goal? Your unholy passions, your false and 
 guilty pleasures, will you not be ready to sacrifice 
 them in this conflict to the glory of God, and the sal- 
 vation of your souls? will you not lay aside evet^ weight 
 and encumbrance, and above all that sin, however deal- 
 to you, which doth so easily beset you, that you may 
 run with christian perseverance and finish with Hea- 
 venly and everlasting triumph, the race set before you? 
 In the conclusion, permit me to observe that this sub- 
 ject bears a relation to the state both of convinced 
 sinners, and of sincere believers. In the one, this ru- 
 ling sin is the principal obstacle to an entire and un? 
 reserved submission of the heart to the grace of the 
 gospel, in the other it is the chief cause of the imper- 
 fection of their obedience, who fail at last, and of the tar- 
 diness of their progress in the Divine life who loiter in 
 their way. When the sinner, penetrated with his 
 guilt is endeavouring to escape from the wrath to come, 
 is it not the power of this sin which holds him a mi- 
 serable captive, almost against his own will? When 
 he seems on the point of giving up every other lust, 
 and making his peace with God, what is it that seems 
 to dash him back from the throne of grace but the 
 consciousness of this sin which still keeps him ensla- 
 ved to his corruptions? Every thing else, perhaps, he 
 
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 .VOi?.W.rG AJ^D EVEjyLYG FRAYER 
 
 AND THE 
 
 COMMUNION SERVICE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL CHURCH 
 
 IN THE 
 
 UJVITED STJITES. 
 
 Price 1 doll. 
 
 BISHOP WILSON'S SACRA PRIVATA, 
 
 OR PRIVATE MEBITATIOJVS JlJ^D PRAYERS, 
 
 Price 62 cents. 
 
 LITTLETON'S OBSERVATIONS, 
 
 On the conversion and apostleship of 
 
 SI. PAUL, 
 
 Price 50 cents. 
 
 BISHOP GIBSON, 
 
 ON The 
 
 S^-ICBAMENT OF THE LORD'S SUPPER, 
 
 Price 50 cents. 
 
 MATTHEW MEAD'S 
 
 ALMOST CHRISTIAN, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 FALSE PROFESSOR TRIED AND CAST, 
 
 Price 87 1-2 cents. 
 
VALUABLE BOOKS, 
 
 For sale by S. Potter ^ Co. JVb. 87, Chesnut Street 
 
 Maclin's splendid edition of the Holy Bible, in 6 vols, folio, Rus? 
 
 sia gilt, with numerous engravings. Price 300 dolls. 
 WestaWs Bible, 3 vols, with numerous engravings. Price 36 dolls. 
 Poofs Synopsis of the Holy Scriptures, 5 vols, folio, 50 dolls, 
 Oiven on the Hebrews, 4 vols, crown folio. Price 40 dolls. 
 Holy Bible, London copy, large print, extra gilt binding, 50 dolls, 
 
 Thompson's Seasons, with numerous prints, from paintings by 
 Hamilton, 1 vol. folio. Price 50 dolls. 
 
 Humphrey's edition of the Bible, with notes by Grotius, Light- 
 foot, Pool, Calmet, Patrick, Lock, Burkit, Sir Isaac Newtoii 
 and Pearse, in 3 vols, folio. Pi-ice 60 dolls. 
 
 Mant and D'Oyhfs Family Bible, now publisliing, and to be com- 
 pleted in 16 Nos. forming 2 large quarto vols. 9 of the Nos. 
 are already published. Price 1 doll. 125, and 150, per No. 
 
 GilVs Exposition of the Old and JSTew Testament, in 9 vols, quar- 
 to. 
 
 Scott's Family Bible, in 3 vols, quarto. 
 
 Cruden's Concordance, 1 vol. 4to. 
 
 Paley's Tiieological Works, 5 vols. 8vo. 
 
 Scott's Theological Works, 7 vols. 8vo. 
 
 Tracts against Popery, published 1667, 14 vols. 4to. 
 
 Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, new edition 4 vols. 8vo. 
 
 Bishop White's Works, 4 vols. Bvo. Price 12 dolls. 
 
 \* Orders for every description of books, whether 
 of EngHsh or American publications, will be supplied 
 at the shortest notice on reasonable terms, by 
 
 S. POTTER & CO. 
 
JB ^' •" '■ -m ', : •' te-..yFyg».' 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
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 PRINTED IN USA.