V 
 
 '} 
 
 OCT 2 1920 
 &00CAL StV.V^ 
 
 Division O O^ 
 Section C?96 S 
 
XdM 
 
SERMONS 
 
 
 I 192( 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 Logical st*3 
 
 WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY, D. D. 
 
 A MEMOIR, BY HIS BROTHER. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 BENJAMIN H. GREENE 
 
 124 Washington Street. 
 
 1849. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 
 
 B. H. Greene, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 METCALF AND COMPANY, 
 
 PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 The Memoir of Dr. Peabody down to the last year of his life 
 was prepared by his brother, where it was abruptly broken off by 
 the writer's death. A friend, intimately acquainted with both, has 
 completed the unfinished memoir, and collected the notices of the 
 brother which are subjoined. 
 
 The Sermons were selected and printed under the supervision 
 of another of Dr. Peabody 's friends. They were in type before 
 the recent political convulsions in Europe began, which must be 
 remembered in reading Sermon XIX. 
 
 Another volume of selections from the writings of Dr. Peabody 
 will probably be given to the public. 
 Cambridge. December, 1843. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 MEMOIR Vii 
 
 NOTICES OF THE REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY . . . CXix 
 
 SERMON I. 
 EARNEST DEVOTION • 1 
 
 SERMON II. 
 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY .10 
 
 SERMON III. 
 READY TO BE OFFERED 21 
 
 SERMON IV. 
 GROUNDS AND LIMITATIONS OF HUMAN RESPONSIBILITY 34 
 
 SERMON V. 
 
 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE ....... 48 
 
 SERMON VI. 
 VISION OF GOD'S THRONE 56 
 
 SERMON VII. 
 
 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL ....... 68 
 
 SERMON VIII. 
 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY NOT LIKELY TO GIVE OFFENCE . . 81 
 
 SERMON IX. 
 THE TRINITY 91 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 SERMON X. 
 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS 102 
 
 SERMON XI. 
 THE HOUSE OF GOD 114 
 
 SERMON XII. 
 
 THE DISORDERED MIND 125 
 
 SERMON XIII. 
 
 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN • 135 
 
 SERMON XIV. 
 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY . 144 
 
 SERMON XV. 
 
 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS 155 
 
 SERMON XVI. 
 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE 166 
 
 SERMON XVII. 
 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS 176 
 
 SERMON XVIII. 
 
 THE APOSTLES . . 189 
 
 SERMON XIX. 
 THE ETHICS OF WAR 199 
 
 SERMON XX. 
 WE KNOW IN PART 222 
 
 SERMON XXI. 
 
 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION 233 
 
 ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE SPRING- 
 FIELD CEMETERY ........ 245 
 
MEMOIE. 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 It seems proper that some account of this faithful 
 minister of Christ should accompany a selection from 
 his writings. Perhaps it may be thought that the task 
 of preparing such an account should have been confided 
 to a less partial hand ; but to obviate this objection as 
 far as may be, I propose to draw the larger portion of 
 it from my brother's correspondence with his familiar 
 friends, and from some of his discourses which contain 
 materials suited to the purpose. The tenor of his life 
 was very even and noiseless ; little diversified by striking 
 incident, which gives to personal history its usual charm. 
 But there was an evident progress in his intellectual and 
 religious character, to the very last. The traits of that 
 character were also of more than common attractiveness 
 and excellence, and in his later days they were tested 
 by severe, if not peculiar, sorrows. Perhaps the knowl- 
 edge of his example may inspire others with the wish to 
 make such progress, and with the power to endure with 
 fortitude afflictions similar to his. 
 
 William Bourn Oliver Peabody was born in Ex- 
 eter, in the State of New Hampshire, on the 9th day of 
 b 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 July, 1799. His father, a man of many amiable qualities, 
 had long resided there, enjoying much of the esteem and 
 confidence of his fellow-citizens, and happy in the affec- 
 tions of a large family-circle. He was fortunate, also, 
 in the instructions and example of an affectionate and 
 religious mother. Both of his parents lived long enough 
 to see their care of him in infancy rewarded by the 
 usefulness of his maturer years ; his mother, who at an 
 advanced age became an inmate of his family, went not 
 long before him to the grave. His father found enjoy- 
 ment in exercising a liberal hospitality, which brought 
 the elder portion of his family much into" connection 
 with society, and the society of his native place was un- 
 usually intelligent, cordial, and refined. Nor was the 
 beneficent influence of such a circle lost on him, as it is 
 very generally on the young ; he was attracted towards 
 it by his native delicacy of taste and feeling, and by the 
 interest which he early manifested in subjects of reading 
 and inquiry, to which much of the attention of that 
 society was given. Those who knew him at this period 
 remember him as a gentle and retiring boy, engaging 
 with ardor in the active sports of childhood, but very sel- 
 dom, if ever, in the strife by which they are apt to be 
 attended ; pursuing his studies with attention and fidelity, 
 and performing all his tasks in a manner creditable to 
 himself and satisfactory to his instructors, never, in any 
 instance that his friends can now recall, incurring pun- 
 ishment or grave censure for any serious misconduct 
 or deficiency. Few incidents of his boyhood are pre- 
 served ; and such incidents are rarely worth remember- 
 ing as affording indications of the future character. But 
 it may be truly said of him, that the same traits of gen- 
 
MEMOIR. XI 
 
 tleness, discretion, humility, and conscientiousness that 
 marked the man were early manifested by the child. 
 
 Tn the year 1808, at the age of nine, he was placed 
 by his father at the academy in Atkinson, New Hamp- 
 shire. He was there an inmate of the family of his rel- 
 ative, the Rev. Stephen Peabody, an excellent and ven- 
 erable man, whose character and peculiarities have been 
 described by one who knew him well, in a late number 
 of the Christian Examiner. Mrs. Peabody was the 
 sister of Mrs. Adams, wife of the first President Adams, 
 whom she strongly resembled in character. Her hus- 
 band was what is sometimes called a clergyman of the 
 old school, of dignified appearance and manners, but 
 invariably kind, and even playful. His sermons were 
 composed amidst the boisterous mirth of a troop of 
 boys at his fireside, and possibly a critical auditor might 
 have discerned some evidences of the circumstances un- 
 der which they were prepared ; but while he endeared 
 himself to the young by his unfailing good-humor and 
 kindly sympathy, he gave them an example of unpre- 
 tending goodness which was not without a lasting influ- 
 ence upon their characters. William remained under 
 the charge of Mr. Peabody and his excellent wife for 
 a few months only. In the autumn of the same year, 
 he was admitted as a student at the well-known academy 
 at Exeter, then, as for many years after, under the care 
 of Dr. Benjamin Abbot, who still enjoys, in a holy and 
 serene old age, the love and gratitude of all his pupils 
 who have not gone before him to the grave. 
 
 Dr. Abbot was the friend and neighbour of William's 
 father, and he felt at all times a deep and friendly inter- 
 est in the son. He possessed in an eminent degree the 
 
Xll MEMOIR. 
 
 power of winning the affections of the young without 
 ever forfeiting their respect ; never mistaking austerity 
 for dignity, nor suffering the habit of authority to betray 
 him into anger or coarseness. The other instructors 
 were, in general, young men who devoted a year or two 
 to the business of teaching before entering upon their 
 profession. Of those who were thus employed while 
 William was a member of the institution, some are yet 
 living who have reached distinguished eminence. Among 
 the dead may be named Henry Ware the younger, 
 whose talent and religious excellence were then as ob- 
 vious to his friends as they have since become to all. 
 Under the tuition of such men, the academy well de- 
 served the reputation which it has for many years main- 
 tained and continues still to bear ; and that he won their 
 regard may well be mentioned to my brother's praise. 
 Without being deeply interested in some of the severer 
 studies, he was at all times diligent and faithful. He 
 betrayed an early inclination for poetry, and wrote many 
 pieces which exhibited a facility of versification quite 
 remarkable in one so young. Among his efforts was a 
 translation of one of Virgil's Eclogues, far superior in 
 fidelity and grace to what is commonly expected at the 
 age of ten. What is of far more importance, his moral 
 conduct was always regulated by pure and lofty princi- 
 ple. No instance is remembered in which he incurred 
 the slightest censure ; his teachers regarded him as one 
 of those — not constituting, by any means, the greater 
 proportion of the young — who understand the purpose 
 of education, and know how to estimate its value. He 
 was, however, modest, distrustful of his own powers, and, 
 though studious and attentive, slow to believe that he 
 
MEMOIR. Xlll 
 
 was able to excel. This was one of his marked traits 
 through life ; he always underrated his own powers, 
 never imagining that he could make any strong impres- 
 sion by the force of talent, or that he could accomplish 
 any thing except by earnest industry. 
 
 In the autumn of 1813, he was admitted into Harvard 
 University as a member of the Sophomore class, the 
 same general remarks which have been made in regard 
 to his earlier conduct and proficiency are no less appli- 
 cable to them in his new position. He did not aim to 
 attain the highest excellence in the usual course of col- 
 lege studies ; — his diffidence would not have permitted 
 him to consider it within his reach ; — but his rank as a 
 scholar was always respectable, and in the correctness of 
 his moral conduct he was excelled by none. There 
 was always an atmosphere of purity about him which 
 the contagious influence of evil could not penetrate. 
 Nor was he by any means inactive or self-indulgent. 
 He availed himself of the opportunities for general read- 
 ing which the college library afforded with equal ardor 
 and discrimination, and he thus acquired a mass of in- 
 formation which surprised those who knew him best, and 
 was turned to good account in after life. His memory, 
 exact and tenacious, made all that he read his own. In 
 the later portion of life, when such reading grew dis- 
 tasteful to him, he drew upon the stores of information 
 which he had thus acquired, exhibiting a fulness and ac- 
 curacy of knowledge which are not commonly retained 
 after an interval of nearly thirty years. His example, 
 as respects this miscellaneous reading, is not to be im- 
 plicitly recommended. It required a stern intellectual 
 discipline afterwards to change the somewhat discursive 
 b* 
 
XIV MEMOIR. 
 
 habits of mind which he had thus insensibly acquired, — 
 an effort rarely made by those in whose minds, as in his, 
 imagination is more powerful than reason. His man- 
 ners were reserved, as his disposition was retiring, so 
 that there were not many of his fellow-students with 
 whom he was on terms of intimacy ; but he enjoyed the 
 warm regard of a few, and the esteem of all. It was 
 impossible for him to offend by vanity or undue preten- 
 sion ; his estimate of himself was always far lower than 
 his friends, or even those who knew him slightly, would 
 have made. There were no incidents in his college life 
 particularly worthy of remembrance ; bu.t it was evi- 
 dently with him a season of improvement, the fruits of 
 which were manifested in his after life. The part as- 
 signed him at the annual Commencement, in the year 
 1816, when he received his first degree, was an English 
 poem ; in which he evinced a degree of taste and talent 
 quite equal to the expectations of his friends. 
 
 Nothing has been thus far said in particular reference 
 to his religious character, because, on such a subject, the 
 language of vague eulogy is of small account. From a 
 very early period, it was the expectation of his friends 
 that his life was to be devoted to the Christian ministry, 
 because they felt that his own feeling would incline in 
 that direction, and because he was regarded as singular- 
 ly fitted for that office by those who knew him best. 
 At this early period, there was a purity and daily beauty 
 in his life, and a freedom from the faults that easily 
 beset that age, which gave decisive evidence of the 
 religious principle within. But the age at which he 
 left the University appeared too early for the profitable 
 commencement of his professional studies, and in con- 
 
MEMOIR. XV 
 
 formity with the advice of his friend, Dr. Abbot, he be- 
 came an assistant instructor in the academy at Exeter. 
 There he enjoyed the paternal kindness of that man of the 
 beatitudes, and the society of his family and early friends ; 
 such society as no one could regard with indifference, 
 and which left upon him an impression which time could 
 not extinguish in his heart. His native place was al- 
 ways dear to him ; he loved to revisit it. He saw it 
 for the last time late in life, when he was himself heavily 
 laden with affliction, and his relations, and many of his 
 earlier friends, owing to the changes of life and the 
 change of death, were no longer there. He thus alludes 
 to the visit in his diary : — " What a change ! To go 
 back, no longer young'either in years or in heart, — to 
 see a generation almost entirely new risen up in the place 
 of their fathers, and only a few ruins just ready to fall 
 remaining to remind us of the past ! " 
 
 Mr. Peabody remained in this position for a year, 
 fulfilling its duties acceptably to others and with profit to 
 himself. His gentle firmness gave him a strong influ- 
 ence over the minds and hearts of his pupils, and he 
 found the occupation eminently beneficial in giving him 
 habits of accuracy in acquiring and imparting knowl- 
 edge. At the expiration of this term he went to Cam- 
 bridge, to pursue his theological studies under Dr. 
 Ware, the Hollis Professor of Divinity ; and, after 
 passing through the usual course for three years, he 
 began his labors as a preacher in the year 1819, when 
 he had just reached the age of twenty. What impres- 
 sion was made by his character at this period, as well 
 as by his earliest efforts in the pulpit, may be seen by 
 an extract from a letter written by Hon. Daniel A. 
 
XVI MEMOIR. 
 
 White of Salem, who then became acquainted with 
 him for the first time, and was ever afterwards his 
 friend. That gentleman had relatives in Springfield, 
 who were connected with a religious society which had 
 been recently formed in that place, under circumstances 
 of which an account will presently be given. They 
 were at this time about to select some person as their 
 minister, and Mr. Peabody had already been engaged to 
 preach to them. We give the letter as an evidence of 
 the opinion formed of him by one whose discernment 
 none will question, and whose judgment will be felt by 
 all to be entitled to respect. It is addressed to a friend 
 in Springfield. 
 
 January, 1820. — " Mr. Peabody, the young preach- 
 er, is in Exeter, and I understand that he and his friends 
 anticipate with pleasure his visit to Springfield. He 
 
 has made us a visit, of which has informed you. 
 
 We were greatly pleased with him. He appears to be 
 just the right sort of man for you, and for any good, 
 candid, enlightened people, who know how to appreciate 
 and cherish modest worth. He has very respectable 
 talents and attainments for his age, and these will con- 
 tinually be growing and ripening with advancing years. 
 His purity of mind and character, and his sincere piety, 
 united with the most benevolent social affections, and del- 
 icate feelings, will render him dear to those who have a 
 refined taste, as well as sound principles in morality and 
 religion. You may think me too slightly acquainted with 
 Mr. Peabody to speak of him so positively, and I con- 
 fess that my opportunity for acquaintance with him is far 
 less than I could wish. But he makes, at once, a strong 
 impression in his favor, — an impression that every thing 
 
MEMOIR. XV11 
 
 essential in his character is as it should be, — and he 
 inspires confidence that he will never disappoint any 
 reasonable expectations. He is too young to take the 
 burdens of a parochial charge, unless those burdens be 
 lightened by the kindness of the people. I cannot but 
 hope that he will suit you, and after some time become 
 your minister, and if so, I feel sure that you will find 
 in him a sincere and affectionate* friend." 
 
 An equally favorable impression appears to have been 
 made upon the members of the society in Springfield. 
 They very soon came to the unanimous determination to 
 invite him to become their minister. The invitation was 
 accepted, and he was ordained on the 12th day of 
 October, 1820 ; thus beginning a relation which contin- 
 ued for the space of nearly twenty-seven years, with 
 entire harmony, until it was broken by his death. All 
 the essential facts relative to the situation of the society 
 at this time, and to his own position, are distinctly stated 
 in a Familiar Address, which he delivered at a social 
 meeting of his parishioners, on the 16th of March, 1S.43. 
 The following passage is an extract : — 
 
 " It was on this season of the year 1820, that I first 
 came to Springfield ; it was in those days when it requir- 
 ed two days' travelling to reach this town from Boston. 
 Winter though it was, I well remember the delight with 
 which I first looked upon this queen of valleys from the 
 brow of the neighbouring hill ; even then, in its snowy 
 vesture, it seemed to me the most beautiful that I ever 
 saw. Many circumstances combined to produce in me 
 some desolate feelings. I was very young, wanting 
 some months of the age of twenty-one ; I was without 
 experience in my own profession, having preached but a 
 
XV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 few Sabbaths ; I was wholly unacquainted with the in- 
 habitants of the village, not having seen more than one 
 or two of them before. I knew, also, that this was a 
 frontier station, which would require a degree of judg- 
 ment and power which I was far from possessing. But 
 I was met with a friendly welcome, which at once re- 
 moved those feelings, and I soon found that it was the 
 place for me where to live, and possibly to die. Here I 
 have lived for many years, and here I hope to die. It 
 makes me sad to think how many of those warm hands 
 which were then extended to me are now in the dust 
 of the grave. 
 
 " The church to which I was invited had been formed 
 in the preceding year. Some members of the First 
 Church had become dissatisfied, for the alleged reason, 
 that the course of exchanges was less liberal than in for- 
 mer years. This, with kindred reasons of discontent, had 
 produced an alienation which it seemed impossible to 
 heal. It was therefore thought advisable, by the dis- 
 satisfied party, to form a society of their own. This was 
 accordingly done. A generous benefactor,* whose name 
 rises up at once to the minds of all before me, presented 
 them with a church, and thus insured success to the 
 movement ; his example was worthily followed by his 
 associates in providing for the support of worship in it, 
 complying with the only condition on which his noble 
 gift was made. Thus encouraged in the beginning of 
 their enterprise, they went on with confidence. In 
 number they were few ; but they were strong in char- 
 acter, strong in purpose, and stronger yet in the con- 
 viction that their cause was just. 
 
 * Jonathan Dwight, Esq. 
 
MEMOIR. XIX 
 
 " The controversy which was raging elsewhere had 
 not then reached this town. The separation was owing, 
 if I am rightly informed, to causes and questions not 
 connected with the Unitarian faith, which was then 
 spreading in the eastern part of the State. The se- 
 ceders generally held to Arminian or old-fashioned 
 Calvinistic opinions, as they were then called, meaning 
 opinions from which nearly all 'but the name of Calvin- 
 ism had died away. Our church was consecrated in 
 1819, by some of the neighbouring clergy, and it is not 
 on record that any inquisition was made respecting the 
 sentiments of its members. Some of those clergymen 
 also exchanged with me when I was preaching as a can- 
 didate to this people. The person who officiated as a 
 candidate before me was a professed Calvinist, and his 
 preaching was very acceptable to some of the society. 
 The preacher who was employed to supply the desk 
 was an Orthodox divine from a neighbouring State, 
 who at the time retained, also, his former opinions. 
 I refer to these facts, not as of much interest in 
 themselves, but as parts of our history unknown, prob- 
 ably, to some of those who have risen up to take 
 the places of the men by whom the foundations of 
 the society were laid. 
 
 " As I had received my education at Cambridge, it 
 was inferred that I held the sentiments which prevailed 
 ther% and thus the Unitarian question was at once open- 
 ed, and a spirit of inquiry excited. Many began to ex- 
 amine their former sentiments, and to compare them 
 with the word of God. Of this number was Mr. Hun- 
 tington, who was then supplying the desk, and Dr. How- 
 ard, whose name will always be spoken with reverence 
 
XX MEMOIR. 
 
 here. Though they had often preached the doctrine of 
 the Trinity, and had no doubts of its truth, they could 
 not reconcile it to their conscience to dismiss the sub- 
 ject without inquiry. They did inquire, first examining 
 our Saviour's testimony concerning himself, and then 
 searching for all the light which inspiration gives ; and 
 the consequence was a conviction, on their part, that the 
 doctrine was not sustained by the word of God. Others 
 went through the same investigation, and came to the 
 same result. As the ecclesiastical bodies felt bound to 
 censure those who after the way which they called heresy 
 worshipped the God of their fathers, their claim to 
 power was asserted and resisted with equal zeal. The 
 alienation spread fast and far ; breaking the ties which 
 bind men to each other, separating those whom God 
 and nature had united, giving to religious sects the spirit 
 of political factions, and making every church a for- 
 tress, always armed for war with the hostile party. Such 
 were the times in which my ministry began : it is suffi- 
 cient to say of them, that all who lived through them 
 would pray that they might never see their like again. 
 But it gives me pleasure to say that the pastor of the 
 First Church* has been uniformly kind and friendly tow- 
 ards me, from the beginning to the present day ; and 
 from his society I have received many expressions of 
 kindness and respect, and none whatever of ill-will." 
 In another portion of the same Address, he explains 
 the course which his sense of duty led him to pursue in 
 the beginning of his ministry. He had never any dis- 
 position to engage in theological or any other contro- 
 
 * The Rev. Samuel Osgood, D. D. 
 
MEMOIR. XXI 
 
 versy. No man ever studied more the things that make 
 for peace ; he would have been content to be called 
 pusillanimous, but he could not be content to incur the 
 charge, with a consciousness of its justice, of having ex- 
 cited or encouraged any vindictive or unchristian pas- 
 sions. His course in this respect was approved by the 
 calm judgment of his maturer years ; and its wisdom 
 was afterwards made apparent in the kind feeling which 
 has always marked the relations subsisting between his 
 society and other Christians around them. It was but a 
 few years after his settlement, that a highly respected 
 member of the society from which his own had sep- 
 arated declared, that his coming had been a real and 
 great blessing to the place. 
 
 " As soon as I took charge of the pulpit, a question 
 rose up before me. Should I consider it my duty to 
 explain and extend the Liberal opinions, or should I 
 devote myself to the personal improvement of the mem- 
 bers of my society, trusting that the truth with respect 
 to doctrines would make its own way in the public mind ? 
 In pursuing the former course, I should have struck the 
 key-note of the general feeling ; zeal of this kind ex- 
 cites a ready sympathy, and the want of it is regarded 
 as tameness. Such a course would have added more to 
 our numbers than any other, and many plausible reasons 
 might have been given to show that it was the right one. 
 It would have been easier, also, for myself. I remem- 
 ber being told by a distinguished physician, that he was 
 seldom consulted by controversial preachers ; their ser- 
 mons were written without any of that labor of mind 
 which wears students down. But I could not persuade 
 myself that this was the way of duty. I knew that as 
 c 
 
XX11 MEMOIR. 
 
 fast and as far as party passions are excited, devotion 
 and charity are apt to forsake the breast ; I was well 
 aware that many are made Unitarians, Calvinists, Bap- 
 tists, and sectarians of every name, without being made 
 Christians by the same conversion. ' I therefore deter- 
 mined,' if it is not presumption in me to use the words, 
 ' I therefore determined to know nothing among you 
 save Jesus Christ, and him crucified.' Since men 
 were sent into the world, not to put on the livery of a 
 party, but to lay the foundations of character in prepara- 
 tion for immortal life, I would always spend the best of 
 my strength to impress this solemn and .indispensable 
 duty on all whom my voice could reach.* 
 
 " In looking back upon this determination at the dis- 
 tance of more than twenty years, I see in it nothing to 
 regret ; but I do see in it a strong reason for gratitude to 
 the society which, in such times of excitement, permitted 
 me to pursue a course so unpopular, obscure, and unlike- 
 ly to add to their numbers. I have been grateful to them 
 for many things, but most of all for this. It is not every 
 society which would have consented to it, though per- 
 haps, in these peaceful times, the present generation can- 
 not understand how great a sacrifice of feeling was ne- 
 cessary to receive the fire of other sects without return- 
 ing it, to keep the white flag flying in the midst of the 
 war, and to maintain that moderation which requires 
 strength of character and principle, but which is treated 
 
 * In a letter to a friend in Salem, dated March 6th, 1820, we find 
 the following sentiment : — "I have seen no hostility whatever tow- 
 ard the other society, and I am sure that I shall not attempt to ex- 
 cite it. I hope they will never contend, except in showing which 
 opinions have the best influence upon the character." 
 
MEMOIR. XX111 
 
 by partisans with supreme disdain. But whatever the 
 sacrifice may have been at the time, I am persuaded that 
 no one repents it now. They have lived to see that 
 ' he who goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, 
 shall doubtless return rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with 
 him.'" 
 
 It is not easy for one who knows Springfield only as 
 it is now, to imagine how completely insulated was the 
 situation of a minister of the Liberal faith five-and- 
 twenty years ago. Mr. Peabody found all the support 
 and encouragement he could ask in the kindness of his 
 parishioners, and in particular from the venerable Dr. 
 Howard, once the minister of the First Society, whose 
 friendly counsels were always wise and useful ; a man 
 who, by his genuine and unaffected sincerity, and fervent 
 piety, combined with intellectual powers of no common 
 order, commanded the regard and reverence of all. 
 But his labors were unremitted and severe. Exchanges 
 with his brethren of other persuasions, he had none ; 
 very rarely any with those of his own. He has been 
 heard to say, that there was a period of eighteen months 
 during which he preached without an exchange or any 
 relief whatever. His own account of some of the diffi- 
 culties under which he labored is given in the Address 
 from which large extracts have been already made, and 
 which may be regarded as an autobiography of this 
 portion of his life. 
 
 " I was younger, and less experienced than most 
 clergymen when they are settled ; not acquainted with 
 navigation till far at sea. Others have those of their 
 own profession near them to whom they can look for 
 sympathy and counsel in their trials ; it was not so with 
 
XXIV MEMOIR. 
 
 me. I had but one such friend,* and, wise and excellent 
 as he was, the disparity of age, and social changes that 
 had taken place since he left the profession, rendered it 
 difficult for him sometimes to understand my feelings. 
 Others have those near them with whom they can ex- 
 change labors on the Sabbath ; but, as you well know, 
 there were none who would afford me that relief. Know- 
 ing that a preacher who does not keep his mind in con- 
 stant action and improvement soon loses his influence 
 with all intelligent people, I felt that my preparation for 
 the desk must be attended to, whatever else might be 
 left undone. I found that the field of ddty was larger 
 than I could fill. I was bewildered and oppressed, — 
 more oppressed than words can tell. I well remember 
 how, on returning after an absence, my heart would die 
 within me as I came within the sound of the evening 
 bell ; it reminded me of claims that I could not answer, 
 and wants that were not supplied. Again and again I 
 determined to cumber the ground no longer, though I 
 felt that in leaving you I should be going from my cho- 
 sen home. I know not how it was that I persevered ; 
 having obtained help of God, T continue to this day, 
 certainly to my happiness, however it may have been 
 for you." 
 
 He did not spare his labors ; and it was not long be- 
 fore they began seriously to affect his health. In the 
 summer of 1821, his eyesight was so much impaired 
 that serious apprehensions were entertained of the ne- 
 cessity of his retiring from the ministry. But in the fol- 
 lowing year, the prospect grew even darker. For sev- 
 eral months he was in a state of extreme debility, which 
 
 *Rev. Dr. Howard. 
 
MEMOIR. XXV 
 
 compelled him wholly to desist from every kind of labor. 
 Late in the autumn, however, he was so far restored as 
 to be able to resume his duties. But during the whole 
 period of his ministry, he never regained the free use of 
 his eyes, and probably never knew what it was to enjoy 
 the feeling of entire health. It was his usual practice to 
 write two discourses in each week, and to these was 
 commonly added a weekly lecture for the illustration of 
 the Scriptures. From the accounts given us by those 
 who listened to him in the earlier period of his ministry, 
 there can be no doubt that his preaching was then touch- 
 ing and impressive. He had no leisure for the prepara- 
 tion of very elaborate discourses, and had no taste for 
 controversial divinity whatever. His aim was to en- 
 kindle the spiritual life in the hearts of those who heard 
 him ; and with this end in view, he dwelt but little on 
 disputed doctrines, and cared little for the peculiarities 
 of sects. Love to God and man, — the attractive di- 
 vinity of holiness as manifested in the character of Je- 
 sus Christ, — the qualities and graces by which man is 
 brought into resemblance to the Saviour and to God, — 
 these were the points on which he dwelt with the great- 
 est earnestness and satisfaction. He was deeply solici- 
 tous to cherish in himself, and to inculcate upon others, 
 that unfailing charity and kindness without which Chris- 
 tianity is but a light-house tower in which no flame is 
 kindled. He was never inclined to ascertain and point 
 out what was wrong in other sects, so much as the par- 
 ticulars in which they might be imitated, and was ever 
 ready to express his love and admiration of the pure 
 and eminent, who have given lustre to them all. All 
 those, of all persuasions, who loved the Lord Jesus in 
 
XXVI MEMOIR. 
 
 sincerity, were to him as brethren. This spirit of love 
 was the ruling principle of his life ; and probably no 
 hearer of his was ever induced by his persuasion or ex- 
 ample to indulge in a spirit censorious or harshly critical 
 towards any other human being. 
 
 From this period until the close of his ministry, he 
 was quietly but diligently employed in the discharge of 
 his duty. The course of his life was varied by few inci- 
 dents which the public would be interested to know ; and 
 without dwelling any further upon these than may be ne- 
 cessary for the illustration of his history, I shall endeav- 
 our to draw from portions of his correspondence, as well 
 as from information derived from other sources, a faith- 
 ful transcript of his mind and heart. It has already 
 been said, that from the outset there was an evident pro- 
 -gress and change in both. As he advanced in life, he 
 withdrew his attention more and more from the subjects 
 of ordinary interest and contemplation, to concentrate it 
 upon the greatest which can engage the thoughts of an 
 immortal mind. 
 
 Some of his leisure hours were given to poetry. He 
 never, however, attached much consequence to his ef- 
 forts in this department, and, though his productions 
 were quite numerous and attracted much attention, never 
 thought it worth his while to collect and preserve them. 
 There was one of these which some yet remember, 
 though copies of it are no longer to be found. This 
 was a Poetical Catechism for the use of the young, 
 which was written and published in the year 1823. He 
 was induced to write it by a persuasion that an enu- 
 meration in verse of the principal duties of religion would 
 be studied by children with more pleasure, and remem- 
 
MEMOIR. XXV11 
 
 bered longer, than the common catechisms in prose ; 
 and the experiment succeeded according to his wishes. 
 Several pieces were subjoined to this catechism, which 
 were designed to connect whatever is beautiful in nature 
 with religious feelings in the minds of the young. Many 
 of these have been transferred to other publications, and 
 may still be found in collections of sacred poetry. 
 Among them, that which begins with the words, " Be- 
 hold the western evening light," is generally known, and 
 seldom fails to find an answering chord in the reader's 
 heart. At the request of a relative who was engaged 
 in the publication of a newspaper in his native place, 
 he contributed for a year or two freely to its columns, 
 and wrote most of the pieces by which his poetical 
 talent became known. He also wrote occasionally for 
 the annuals, and in compliance with the request of friends, 
 whom he was unwilling to refuse ; but his interest in the 
 employment passed away with his youth, and though he 
 never wholly ceased to write, he did it only when some 
 occasion required a hymn or other production more ap- 
 propriate than any that could be readily selected. 
 
 He doubtless formed too low an estimate of his poeti- 
 cal writings. The highest exhibition of talent is not often 
 found in brief effusions, like the genii in the little box. 
 His were invariably marked by uncommon grace and 
 beauty of versification, and by deep, true, and elevated 
 feeling ; and it is hardly just to infer that loftier qualities 
 of poetry have no existence, because they are not found 
 where they are not wanted. 
 
 On the eighth of September, 1824, Mr. Peabody mar- 
 ried Miss Elizabeth Amelia White, daughter of Moses 
 White, Esq., of Lancaster, New Hampshire, a lady of 
 
XXV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 uncommon loveliness of person and of character. His 
 eldest child, Fanny, was born in the following year. 
 The history of both was afterwards mournfully blended 
 with his own. No man could be more blest than he 
 was in all that constitutes a home. In the progress of 
 this narrative, it will become essential to dwell somewhat 
 at large upon the admirable qualities that gave his wife 
 such a hold upon his heart, and endeared her to all who 
 knew her. 
 
 He was now in a position precisely suited to his taste 
 and feeling ; — connected with a religious society, to 
 whose welfare and improvement he devoted himself with 
 his whole heart, and who repaid his care by a respect 
 and love which were never impaired during the whole 
 period of their connection, and went on increasing to the 
 -last. His mind was always active ; and he found a re- 
 lief from his severer toil in the contemplation and study 
 of nature, — a study which, inspiring as it is, is culti- 
 vated only by a few. There was no department of nat- 
 ural science in which he was not interested ; there was 
 none with which he was not in some degree familiar ; 
 but he devoted his leisure principally to those branches 
 which circumstances made it most easy for him to pur- 
 sue. His knowledge of plants and of forest-trees was 
 very accurate and extensive ; and he occasionally de- 
 livered lectures upon them, and other branches of natu- 
 ral history, which were heard with interest and pleasure. 
 It was always delightful to him to inspire a taste for 
 these pursuits in the minds of the young, because he 
 believed it to be intimately connected with religious 
 feeling. In one of these lectures, he says : — 
 
 " Perhaps you may remember the child mentioned by 
 
MEMOIR. XXIX 
 
 Wilson, who came in with a radiant countenance to 
 his mother, bringing a handful of wild-flowers, saying, 
 ' O, what beautful flowers ! the woods are full of 
 them, — red, — orange, — blue, — 'most every color ! 
 I can gather a whole parcel of them, much handsomer 
 than these, all growing in our own woods ! Shall I, 
 mother ? Shall I go and bring more ? ' The naturalist said 
 that the feeling of the child precisely resembled his own. 
 Would it not be easy to cherish that fine enthusiasm of 
 youth till it becomes an intellectual desire of knowl- 
 edge ? I think it would. We know how easily the eye 
 glides over a sweet evening prospect to the clear heaven 
 beyond ; so it passes of itself, and without effort, from 
 the contemplation of nature, up to nature's God." 
 
 For several years he occupied a detached building as 
 a study, situated in his garden. In this retired spot, he 
 had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the 
 varieties of birds, and of studying their habits. This 
 persecuted race have abundant sagacity to distinguish 
 the idle destroyers from whom it is well that they can 
 fly from those who are disposed to be their friends. 
 With these they are glad to be familiar, as if to show 
 that they deserve more attention and better treatment 
 than they have ever yet been able to secure. Mr. Pea- 
 body's researches on this subject were curious and 
 minute ; more so than is usually to be expected from one 
 whose mind is earnestly employed upon more important 
 things. But he endeavoured to bring all his occupations 
 into harmony with the great object to which his life was 
 devoted, and he believed that this pursuit would not be 
 without its value, if it should enable him to cultivate a 
 taste for it in the children of his charge, before they 
 
XXX MEMOIR. 
 
 learn from the example of their elders to become ac- 
 quainted with birds only for the purpose of tormenting 
 or destroying them. There is extant among his papers 
 a series of lectures, delivered before the Sabbath school 
 of his society, in which the subject of plants and birds 
 is treated in a manner that could not fail to engage the 
 attention of the young. These were illustrated by 
 drawings, made and colored by his own hand, with an 
 accuracy and beauty which would have done no discredit 
 to the skill of an accomplished artist. Indeed, in youth 
 he exhibited a decided taste for drawing, and though 
 he subsequently ceased to cultivate it, practised the art 
 occasionally for the benefit of his friends, or for some 
 purpose of his own. There is reason to believe, that 
 the instructions to which I have alluded were not with- 
 out a lasting and beneficent effect upon the minds of 
 those who received them. 
 
 What requires further to be said concerning the in- 
 terest which he took in natural history may as well 
 be stated here. About the year 1830, the magnificent 
 publications of Mr. Audubon began to draw the atten- 
 tion of many to the science of ornithology, which his 
 enthusiasm and unwearied industry have done so much 
 to advance. One of his volumes was made by Mr. 
 Peabody the subject of an article in the North Ameri- 
 can Review ; and this was the beginning of an acquaint- 
 ance between them, which continued through his life. 
 Several other articles upon subjects connected with 
 natural history, about the same period, may be remem- 
 bered by some of the readers of that journal. Most of 
 them, if not all, were written by Mr. Peabody, and 
 were distinguished by a style well calculated to render 
 
MEMOIR. XXXi 
 
 them attractive, animated, clear, and vigorous, and en- 
 livened by a delicate and playful humor. He was also 
 the author of a Life of Alexander Wilson, for the Amer- 
 ican Biography published by Mr. Sparks, in which the 
 touching history of that ill-fated pioneer is feelingly and 
 beautifully told. 
 
 In 1837, a survey of the State of Massachusetts, 
 having reference to several branches of science, was 
 ordered by the Legislature ; and the Governor, Edward 
 Everett, was authorized to appoint suitable persons to 
 execute the task. He selected Mr. Peabody to pre- 
 pare a Report upon the birds of the Commonwealth. 
 This Report was completed and published in the year 
 1S39 ; and it is believed to have answered the end 
 which the Legislature had in view. In addition to his 
 own researches, he had the liberal aid of other gentle- 
 men, who have presented similar ones with great ardor 
 and success. His descriptions of the birds and their 
 habits are given with a lifelike truth and animation, not 
 less engaging to the general than to the scientific reader.' 
 It answered, also, a higher and a better than a merely 
 scientific end. It pleaded the cause of humanity, which 
 is so little regarded as respects inferior animals, that the 
 suggestion of it seems to many to be little better than 
 mere affectation. It would be well if the views which 
 he presented on the subject of destroying birds were 
 more generally entertained, both by those who indulge 
 in a cruel amusement to wile away an idle hour, and by 
 farmers, who secure themselves from a small evil at the 
 expense of one incomparably greater, by exterminating 
 birds, against whose depredations they can protect them- 
 selves, for the benefit of insects, whose ravages bid de- 
 
XXX11 MEMOIR. 
 
 fiance to all that man's art and power can do. He 
 showed that the farmer is now severely suffering in con- 
 sequence of this ignorance and folly, which place diffi- 
 culties in the way of cultivation that no skill or industry 
 can overcome. It is earnestly to be desired that what 
 he and other friends of humanity have written on this 
 subject may have some effect upon the feelings and 
 habits which have everywhere prevailed. 
 
 It was said by Dr. Gannett, in his discourse at the 
 funeral of Mr. Peabody, that "his intellectual qualities 
 particularly fitted him to act upon the public through 
 that great channel of influence to which recent times 
 have given a depth and breadth unknown before our 
 day, — the periodical press. The clearness and just- 
 ness of his conceptions, the extent and variety of his 
 knowledge, the ease and elegance of his style, and the 
 calm, sweet dignity of his temper, were admirably suited 
 to the higher functions of the essayist and the reviewer." 
 His first article in the North American Review, on 
 " The Decline of Poetry," was written in 1826. From 
 this time to 1830, he contributed occasionally to the 
 pages of that journal and of the Christian Examiner. 
 Then the North American Review passed into the hands 
 of Mr. Alexander H. Everett, his brother-in-law, in 
 compliance with whose desire he wrote many articles 
 during that and the - five or six following years. A few 
 of his productions may be found in " The Token," 
 which was annually published during a considerable pe- 
 riod in Boston ; among these, " The Methodist Story " 
 may be remembered by some of its readers. By these 
 and other productions, he became generally known as a 
 writer beyond the limits of his profession. It is unne- 
 
MEMOIR. XXX111 
 
 cessary to enter here into an examination of his merits in 
 this department. Those who are interested will proba- 
 bly be enabled to form their own judgment from the por- 
 tion of his miscellaneous writings which it is the purpose 
 of his friends to publish. It is proper to observe, that he 
 was not induced to engage in this species of writing by 
 any love of the occupation. He did it partly in com- 
 pliance with the request of friends who were engag- 
 ed in the publication of journals and were anxious to 
 procure his aid, and partly in order to add something 
 lo a salary, which, though large as any given to ministers 
 in that neighbourhood, was exhausted by a liberal hospi- 
 tality and by the demands of an increasing family. In 
 the year 1834, he thus writes to a friend : — 
 
 " I fear that, since the enlargement of my family, my 
 salary will turn out like our old friend, the General's, well- 
 saved uniform, when he undertook to clothe himself in 
 armour at the last war. The uniform had not diminish- 
 ed, but the General had extended, — so that, after all his 
 attempts to be genteel, it would not meet round him 
 by six or eight inches. What is written under the in- 
 spiration of ambition to turn a penny will not be of the 
 first order. They say, however, that easy writing makes 
 hard reading. I am sure that mine is not easy writing, 
 so that it may answer ; — and yet I cannot help saying, 
 with Macbeth, when I have finished an article, ' I am 
 afraid to think on what I have done, — look on 't again 
 I dare not.' By the way, how little poetry there is 
 which would be taken for verse if the lines were written 
 tandem, as above." 
 
 In Mr. Peabody's miscellaneous writings he occasion- 
 ally exhibited a liveliness and humor which always mark- 
 ed 
 
XXXIV MEMOIR. 
 
 ed his familiar conversation, and were often found in his 
 correspondence. These traits are so characteristic, that 
 we give a few extracts from his familiar letters, which 
 may tend to illustrate them. 
 
 " I must not forget to tell you that we were regaled 
 with a concert, last Monday evening, given by some 
 performers from Boston. The music was very well, 
 such as I have listened to with exemplary patience at 
 Boylston Hall when I tried to acquire the taste which 
 Nature denied me by attending oratorios ; but these per- 
 formances are always spoiled for me by the screaming 
 of the fiddle, which, for aught I know, may be a great 
 luxury to the amateurs, but is a great trial to me in 
 sacred music. Those who know better say that the 
 music was very good ; but I sometimes thought, like 
 the clown in Shakspeare, that, if they had any of that 
 sort of melody which could not be heard, it would be 
 quite as acceptable. Speaking of Shakspeare, I do not 
 envy you the privilege of seeing Lear performed. No 
 actor's power can do justice to my imagination of the 
 character, and, if I mistake not, you see it as altered 
 by Dryden or Cibber, so that the end of the play is as 
 comfortable and happy as that of a modern love affair. 
 Cordelia is brought to life by some humane-society 
 process, and the old gentleman comes to the throne, 
 where he reigns to a good old age. This result is un- 
 doubtedly gratifying to a benevolent mind, and I believe 
 according to the truth of history, — that is, Geoffrey of 
 Monmouth. I remember seeing Romeo and Juliet per- 
 formed, when young, so improved that he and Juliet 
 recovered and had a serious talk together ; though not 
 called to mourn for them, I was deeply affected at the 
 tragic fate of the play." 
 
MEMOIR. XXXV 
 
 Sept. 2, 1834. — " Last week I thought I should 
 have been obliged to follow you to the East. The 
 change of weather had an unaccountable effect upon me, 
 and put me so much out of sorts that I feared I should 
 have that pretext of ill-health for a journey which Dr. 
 P. said that he waited for in vain. But the warmer 
 weather that has followed indefinitely postponed that 
 prospect, and my physician noto thinks that he can 
 patch me up so as to make me last a while longer. I 
 was oddly affected for a day or two. Circulation seem- 
 ed as much suspended in my system as in the money- 
 market, and I could not make out to walk half a mile 
 without fainting away. I made out, however, to have a 
 service on the Sabbath, — not very edifying, but better 
 than shutting up the house. You speak about my ser- 
 mon on the Catholics. I preached it on the last Sab- 
 bath, and it seemed to be listened to with interest. 
 Yesterday I had an application from Mr. Sterns, in be- 
 half of others, to print it ; but this I declined, thinking 
 that I had printed enough in my day, and being well 
 aware that the author is the last of the human race who 
 comes to such a conclusion. I should be glad to have 
 some facts which were stated in it generally known ; but 
 it is a question in my mind whether publishing, as it is 
 called, in the form of a sermon would be most likely to 
 make them public or to conceal them." 
 
 Dec. 17, 1834. — "I suppose E. keeps you advised 
 of all that goes on here, — or rather does not go on ; 
 for a general palsy seems to have affected the social 
 system. We should be glad even to have phrenology 
 back again ; for we are fast hastening to that ideal state 
 in which the individual shall be every thing, and associa- 
 
XXXVI MEMOIR. 
 
 tions of every description be done away. We looked 
 to the lyceum for relief, but Dr. began an extem- 
 poraneous anatomical lecture last Wednesday, to be 
 continued, — how long was not stated'; but I fear he will 
 hold on till the house is as thin as one of his skeletons. 
 I confess, however, that I admired the man's courage ; 
 for I never dared to follow the ancient clerical practice 
 so far as to announce the after part of the sermon for 
 the after part of the day, having fears lest the after part 
 of the audience, meantime, should disperse past recall." 
 Oct. 1840. — "I am rather curious to see how far 
 the anti-Sabbath-and-clergy mania will extend. I see 
 
 that my old acquaintance, Mr. , is engaged in it ; 
 
 and if he is at all zealous, the movement must be on its 
 way down hill, since that is the only direction in which 
 he could charge with vigor and effect. I was a good 
 
 deal edified with 's explanation, that their desire 
 
 was to have the Sabbath more spiritually observed. In 
 answer, I should say, that to put a friend on trial for his 
 life is not the happiest way of clearing up his character ; 
 the danger may be, that it will throw a suspicion over 
 him in the minds of many, which, but for this ingenious 
 process of purgation, never would have existed. If they 
 have any doubts themselves, the best course they could 
 pursue would really be to keep the Sabbath, and see if 
 
 it might not do them some good. She quoted to a 
 
 remark of Mr. , that to oppose such investigations 
 
 implied an apprehension that the institution might not be 
 able to stand it. This reminded me of the time and 
 again when I have called my children away from my 
 neighbour's mill-pond, — they thinking my caution very 
 preposterous, no doubt ; but it was not from any alarm 
 
MEMOIR. XXXV11 
 
 with respect to the pond, but simply from the fear 
 lest they should fall in, — a view of the subject which 
 they could not be made to understand. Well, if it is 
 any comfort to them to employ their energies in this way, 
 I do not know why any one should object. They may 
 dig down to the foundation on which Christianity rests, 
 and satisfy themselves that their teeth and nails are inad- 
 equate to the operation of removing it, so as to clear it 
 away, or make it stand more to their minds. When they 
 learn to make the best of things as they are, the in- 
 struction will be worth what it costs them." 
 
 " By this time, I suppose you are comfortably estab- 
 lished in your new house When I made a sim- 
 ilar removal, I set against the increased distance from 
 town a clear view of the sky, which I think is better 
 than the finest landscape, and well worth a few added 
 steps every day for the sake of reaching it. In the sky, 
 you have perpetual variety, while the lower prospect is 
 always the same ; but they are both good in their way, 
 and I rejoice very much in having them united. I 
 think you have chosen the right season for removal. 
 We always feel more at home in a new habitation after 
 having had fires in it, nor do I think we ever get the 
 home feeling before. The storm that seems in prepara- 
 tion to-day looks very much like the vanguard of winter. 
 The real autumn is always pleasant to me. As has been 
 said, ' I love the Sabbath of the year ' ; but I rejoice 
 less in the Saturday afternoon ; though there are no ser- 
 mons to prepare, and Nature does her own preaching 
 more effectually than any human tongue. 
 
 "Our own household wheels keep in motion, and go 
 on smoothly, with the exception of those slight difficulties 
 d* 
 
XXXV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 which are found in every domestic concern. No rail- 
 roads have as yet been laid in domestic life ; and when 
 they are, the human engines will get off the track oftener 
 than the cars 's principal recreation is find- 
 ing fault with Amelia for her worldliness in always doing 
 for other people, when she ought to spend her time, like 
 a cat watching a rat-hole, in the care of her own 
 heart." 
 
 The farther he advanced in life, the more his taste and 
 feeling inclined him to devote himself exclusively to sub- 
 jects relating immediately to his profession. The only 
 one in which he engaged with enthusiasm was the study 
 of the Bible ; this he always strenuously urged upon his 
 hearers from the pulpit, and by his lectures, not so 
 much in the way of philological research, as to find 
 its spiritual meaning. His interest in these inquiries 
 went on increasing to the last hours of his life. 
 
 It was on the evening of the 16th of March, 1843, 
 that the meeting of the society took place before which 
 was delivered the Familiar Address from which extracts 
 have been given in the preceding pages. The members 
 of the society assembled in a social party, at the house 
 of their minister, bearing with them many evidences of 
 that liberality of which he had always a large experience, 
 and all animated by a spirit of kindness and good-will. 
 In his own words, " To be surrounded by so many kind 
 and faithful friends, to see a large society assembled in 
 harmony, to see my own house lighted up with joy and 
 gladness, is one of the greatest blessings which a God 
 of love could bestow." 
 
 In order to present a more vivid picture of this inter- 
 esting occasion, we give a letter written by one who was 
 present and entered deeply into its spirit. 
 
MEMOIR. XXXIX 
 
 "It was a gathering together of a whole congregation, 
 rich and poor, high and low, in expression of their love 
 and sympathy for a pastor who for twenty years has 
 been laboring with untiring zeal for their welfare for 
 time and eternity. Neither did the expression of good 
 feeling stop here. The whole people seemed as much 
 bound to each other as to their pastor. For once it 
 seemed to be a living reality, not*a barren doctrine, that 
 we are children of one Father, — bound together by one 
 sentiment of love and sympathy. Each one seemed 
 ready to grasp the other by the hand, and exclaim, 'It 
 is good to be here.' The whole day on Thursday was 
 one of great excitement throughout the parish. Though 
 it was considered best to have none at the house but the 
 ladies composing the Committee of Arrangements and 
 their aids, yet, after having busied ourselves in packing 
 and transporting our offerings, we all found it difficult 
 to employ our hands about any of the ordinary business 
 of life ; — our hearts would be at the parsonage, and 
 each one, I believe, felt anxious for the hour of as- 
 sembling to arrive. We were from the hours of five to 
 eight in gathering together. In the course of that 
 time, the house was literally filled with people. Supper- 
 tables were spread in the kitchen and dining-room, and 
 arranged in a tasteful and beautiful manner. The bed- 
 room had been converted into a library for Mr. Pea- 
 body ; this and the front parlour were filled, as were both 
 lower and upper entry and staircase. The eastern front 
 chamber was filled with beautiful and appropriate gifts 
 for the pastor, his wife, children, and domestics, to 
 each of which was appended the name of the donor or 
 the note which accompanied the gift. The room was 
 
xl MEMOIR. 
 
 crowded with articles which I shall not attempt to enu- 
 merate. Every thing useful and desirable that could be 
 thought of was collected, and the first idea on entering the 
 
 apartment was that you were at a fair The house 
 
 was throughout the day thronged with messengers bear- 
 ing their offerings, and Mr. and Mrs. Peabody were 
 overwhelmed, as you may suppose. You never saw any 
 being look so lovely and happy as Amelia did. Mr. 
 Peabody met each one with a cordial grasp of the hand, 
 but his heart seemed too full for words. At about half 
 past eight, copies of hymns such as I inclose for you 
 were circulated, in preparation for the religious services 
 of the occasion. 
 
 " The first hymn, written by Mr. Peabody, was sung 
 to the tune ' From Greenland's icy mountains.' 
 
 ' Bright eyes and cheerful voices 
 
 In the pastor's home to-night ! 
 The youthful heart rejoices, 
 
 The burdened one grows light; 
 For all with him are bending, 
 
 In sympathy of praise, 
 To God, whose love, descending, 
 
 Has crowned them all their days. 
 
 ' Yet when we thus assemble, 
 
 And all the past review, 
 The firmest well may tremble, 
 
 To think what death can do. 
 The loved ones of our number, 
 
 The holiest, and the best, 
 Are sunk in that calm slumber 
 
 That gives the weary rest. 
 
 'But sons, their sires succeeding, 
 Each vacant place shall fill ; 
 In all these changes reading 
 The lessons of His will 
 
MEMOIR. Xli 
 
 Who spreads his banner o'er us, 
 
 With waving folds of love, 
 And gilds the scene before us 
 
 With mercy from above. 
 
 • Now for that near communion 
 
 Which binds all hearts in one, — 
 For heaven's delightful union, 
 
 In this cold world begun, — 
 For that glad faith which raises 
 
 Our dead to life again. 
 Let the pastor breathe his praises, 
 
 And the people say, Amen ! ' 
 
 "Fanny played the piano ; several fine voices accom- 
 panied her, and as the piano was close to the door, the 
 time was given to those in the entry, and taken from 
 them by the rest. Throughout the house, the song of 
 praise arose. You know the inspiring effect of such a 
 union of voices ; — truly we felt that ' heaven's delight- 
 ful union ' had begun below. Next came Mr. Pea- 
 body's Address. He took his station upon a chair in 
 the front entry, next the front door, — and was heard 
 by those above stairs quite as well as by those below. 
 He is not yet well and strong ; and, after alluding to the 
 memory of those faithful friends who welcomed him 
 here, ' those warm hands that were then extended to him, 
 — now in the dust of the grave,' his feelings overpow- 
 ered him, and he was obliged to stop and have fresh 
 air and cold water before he could proceed. You can 
 imagine how touching from him would be a review of 
 his ministry here. Tears fell fast, I assure you. 
 
 "Next followed the second hymn, sung to the tune 
 
 of 'Dismission Hymn.' 
 
 ' Thou, whose mercy kind and tender 
 Blessed the morning of our day, 
 
Xlii MEMOIR. 
 
 Shining still with equal splendor 
 On the later hours of day ; — 
 
 ' Thou, who in the hour of trouble 
 Sendest angels from on high, 
 All our thoughtful joys to double, 
 All our anxious tears to dry ; — 
 
 ' Since thy never-failing kindness 
 Thus regards us from above, 
 Shall we live in selfish blindness, 
 All unworthy of thy love ? 
 
 ' May that blessing still attend us 
 
 Long as life's swift circle rolls ; 
 And in dark temptation lend us 
 
 That strong safeguard for our souls. 
 
 'Let the Heavenly Shepherd, keeping 
 Watch on Zion's holy towers, 
 Save us, while serenely sleeping, 
 Through this night's defenceless hours. 
 
 ' When life's short and hurried story 
 Ends in death's profounder rest, 
 Crown us with immortal glory 
 In the mansions of the blest.' 
 
 il A short and fervent prayer, with a benediction, 
 closed a service in which a whole people had united with 
 grateful, overflowing hearts. Of course, after this, all were 
 too much subdued for the gay tone of hilarity and con- 
 gratulation which had preceded these touching services. 
 We spake one with another, in softened tones, of all that 
 we had enjoyed, and soon after took leave of the pastor 
 and his family, and sought our own homes, there to re- 
 peat over and over again the story of our joys. 
 
 " I did not mention in the right place that Mr. Pea- 
 body invited all the children of the society to assemble 
 
memoir. xliii 
 
 there the next afternoon, at six o'clock, bringing with them 
 their parent's copy of the hymns. The children's festi- 
 val was a pleasant thing. There were 117 assembled, — 
 some of them accompanied by their parents. After 
 being fed, they all engaged an hour in sport, after which 
 they marched to the piano to be counted. The children 
 filled the room, each with the hymns in hand. They all 
 united in singing the first hymn. Mr. Peabody then 
 made them a short address. After alluding to all the 
 kindness he had received from their parents, he told 
 them that there was one favor they could show to him. 
 He then gave a beautiful and touching account of John 
 Abbot Emery,* and told them the favor he would ask 
 of them would be, so to conduct themselves in life, that, 
 when arrived at maturity, he might feel with regard to 
 each one of them as he did with regard to him, — proud 
 to be called his minister and friend. They then united 
 in singing the second hymn, after which a prayer and 
 benediction closed the service. The children soon took 
 their departure, well satisfied with their visit." 
 
 To every human eye, this might have appeared the 
 happiest period of Dr. Peabody's life. There was ev- 
 ery thing in his domestic relations to make him happy ; 
 his admirable wife exerted a deep religious influence 
 herself by the winning beauty of her own example, and 
 
 * Son of the late Robert Emery, Esq., of Springfield, and member 
 of the class of 1843 in Harvard University. He was a young man 
 of singular purity and promise, loved and honored by all who knew 
 him. He died at Exeter, N. H., after a short illness, in the early 
 part of bis Senior year, October, 1842. At the request of his class- 
 mates, Mr. Peabody delivered a Funeral Address, the week after his 
 death, in the College Chapel at Cambridge, which was published. 
 
Xliv MEMOIR. 
 
 thus powerfully aided that influence of his for good over 
 the hearts of others which it was his great ambition to 
 possess. They had been united for nearly twenty years 
 by a deep sympathy and affection, which were becoming 
 deeper and more tender as they went farther on in life. 
 His children were affectionate, and full of that promise 
 which is a priceless treasure to a parent's heart. He 
 enjoyed the cordial respect and good-will of all his 
 Christian brethren, of every name, and the devoted love 
 of those to whom he had ministered so long. Even his 
 spirit, not usually sanguine or very ardent in his hope, 
 was lifted up by the conviction that his labors had not 
 been in vain. There was a general and earnest interest 
 in religious things, which gave the assurance of a richer 
 harvest in the time to come. But his faith was yet to 
 be, severely tried, and to be made perfect through suf- 
 fering. It was decreed by Providence, that she who 
 had been the light of his existence was soon to be with- 
 drawn, and to go before him to the eternal world. 
 
 I have already spoken generally of the character and 
 influence of this excellent woman ; but a more extended 
 view of both will seem indispensable to all who knew 
 her, and may not be without some interest and value to 
 those who knew her not. It may seem to some to be 
 drawn by a too partial hand ; to her friends it will cer- 
 tainly appear inadequate and cold. She was one of 
 those who seem born to be loved, who win the regard 
 of strangers at the first interview, however transient, and 
 inspire an enthusiastic affection in those who are privi- 
 leged to be near her. In youth she was eminently lovely, 
 and the charm of expression was undimmed when the 
 bloom of youth was gone. Her manners were cordial, 
 
MEMOIR. Xlv 
 
 kind, and graceful. Her presence gave brightness alike 
 to the social meeting, the chamber of sickness, and the 
 retreat of poverty, because whatever she said was felt 
 to be the beautiful expression of a generous and sym- 
 pathizing heart. There was no disguise about it, — all 
 was perfectly frank, open, and sincere. She never 
 thought of herself when there was an opportunity of 
 doing any thing to promote the happiness of others ; 
 and all was done with a perfect self-forgetfulness, a 
 ready and unconscious sacrifice of her own wishes and 
 convenience to theirs, and a scrupulous and delicate 
 regard to their feelings, which no jealousy or suspicion 
 or embittered feeling could resist. There was no 
 scheme of rational benevolence into which she did not 
 enter, no errand of mercy which she was not ready to do. 
 All this was so free from the slightest taint of affectation, 
 that it may have seemed to many to be nothing but the 
 result of the impulses of a generous nature ; but those 
 who knew her intimately saw in it the fruit of self-disci- 
 pline, watchful and severe ; of a constant and most faith- 
 ful study of the Scriptures, with the determination to 
 make its precepts the unfailing rule of daily life ; of fer- 
 vent love and habitual imitation of her Saviour, and of 
 private communion with her God. It was thus that she 
 shed a pure and cheering light around her, winning hearts 
 to virtue and religion by the beauty of her holiness. 
 
 It ought to be added, that the graces of her mind 
 were in no respect inferior to the other portions of her 
 character. She had much power of reflection, and wrote 
 with facility and elegance. A little work of hers writ- 
 ten some years ago, for children, attracted much atten- 
 tion, and is not yet forgotten. But the powers of her 
 e 
 
Xlvi MEMOIR. 
 
 mind were applied, with singular fidelity and earnestness, 
 to the securing of her own improvement and the perform- 
 ance of her duty by the constant and intelligent study 
 of the Scriptures ; to become familiar with their spirit as 
 well as with the words ; to search into their whole mean- 
 ing, and to derive lessons from them for the conduct of 
 her life. Thus the views which she would sometimes 
 give of certain passages were always judicious, and not 
 unfrequently original ; and they were felt by those who 
 heard them to be the result of the most serious thought 
 and the most earnest inquiry. 
 
 I cannot but think that those who are ambitious of 
 such excellence will be gratified by obtaining a nearer 
 view of the manner in which hers was attained and 
 cherished. The desire to promote the welfare of others 
 was always uppermost in her mind ; and if any thing 
 in her example can be of aid or use to any, she would 
 not herself have desired that it should be withheld. 
 With this persuasion, I do not hesitate to set before the 
 reader certain portions of her private diary. 
 
 " From this time forward, may I be able to forget 
 the things that are behind, and press forward to the 
 prize of the mark of the high calling of God in Christ 
 Jesus our Lord. And to this end I propose these fol- 
 lowing rules to myself : — That when I first rise in the 
 morning, I will try to induce the spirit of grateful praise 
 and prayer toward my Heavenly Father, and as a help 
 to a truly devotional exercise of soul, I will try to enter 
 into the spirit of the Psalms. After breakfast, I will 
 try to concentrate my thoughts on the authority of God, 
 that I may feel more strongly my obligation to render 
 a filial obedience to his will, and devote myself in all 
 
MEMOIR. Xlvii 
 
 things to his purposes, and not my own. And to this 
 end I will read a portion of my Saviour's history, in 
 order to obtain an intimate perception of his success in 
 this obedience. 
 
 " To-day it has occurred to me, that, to enter into the 
 spirit of the Psalms, the most effectual aid would be 
 derived from adopting the habit of the Psalmist in tracing 
 every circumstance of our life dfrectly to God, and cul- 
 tivating that familiar reference to him which would soon 
 make us perceive his agency where now we regard it 
 not. This seems to have been the origin of David's 
 piety, and to have supplied him with a continual flood of 
 devotional feeling." 
 
 " And now for the application of our Saviour's ex- 
 ample. Can we turn to it without seeing our own way 
 clearly pointed out ? He had a mission from his God. 
 So has each one of us. Does it seem presumptuous 
 to compare the two ? His was infinitely beyond what 
 we can have to do. Yes, — but his was suited to his 
 capacity, and ours is adapted to ours. How did he 
 prepare to accomplish it ? By giving all the powers of 
 his soul to a private intercourse with God, that he might 
 discover clearly what his Father would have him to do. 
 Cannot we take the same course, and will it not result 
 in a clear perception of all our duties ? When the will 
 of God was ascertained, his next effort was to dedicate 
 himself heart and soul to that will ; thenceforth he had 
 no will of his own. What God gave him to do was 
 the business of his life ; what he saw the Father do 
 was his principle of action. Do we say we cannot see 
 what the Father does ? If we devote our spirits to the 
 task with that single aim, may we not see the divine 
 
xlviii MEMOIR. 
 
 laws by which God acts in the natural and moral world ? 
 May we not see them, so as to be able to make them 
 our own governing principles ? Will not a spiritual ap- 
 prehension of the love of God, for instance, follow an 
 intense application of our souls to him in order to dis- 
 cover it ? Else what means our Saviour's exhortation, 
 ' Be ye one with me, as I am one with my Father,' 
 and the words, ' I have left you an example that you 
 should follow my steps.' " 
 
 " To give permanence and reality to the impressions 
 of duty which enlighten the hour of reflection, and to 
 make them serve me in the labor and heat of the day, 
 I will set them down, and in that way try to bind them 
 upon my heart. In my treatment of my children, and 
 such as are committed to my care, I should make all my 
 endeavours conspire to one aim ; that they may be gems 
 in the crown of their Saviour at the last day ; that he 
 may present them to his Father and their Father, as 
 fitted for his presence by their nurture in the princi- 
 ples of his morality and the affections of his life. The 
 duties of life, — I ought to allow no distaste to stand a 
 moment against their performance ; but consider them 
 as the work given me to do, and reflect that no work is 
 given me that is not intended to strengthen some princi- 
 ple or habit which is to form my soul for its immortal 
 duties." 
 
 " He shall say unto them, ' Inasmuch as ye have done 
 it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have 
 done it unto me.' Have we ever known, in our ex- 
 perience of the various relations of life, a sympathy like 
 this ? The fondest parent may feel something akin to 
 it in relation to a very dear child ; but mark his words, 
 
MEMOIR. xliX 
 
 — ' one of the least of these my brethren.' It takes the 
 very strongest tie of human hearts with the very first 
 object of their attachment, to form a comparison with 
 his feelings for the least deserving of all. 
 
 " Does not this expression of our Saviour throw 
 some light on the relation between us and him. Can an 
 intimacy be conceived of more perfect than this ? Could 
 any language describe a more disinterested and compre- 
 hensive friendship, or a sensibility to another's welfare so 
 immediate and personal ? Is it not really being the vine, 
 of which we are the branches ? 
 
 " O, why cannot we reciprocate that friendship, and 
 really be in him as he is in us ? Every human being 
 ought to be invested, to our eye, with the sacredness of 
 our Saviour's anxious love, and that sentiment should 
 modify all our. feeling toward him. We would not speak 
 unkindly of an abandoned person in the presence of his 
 father and his mother. And if we had any just con- 
 ceptions of our Saviour's relation to the human family, 
 how much more delicate would be our deference for 
 him ! If so great kindness towards the wretched and the 
 destitute warms his heart, what constant arrows must we 
 be inflicting on him by our cruel judgments and incon- 
 siderate unkindness to those for whom he died \ Truly 
 we crucify him again. And must not such wounds from 
 those who know and profess to love him be far more 
 grievous to him, than those inflicted upon him by an 
 excited and ignorant people, who ' knew not what they 
 did.' Truly, even his sweet spirit of forgiveness can- 
 not say the same of us. 
 
 "Indeed, we are Christians only in name, — the re- 
 ality has hardly dawned upon the world. Until we un- 
 e* 
 
1 MEMOIR. 
 
 derstand his love, and reciprocate it in suitable feeling 
 and action, we are barren of the effects of Christianity." 
 " I am desirous to ascertain with distinctness what my 
 duty is for the day. It is one of those days of compara- 
 tive leisure, when no immediate call seems upon me for 
 active employment or spiritual exertion. I find myself 
 not indisposed for activity and having a wakeful interest 
 for my religious improvement, — so that I desire to be 
 found in the service of my Master, but see no reason to 
 suppose that I shall accomplish any thing for myself or 
 others ; for, having no definite purpose as an object for 
 the day, it will be likely to pass away in unprofitable 
 thoughts. This waste of such days distresses me, be- 
 cause 1 know the time will come when such a portion 
 of time will seem invaluable to me, and I shall see dis- 
 tinctly before me objects of infinite importance, which 
 time only is wanting to mature. Here, then, is the time ; 
 — where are these objects ? Can they not be called up 
 to the inquiring soul ready to embrace them ? Gracious 
 Father ! one who longs to be truly thy servant in all 
 things humbly waits upon thee at this lime, wishing to 
 see the exact work which thou hast given her to do. 
 She is in time, — which is passing away. She fills re- 
 lations to thee and to her fellow-beings which have 
 their legitimate obligations. She must have something 
 to do in this place, and at this time, which can be done 
 by no other person, and at no other time. What, then, 
 is her duty for this day ? She would not float at random 
 even on the waters of life. No, — she would rather 
 labor to attain her destined harbour, that when the even- 
 ing comes she may be ready to wait on thee, to seek 
 thy judgment on her labor." 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 Mrs. Peabody's health was not firm, and previously 
 to the summer of 1S43 there had been an evident fail- 
 ure of her strength. She was, however, so constantly 
 active and employed, and preserved at all times so 
 much cheerfulness and animation of manner, that no 
 fears were entertained of her early departure. The 
 summer passed away with its usual course of occupation 
 and enjoyment, — the occupations of social and do- 
 mestic life, and the enjoyment of the society of many 
 friends, as well as of a large and interesting family. 
 This was, perhaps, the period to which her husband 
 would have pointed, as the happiest season of his life. 
 But the change was soon to come which was to involve 
 all in darkness, except that religious faith which did not 
 fail him in the hour of his sorrow. 
 
 Late in the month of September, Mrs. Peabody was 
 attacked by illness, apparently so slight as hardly to re- 
 quire the aid of a physician. But in a day or two, it 
 assumed a more serious character ; not sufficiently so, 
 however, to give occasion for alarm. She appeared 
 herself, very early in her sickness, to have a presenti- 
 ment that she should not recover, and employed herself 
 in making arrangements in anticipation of the final change ; 
 and one evening asked to have all the children come 
 into her chamber, that their parents might together con- 
 secrate them in prayer to God. After this, and, indeed, 
 through her whole illness, a sweet cheerfulness and 
 peace seemed to take possession of her soul. It was 
 soon found that the remedies which were applied could 
 give her no relief, and that her hour was nigh. When 
 her danger was made known to her, a heavenly beauty 
 spread itself over her countenance ; her spirit was ready 
 
Hi MEMOIR. 
 
 and anxious to begin its upward flight. But it is need- 
 less to dwell upon a scene which is described by him 
 who was thus bereft in words which will presently be 
 given. 
 
 On the 4th of October, her gentle and pure spirit 
 went back to God. It was on a beautiful afternoon, 
 when the warm breath of summer scarcely moved the 
 red leaves of autumn, that her remains were laid in the 
 cemetery where those whom she deeply loved are now 
 resting by her side. 
 
 Great apprehension was entertained by Dr. Pea- 
 body's friends lest the effects of this severe and unex- 
 pected blow upon a frame so delicate and a mind so 
 sensitive as his would give them an occasion of fresh 
 sorrow. She on whom he depended, — how much he 
 could not know till then, — who had relieved the pres- 
 sure of his cares, and to whom his heart was bound by 
 the fondest affection that the spirit while on earth can 
 know, was taken from his sight, and a deep darkness 
 settled on his earthly hopes and prospects. But in this 
 moment of fear and of sorrow his heart did not fail. 
 Never did his religious faith shine forth with so bright and 
 sustaining power as then. The light seemed to come 
 to him from the eternal world. He felt that he could 
 lean upon the Everlasting Arm ; the peace that passeth 
 understanding visited his soul. He found the inspiration 
 of his Saviour's words of love, and obtained the strength 
 and consolation which he needed, by communion with 
 his God. It is with the view of throwing light upon his 
 own character and the varied excellence of her whom 
 he had lost, that the words which he addressed to his 
 society on the Sabbath following her death are here 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 liii 
 
 given at length. They were uttered extemporaneously, 
 but were subsequently written down at the desire of his 
 friends. 
 
 There was something in the circumstances under 
 which they were delivered which rendered them pecu- 
 liarly impressive. It was on the usual day of the com- 
 munion service, when it had been his habit, in the place 
 of the usual sermon, to make a short address. He 
 stood there, in the midst of long-tried friends, every one 
 of whom was a sharer in his grief and was bound to 
 him by the deepest sympathy. Worn and heart-broken 
 as he was, he felt that he could then speak to them with 
 a power drawn from the scenes through which he had 
 passed ; and he did speak to them from the fulness of 
 his heart, — with an eloquence which those who heard 
 it will remember to their latest day. 
 
 " It seems a long time, my friends, since I spoke 
 with you last. It seems as if winters of desolation had 
 been crowded into a few short, stern days of misery, 
 since I spoke with you last. With that vacant place 
 before me, with one thought upon my heart, — O, how 
 heavy on my heart ! — I cannot avoid the subject of 
 my sorrow. There is no reason why I should. You 
 will not wish that I should. But, strangers as we are 
 to our own hearts, I feel that it is not to make a display 
 of mourning that I address you thus, nor is it to ask 
 for greater sympathy. There cannot be greater sympa- 
 thy than I have had from the kind, warm hearts around 
 me. No. It is because there is a word which I am 
 bound to speak, and which, therefore, I have the power 
 to speak. 
 
 " But we must turn a moment from all other thoughts 
 
liv MEMOIR. 
 
 to the one suggested by those words of heavenly com- 
 fort which have just been read. They present the im- 
 age of the Saviour sitting in awful majesty within the 
 very shadow of death. Yet all his concern is for others ; 
 he takes up their burden when almost sinking under his 
 own. It is believed that those who are to die a violent 
 death have a peculiar and sad expression ; such, I am 
 sure, he must have had that night, and they who were 
 near him must have seen it upon his brow. With the 
 short and bloody path in which he is to travel to the 
 cross, — with the black cross itself before him, he says 
 to his disciples, 'Let not your hearts be' troubled.' 
 He comforts them ; he gives peace, his own divine 
 peace, to their souls. At length he rises, with the words, 
 ' That the world may know that I love the Father ; and 
 as, the Father gave me commandment, even so I do. 
 Arise, let us go hence.' And he goes forth serenely to 
 his doom. We can see that pale procession, in the chill 
 moonlight, which falls upon the leaves by the way-side 
 and suggests the figure of the vine ; and thus having 
 loved his own, he loves them unto the end. Man of 
 sorrows, well didst thou finish the work that was given 
 thee to do ! 
 
 " But the fear of death was more easily overcome 
 than some other feelings. After the mighty effort which 
 he had made to suppress his own emotions for the sake 
 of others, a horror of deep darkness came over him, 
 which was infinitely worse than the fear of death. Do 
 not ask what it was. Words could not describe it. It 
 came partly from the exhaustion of the system ; still 
 more from a rushing of confused and struggling feelings, 
 which poured in like a trampling crowd upon his soul. 
 
MEMOIR. lv 
 
 Any one who has been worn with suffering may form 
 some idea of what it was. This horror it was which 
 for a moment overcame and crushed him to the ground. 
 His agony was not his misery, but the strife with his 
 misery, — the effort which he made to bring his feelings 
 into harmony with his Father's will. As the shudder- 
 ing chill comes over him, he cries from the dust, ' O 
 Father ! if it be possible, let this cup pass from me ! ' 
 Again, the overwhelming passion bears away all resist- 
 ance. Again, he implores to be spared ; and the 
 bloody sweat — for such things have been — is wrung 
 from his burning brow. But soon the warfare is accom- 
 plished ; the storm in his breast is over ; he lifts his 
 head, radiant with submission, saying, ' The cup which 
 my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ? Father ! 
 thy will be done ! ' 
 
 " And this was for us. We are all to die. Some of 
 us are to pass through scenes of anguish, — not like his, 
 O, not like his ! but bitter enough to shake all the firm- 
 ness of the soul. Then they must struggle as he did to 
 bear it with hearts resigned and true. Then they must 
 pray as he did. They will need no visible angel from 
 heaven to strengthen them, for the Lord Jesus himself 
 will bend over them with the deepest tenderness, not 
 wishing that they may be spared, for that would be to 
 lose a blessing, but encouraging them to be faithful, and 
 so to reach the full salvation of God. 
 
 " And now, the fear of death ! How far can man 
 rise above it ? I mean, when it comes full before him. 
 For there are many dying men whose minds are clear, 
 but who are such utter strangers to God and eternity, 
 that they are not troubled, and have no bands, fearing 
 
lvi MEMOIR. 
 
 nothing, because they know not what it is to die. But 
 when one realizes all that is before him, and his soul is 
 profoundly impressed with the change which he is pass- 
 ing through, can he rise above it ? Can he speak peace 
 to others with an untroubled heart of his own ? He 
 can ; — he can. Others since the Saviour have been 
 able through him to do it, and if we are faithful, others 
 will do it again. 
 
 " And now I turn to myself, or rather to my depart- 
 ed friend. In the beginning of her sickness, she asked 
 me to attend with her to some arrangements which would 
 be necessary in case she should not recover. Some 
 time after this, she asked me to perform some duty for 
 her unless she should recover. Those words struck to 
 my heart. I begged her not to speak so again, but she 
 said we were prepared for every thing. Her anxiety was, 
 that no obligation should be forgotten ; and she went 
 through every thing with that perfect system which she 
 had always conscientiously observed. The fierce dis- 
 ease went on ; every thing that skill and kindness could 
 do was tried in vain, till early in the fatal day she ob- 
 served a change in the manner of those about her. She 
 wished to know what we feared, and when she was told, 
 a light as of morning came over her face ; it was per- 
 fectly resplendent with a smile of beautiful gladness. 
 She clasped her hands, saying, ' Is it possible ? Am I 
 so early to be blessed ? Shall I so soon be with my 
 Saviour and my God ? ' But her thoughts, as usual, 
 turned at once from herself. She was anxious to re- 
 deem the time for the sake of others. She called us 
 singly near to her, and, with many words of affectionate 
 counsel, bade us each farewell. She earnestly desired 
 
MEMOIR. lvii 
 
 to see as many of her friends as possible ; for death 
 itself could not make such a heart cold. They came, 
 
 — they stood near her bed : and many who were pres- 
 ent can describe the scene. I am confident they will 
 remember it ; they will think of it in their own closing 
 hours. One thing was most of all impressive : she did 
 not express one word of anxiety for her family, nor for the 
 one that was nearest to her heart. It never entered her 
 mind that God would not care for them. Her whole 
 manner, her voice, her smile, seemed to breathe of the 
 eternal world. I cannot divest myself of the conviction, 
 that the corruptible had already put on incorruption, and 
 the mortal immortality. And so she fell asleep. After a 
 few words of inexpressible tenderness, she closed her 
 dying eyes. Surely on my eyes never opened a scene 
 of equal glory ! 
 
 " But I pass from this wonderful scene. It cannot 
 be described to those who did not see it, and those who 
 did see it will never forget. I would ask, or rather I 
 would say, whence came this serenity in the dying hour. 
 It was nothing supernatural ; it was the direct, the natu- 
 ral, the inevitable result of that love of God and man, 
 which she had so faithfully cherished in her soul. Of 
 her benevolence, I must say, — why should I not say it ? 
 
 — her heart seemed pure, warm, and all-embracing as 
 the heaven ; it was always my admiration. ' It is high, I 
 cannot attain unto it,' was ever the feeling which it in- 
 spired. Never indifferent, — never discouraged, — never 
 weary ; always rejoicing with them that rejoiced, and 
 weeping with them that wept. I do not believe that a 
 spirit more entirely free from the stain of selfishness 
 ever dwelt in this world below ; loving her friends most 
 
 / 
 
lviii MEMOIR. 
 
 fondly, and at the same time loving all. Not one shad- 
 ow of coldness, jealousy, or suspicion ever darkened 
 her clear breast. Of her devotion, I must say what 
 others were less likely to know, that she labored, and 
 watched, and prayed, to make it what it was. It was 
 her daily, constant care to keep it alive. All the wants 
 of the physical system were kept in stern subjection ; 
 self-indulgence was a thing which she never seemed to 
 know. Every morning it was her first joy to retire to 
 her closet to read the Scriptures, to pour out her soul 
 to God, to spread before herself all the duties of the 
 day. When she sat in her chamber, the wo I'd of God 
 was always near her, and at evening, exhausted as she 
 always was with incessant activity, ' she summed the ac- 
 tions of the day each night before she slept.' It was 
 impossible, that, living near to God as she did, she 
 should go a stranger to the land of souls. She could 
 have no other than ' a golden set.' Such a life must be 
 crowned with an appropriate and inspiring close. I en- 
 treat you to remember the path in which she travelled to 
 the tomb. Be open as day to sympathy ; go about do- 
 ing good ; be faithful and confiding to your God, and 
 you will die the death of the righteous, and your last 
 end will be like theirs. 
 
 " And now I would say, with respect to the agony 
 through which our Saviour passed, it is one which 
 some of his followers at some time of their life will be 
 called to struggle through. What is it but the effort 
 to bring the whole heart into submission. It is not 
 easily done. There are some blessings which it is bit- 
 ter as death to surrender. You lean upon them ; you 
 depend upon them ; when they are threatened it seems 
 
MEMOIR. HX 
 
 perfectly impossible for you to let them go. And when 
 the conviction comes upon you like an earthquake, 
 ' Behold, your house is left unto you desolate,' you 
 feel as if it were no use to talk of resignation. You 
 cannot have it so ; resigned you cannot be. You clasp 
 the Bible to your heart ; you make a mighty effort to 
 push aside the ghastly vision, and to see it upon the 
 heavenly side. Sometimes you seem to succeed ; you 
 struggle out of the flood. Then comes the overwhelming 
 reality upon you, and down your heart sinks again, till, 
 just at the moment when the waters seem closing over 
 you, the hand of mercy reaches down to the helpless 
 hand uplifted from below, and you are saved ; you say, 
 ' Not as I will, but as thou wilt ' ; a peace that passeth 
 understanding spreads over your spirit. You can bear 
 every thing, and are ready for every thing ; strong in 
 the Lord and the power of his might, you can welcome 
 whatever comes, not with submission merely, but with 
 a heart overflowing with love. 
 
 " If the day should ever come when you shall lose the 
 queen of your heart, — if you must see those eyes closing 
 which have for years been turned upon you with watch- 
 ful, anxious, never weary love, — if you must see that 
 hand pale and motionless, which in sickness was pressed 
 affectionately upon your brow, and smoothed the pillow 
 for your head, — if you are deprived of the heart which 
 in all joys and sorrows answered faithfully, fervently, to 
 your own, — see a vacant place at your fireside, and 
 feel the dreariness of death throughout your dwelling, 
 till it makes you sick at heart, — are constantly look- 
 ing and listening for the familiar step and voice, and as 
 often sadly reminded that you never shall hear them 
 
JX MEMOIR. 
 
 again, — if this dark day should come to you, — far dis- 
 tant from you may it be, — but should it come, you have 
 a right to the warmest wishes and prayers of my heart ; 
 and the dearest wish I can express, the kindest prayer 
 I can offer, is, that God may be as present to your heart 
 in solitude and sorrow as he has been and is now in 
 mine. 
 
 " It is but natural that I should now look back upon the 
 consolations which I have offered you in your sorrow, 
 and I find that I have not dwelt sufficiently on that one 
 which embraces all the rest ; I mean the blessed thought 
 of God. I am not conscious now of deriving my sup- 
 port from the thought of meeting my best friend again. 
 It is a blessing, but it is not the support ; the support is 
 the sympathy of God and the Saviour, and their sus- 
 taining presence in the soul. I feel that they are with 
 me. My heart desires no more. I have not a single 
 wish to recall her who was the light of my life. My 
 will is in perfect harmony with my Father's. Naturally 
 fearful and distrusting though I am, there is no darkness 
 before me, there is no darkness around me. All is di- 
 vinely bright above me. Without a single misgiving or 
 doubt, I shall take my shoes on my feet, and my staff 
 in my hand, and go in the way of duty, desolate though 
 it is, I trust with more faithfulness than ever, so long as 
 it pleases God. 
 
 " I rejoice, therefore, to remember that I have long 
 implored you to turn your hearts to God. I knew that 
 the willingness to do this was a blessing, but how great 
 a blessing I never knew till now. It can make the 
 death-bed and house of mourning bright ; it gives peace 
 of which I never could have dreamed to the wounded 
 
MEMOIR. lxi 
 
 and suffering heart. I do entreat you, then, to receive 
 this blessing ; the time will come when you will feel 
 your want of it, if you do not now. There is no sac- 
 rifice which I would not make, there is nothing which I 
 would not do or suffer, if I could induce every one be- 
 fore me to turn without reserve to the Rock of our sal- 
 vation. I do beseech you, then, to open your hearts to 
 the heavenly influences ; let the love of your Heavenly 
 Father awaken in your hearts some answering feeling 
 of love. 
 
 " So shall you be happy in life, and thrice blessed in 
 death, like the friend who has gone before you. And 
 now may God bless you ! May he lift up the light of 
 his countenance upon you ! May he give you peace, 
 such peace as she now enjoys, for evermore ! " 
 
 We copy the following passage from a letter to a 
 friend, dated October 11th, 1843. 
 
 " I have been severely tried since I wrote to you, 
 with the necessity for making some efforts which I would 
 gladly have shunned, — such as that of speaking oh the 
 Sabbath. I felt bound to do it, though conscious that I 
 should appear weak and foolish ; — there was something 
 to be said which I alone could say. The circumstances 
 were arranged with the usual kindness ; the rain was so 
 severe as to keep away all who had not a particular in- 
 terest in attending. The other services were soothing 
 and grateful to my feelings, and however I may have ex- 
 posed myself, I fully explained the life and religious his- 
 tory of my dearest one, so that no one could say it was 
 through gifts of nature or peculiar blessing that she tri- 
 umphed over death as she did. No, it was by prayer 
 and labor that she fought the good fight. Her Sabbath 
 
 J* 
 
lxii MEMOIR. 
 
 followed six days of labor, not of rest, and I do most 
 earnestly pray that all may remember what made her the 
 noble creature that she was ; — going about doing good, 
 and living near to God." 
 
 Those who have known sorrow will not object to the 
 insertion here of some portions of his diary and private 
 letters. To some it may appear as if the publication of 
 any part of the diary upon which, when he lived, no 
 human eye ever rested, were like revealing those sacred 
 depths of sorrow and devotion, into which not even the 
 fondest affection and sympathy should be allowed to pen- 
 etrate. But we remember his own sentiments, as we 
 heard them expressed with regard to similar disclosures. 
 He felt that they should not be withheld if they could 
 benefit any one spiritually. " What is it," he would 
 say, " which makes us shrink from imparting our deep- 
 est personal experiences but a feeling of self, which is 
 not known to the disembodied spirit. When we have 
 left this world, we shall only be anxious that our trials 
 and conflicts may aid others in their preparation for 
 heaven." Hoping that, from this touching and inspiring 
 picture of sorrow and of faith, some persons may feel 
 strengthened and consoled under the pressure of sim- 
 ilar afflictions, we give the following extracts from the 
 diary. 
 
 "October, 1843. It was a heavy day when I followed 
 my beloved Amelia to the grave. At the funeral ser- 
 vice, in the church, they sang her favorite hymns, — 
 ' Jesus, lover of my soul,' and ' Rise, my soul, and 
 stretch thy wings.' I was glad that her form was laid 
 where the communion-table usually stands, that I might 
 have that powerful and affecting remembrance connected 
 
memoir. lxiii 
 
 with the place. At the grave, where a great number 
 were assembled, they sang, ' There Is a land of pure 
 delight.' And now she lies in those beautiful grounds. 
 How I bless God, who disposed me to interest myself 
 so much in the preparation of the cemetery ! For all that 
 I have ever done for it, verily 1 have my reward." 
 
 " And now it begins to open upon me why I needed 
 this terrible blow. Had we been laid in the same grave, 
 as I could have wished and prayed, had it been right, 
 we should not have been united in death. She was too 
 far above me. She was so heavenly-minded, so char- 
 itable, so thoroughly excellent, that, dear as I was to her 
 generous heart, I could not have stood at her side. But 
 now, perhaps, under the stern teaching of death, in sol- 
 itary communion with my own heart, with the inspira- 
 tion of her spiritual presence, with the light of her mem- 
 ory before me, I may do the duties assigned me, and 
 thus form such a character, that, when I go, she may 
 stand ready, with her sweet smile and open arms of love, 
 to welcome me to the skies. 
 
 " But I bless God that in the earlier days of my sol- 
 itude and sorrow I did not derive my support from such 
 thoughts as this. God was present to me, — I realized 
 that he was with me, — and what could I want beside ? 
 In a condition as helpless and hopeless as possible, I 
 was supported by the Everlasting Arm, as if it were vis- 
 ibly extended from the skies. I thought not of re- 
 union. I was perfectly resigned. I had no wish to alter 
 in the least what was appointed me. ' The cup which 
 my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ? ' was 
 the language of my soul. All these thoughts of conso- 
 lation were present, no doubt, but they came not by 
 
lxiv MEMOIR. 
 
 themselves ; they seemed, like all other glorious, happy, 
 and inspiring thoughts, to be assembled in the single 
 thought of God, and to float in the great ocean of his 
 boundless love." 
 
 " God will not leave his work half done. Whether 
 we shall have his continued presence or not depends 
 upon ourselves, and as often as I draw near to him, I 
 believe he will draw near to me. If the cares of life 
 draw us down from our elevated state, our feeling can- 
 not be right ; we must be ready to do, as well as to suf- 
 fer, what pleases God. May I be faithful ! May I re- 
 ceive all the cares which come upon me as plart of the 
 discipline which my character requires ! The chief 
 difficulty before me is the management of my children. 
 They are young, needing patience, firmness, and dis- 
 cretion, but, more than all, a forbearing spirit of love. 
 May I have that spirit ! May I be saved from every 
 impatient action, every harsh word, from every mani- 
 festation of haste and displeasure. May I act according 
 to my conviction, — for I really believe that love is the 
 only means of influence, — it is the only power that can 
 be applied. Power over them we cannot have after a 
 certain age. May I not have power within them ? I 
 have not begun right ; but I shall retrace my steps. I 
 shall feel that angel is smiling upon me when I make 
 any effort, and I shall feel that her smile reflects upon 
 me the blessing of her Father and my Father, of her 
 God and my God." 
 
 From a letter to a friend we extract the following : — 
 
 " I do not find it the least of my consolations, that 
 
 we have a cemetery in which my treasure can rest, 
 
 where every thing is in perfect harmony with the mourn- 
 
MEMOIR. 1XV 
 
 er's feeling. I go and sit there by night, as the moon- 
 light falls upon her grave, with intense enjoyment; — 
 yes, to be sincere, I must use those words, even if 1 ap- 
 pear to you like a stock or a stone, — for God seems 
 with me, and she seems with me ; every dear thought 
 and memory gathers there, and I verily believe that, in 
 all the history of my past life, I never have been able to 
 form an imagination of heaven which would compare 
 with those which have dawned upon me now. 
 
 " And yet the solitude at home, — it is deep, it is 
 
 awful, but it never brings my heart quite down 
 
 Heaven knows how my heart would have leaped to go 
 before her, — for I did not think I could have borne her 
 loss ; — but, now the order of Providence has gone forth, 
 I have no desire except to be true to my duties as long 
 as I am able, and then to be ready to go. Surely, the 
 devotion of my life will be the least possible acknowl- 
 edgment of his unwearied blessing in giving me such a 
 treasure, and when he resumed it, giving me the treas- 
 ure of her spiritual presence and his own spiritual pres- 
 ence in its stead." 
 
 In a letter dated November 2d, 1843, he says : — 
 " I am greatly obliged to you for your ever thoughtful 
 kindness in sending me Scougal's Works, which I was 
 very desirous to see. Such writers seem to me like 
 sympathizing friends, whose hearts answer to my own 
 like face to face in water, — and, what is better, answer 
 to that of our common Master. I was very much in- 
 terested in the extract from Dr. Channing.* I feel that 
 
 * " The departed have gone to see, to love, and serve the Infinite 
 Father, with a new fervor and elevation of spirit, and we should strive 
 to sympathize with them, to be joined with them by participation of 
 
lxvi MEMOIR. 
 
 it is true that we may lead a heavenly life below, and 
 thus do what my dearest Amelia asked me if I could do. 
 1 Shall we go on together in the heavenly way ? ' Wheth- 
 er she referred to this life or the other I did not know. 
 My heart replies, We shall, my love, you in heaven 
 where you deserve to be, and I alone, but not disheart- 
 ened, in the world below, — you in enjoyment, as is meet, 
 and I in discipline and sorrow, as is necessary for me. 
 Neither am I dismayed at the rapidity and power with 
 which her fine spirit will travel from glory to glory, — 
 for, thank Heaven, as it gains in excellence, it will grow- 
 in sympathy, and I know that her love for me, "unworthy 
 as I am, will survive all change. Nothing but my utter 
 abandonment can ever induce her to tear me from her 
 heart." 
 
 After a short absence, he writes : — 
 
 " Nov. 20, 1843. I am happy to get back into my 
 own pulpit, where every thing seems like home, the 
 audience always attentive and kind in their expression, 
 and the associations of the place, both divine and human, 
 exactly what I should desire in the house of prayer. It 
 was well calculated to get home on Saturday night, 
 
 their progress. We are apt to feel as if nothing we could do on earth 
 bears a relation to what the good are doing in a higher world ; but it 
 is not so. Heaven and earth are not so far apart. Every disinterested 
 act, every sacrifice to duty, every exertion for the good of ' one of 
 the least of Christ's brethren,' every new insight into God's works, 
 every new impulse given to the love of truth and goodness, associates 
 us with the departed, brings us nearer to them, and is as truly heav- 
 enly as if we were acting not on earth but in heaven. The spiritual 
 tie between us and the departed is not felt as it ought to be. Our 
 union with them daily grows stronger, if we daily make progress in 
 what they are growing in." 
 
MEMOIR. lxvii 
 
 though I found the most affectionate welcome. Still, 
 one was not there. She will never welcome me on 
 earth again ; and when Fanny sang my favorite song, — 
 
 " The being beauteous 
 Who unto my life was given, 
 More than all things else to love me," — 
 
 I was so entirely unmanned, as to shed the most bitter 
 tears for her who is ' now a saint in heaven.' 
 
 " My visit has been one of the deepest interest and 
 gratification, — to find so many who could understand 
 the value of my lost blessing, and, more than all, to find 
 you, who so entirely sympathized with me in affection, 
 and who follow her with the same intense interest now. 
 How we do gaze into the future world ! And we see 
 nothing but an image of our own thoughts and emotions, 
 as he who looks into the water sees only his own reflec- 
 tion below. But we know the way, and that should be 
 enough. It seems to be ordained, that, unless we travel 
 in the way to it, we shall have nothing but unsubstantial 
 fancies of that state ; but if our feet are set in that 
 path, a living faith gives us as much and as welcome 
 support as if the reality were present to our eyes. 
 
 " I think I shall be faithful. In the long watches of 
 the sleepless night I endeavour to study out my duty in 
 every possible relation, and though I have but little con- 
 fidence in my own wisdom, I try to make it sure that 
 my aim shall be true and high. May God's blessing be 
 with me ! He would not take away my right hand and 
 right eye without affording me other light to guide me. 
 I can always think of what she would wish, and her 
 holy life has made her so nearly one with her Master, 
 
lxviii MEMOIR. 
 
 that I can, without any confusion of thought or irrever- 
 ence, think of her when my heart rises up to God." 
 
 To the same : — 
 
 " Dec. 3, 1843. My purpose was to write you on 
 Thanksgiving day ; but when it came, it was so unlike 
 what it had been, that I was perfectly sick at heart. I 
 preached on the subject of home, showing how it might 
 be desolated by selfishness, and blessed by religious in- 
 fluences. I fear that I was myself an example of the 
 former, for my dreary condition sat heavy on my soul. 
 In my prospect of life every thing attractive and happy 
 was connected with her. Now I look forward, and she 
 is not there. A wretched vacancy is there. At times 
 I could repeat the noble words of Catholic faith, Sur- 
 sum corda, ' Lift up your hearts,' — but my heart would 
 sink heavily again. I do not now know whether I shall 
 be an example or a warning. But I hope in God. 
 Many trials surround me, and the heart knoweth its 
 own bitterness ; but he is able to deliver me out of them 
 all. Blessed be his name ! " 
 
 To the same : — 
 
 " Dec. 17, 1843. has sent me a few recollec- 
 tions of Amelia, which are interesting to me, as they 
 would be to you. She says, — ' Amelia was very fond 
 of flowers. When she was about three years old, I 
 opened the front door one afternoon, and she lay asleep 
 in the entry, her shoes filled round the instep with 
 ladies' delights, her fine hair in long ringlets on her 
 shoulders, and her cheeks flushed with a beautiful color, 
 owing to the exercise she had taken. It was some time 
 before I could prevail upon myself to wake her.' So 
 it was with her, — beautiful in childhood, beautiful in 
 
MEMOIR. lxix 
 
 maturity, — O, how beautiful in heaven ! — I shall behold 
 her, but not now. God give me faith and patience to 
 wait his time ! " 
 
 At the period of his wife's death, Dr. Peabody's 
 family consisted of four sons, at the ages when they 
 greatly needed such a mother's care, and of a daughter, 
 the eldest of the five, whose name has been already 
 mentioned in these pages. Slie had now reached the 
 age of eighteen : full of talent and animation, earnestly 
 devoted to reading and literature, with acquirements not 
 generally expected at her period of life, and entering 
 with all the ardor of a youthful heart into the pleasures 
 of society. But the unwearied industry of her mother 
 had saved her from domestic cares, and her tastes in- 
 clined her more to others. This was the cause of much 
 anxiety to her father ; but it gave him far more, that, 
 though reverent and not inattentive to her religious duty, 
 she had not heretofore regarded that duty as the great 
 object of her life. His hope of domestic comfort, and 
 of the welfare of his younger children, now rested on 
 her. Her experience in the affairs of the household 
 had been very small, nor had she exhibited any very 
 general sympathy with those around her. In order to 
 impress her mind with a deep sense of the obligations 
 which now devolved upon her, and of the spirit in 
 which they should be fulfilled, he addressed to her this 
 touching letter : — 
 
 ** We will look, my dear daughter, at the solemn 
 duties which our Heavenly Father has now thrown upon 
 us by the translation of our sainted friend. Let us 
 every night and morning, so help us God, think them 
 over, to know what we have to do, and how we have 
 
 S 
 
1XX MEMOIR. 
 
 discharged them. They will hereafter be required at 
 our hands. If we are faithful, we shall both be happy, 
 for there is but one path to happiness, in life's opening 
 and in its decline. But faithful or happy we cannot be, 
 without living as she did, — near to God. 
 
 " Let us be affectionate, not only in reality, but in 
 word and manner, to the poor children ; they will re- 
 quire unwearied patience and care. Let us resolve 
 that they shall have it always, and love, cost us what 
 it will. Their characters are yet to be formed, and 
 if we show the right spirit and example, the effort will 
 not be lost. God grant that our own may riot be ruined 
 by our unfaithfulness to theirs ! Let us feel it to be 
 our duty to make home as pleasant as possible to them. 
 If we are false to this duty, and they are driven abroad 
 for enjoyment, it may be their ruin. Let us never be 
 abroad for our own gratification, when we can give hap- 
 piness at home. 
 
 " It is yours now to take the head of the family, and 
 to make yourself familiar with those domestic cares 
 which heretofore your mother has taken from our hands. 
 The arrangement of meals for each day, — the care of 
 clothes, furniture, and rooms, — all matters of domestic 
 charity, which were so sacredly regarded by your moth- 
 er, — the whole superintendence of the household, — 
 must necessarily come upon you. Any inattention to 
 these obligations may be fatal to the peace and comfort 
 of the house. Let us each be faithful to our part. 
 
 " Let us remember how sacredly we are bound to 
 cherish her friends. Her domestics were always her 
 friends. She treated them with delicacy and tender- 
 ness, which resulted in strong attachment on either side. 
 
MEMOIR. lxxi 
 
 Let us follow her example in this as in all excellence : 
 were it only from self-interest, it is the only way to 
 secure those kind services and attentions which we all 
 need. Happy if they come from the heart ! 
 
 " Above all earthly things, let us keep open hearts to 
 each other. Without mutual affection we must be miser- 
 able, and it cannot possibly be sustained without a con- 
 fidence unreserved and open as day. How much I 
 depend upon your affection in my wretched loneliness 
 no words can tell. If you can, — and you can be a 
 light to the life of your father, — it is worth all the 
 effort and sacrifice it may require. 
 
 " I write with many tears. Though God sustains me 
 in a manner of which I could not have dreamed, the sud- 
 den and total shipwreck of my earthly happiness comes 
 over me sometimes in such a manner that I sink broken- 
 hearted to the dust. But I feel that affection, duty, 
 and God, the elements of the higher life, are still worth 
 living for. May I never be false to the steadfast pur- 
 pose of my soul, which is to be faithful to my own im- 
 provement, faithful to my children, faithful to all others, 
 and, most of all, faithful to my God ! 
 
 " Let that voice from the eternal world which we heard 
 from the dying lips of your mother be for ever treasured 
 in our hearts. Much sooner than we now imagine we 
 shall be called to follow. May we die the death of the 
 righteous, and let our closing scene be like theirs ! " 
 
 Nor were his hopes disappointed. They were ful- 
 filled in a measure greater than he had even dared to 
 think. A light was breaking through the darkness of his 
 desolation. In his diary he says, November 22d, — 
 " Fanny appears to enter upon her duties with much spirit 
 
lXXii MEMOIR. 
 
 and discretion. I am greatly encouraged to believe that 
 she will unfold very valuable traits of character. She 
 has not been trained like her mother, in the school of 
 adversity. This painful change may be the means of 
 making her a finer character than she could have been 
 without it. I pray most earnestly that she may be true 
 to her Heavenly Father ; this is the most important 
 thing. May his blessing be upon her ! " 
 
 In a letter written at the same period, he says : — 
 "Fanny is now so well as to go about and attend to 
 her duties, showing a very good disposition to be faith- 
 ful to me, and I trust also to a Heavenly Father, whose 
 right to her is greater than mine. My affections turn to 
 her with the greatest fondness, and she returns it with an 
 appearance of love which does much to relieve my 
 wounded heart." 
 
 In a letter dated December 3d, he says : — " In my 
 last lecture I touched upon the subject of communion, 
 showing that it meant, if any thing, holding in common, 
 readiness to share our blessings with others, and to let 
 them share their cares and sorrows with us. This is 
 the real communion, of which our coming together at 
 the table is only a sign, sometimes, it is to be feared, a 
 false one To-day I have preached and admit- 
 ted Fanny to the church. God grant that she may be 
 a faithful child to him ! If so, there needs no hope or 
 wish for me." 
 
 His hopes and prayers were answered. Her char- 
 acter was developed by this stern discipline with a ful- 
 ness and energy which surprised even those who knew 
 her best. Religion and duty were thenceforth her great 
 end of life ; and she felt, what persons of her age are 
 
memoir. lxxiii 
 
 not very apt to feel, that religion cannot have its perfect 
 work without that general and active sympathy to which 
 Jesus Christ applied the name of love. Her devotion 
 to her father was disinterested and unwearied ; and she 
 had the greatest joy that a true-hearted daughter can 
 feel, in finding that she did very much to soothe his 
 desolate heart. She established a powerful influence in 
 the minds of her brothers by habitual gentleness and 
 kindness. Her temper, somewhat excitable before, be- 
 came uniformly patient and serene. She gave her time 
 and thoughts to soothing the sorrows and attending to 
 the necessities of the poor, making herself personally 
 acquainted with their circumstances, and making them 
 feel that she was their friend. The child seemed at 
 once transformed into the thoughtful woman. Discre- 
 tion, the latest plant of youth's spring-time, was mani- 
 fested in her regard, alike reflecting and devoted, to 
 every duty. One might have apprehended, that a spirit 
 thus quickly ripening into excellence should be early 
 translated to a better than an earthly home ; still her 
 health was strong, and gave promise of many years of 
 growing usefulness. But in January, 1S44, nearly four 
 months after the departure of her mother, she was sud- 
 denly attacked by illness. From a letter dated January 
 26th, we find the spirit in which her father received this 
 new trial of his faith : — 
 
 "lam sorry to be obliged to write to you that poor 
 Fanny is sick again. Early in the night before last she 
 was taken with bilious colic, as we supposed, but the 
 physician has pronounced her disease to be scarlet fever. 
 To-day she has appeared very sick, and wandering at 
 times ; but this may be the usual course of the com- 
 g* 
 
lxxiv 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 plaint. In a former day I should have felt very badly 
 to have such a disease make its appearance in the family ; 
 but I have learned better. I cannot be without anxiety 
 for my dear Fanny and the other children, but I have 
 no fears. I can leave all to Him who disposes these 
 events, with perfect confidence in his love, and without 
 a wish to alter his appointment, whatever it may be." 
 
 A (e\v hours after he uttered these words of faith and 
 submission, her father was called from his own sick-room 
 to her dying bed, to receive her parting breath. Early 
 on the morning of the 28th of January, her young spirit 
 was released from the cares and sorrows 6f earth, and 
 she was at rest for ever. 
 
 Her father was himself severely ill at the moment 
 when this blow descended upon him. In what manner 
 he endured it, his own words must tell. It was on the 
 next Sabbath but one after her death, — the first one 
 on which his state of health permitted him to resume his 
 duties, — that he thus addressed himself to the younger 
 portion of his society. Like the discourse which has 
 been already given, it was extemporaneous and written 
 after it was delivered. The reader will find in it the 
 outpouring of the fulness of his heart, combined with 
 his recollections of her from whom he was thus separ- 
 ated : — 
 
 " My strength has been somewhat worn with sickness 
 and sorrow, and I cannot tell how far it will allow me to 
 go. I shall not, therefore, commence the usual service, 
 which I might not be able to finish, and shall only say, in 
 plain and familiar words, what is on my mind and in my 
 heart. If I addressed myself to any, it would be to the 
 young, — to those just passing from careless youth into 
 
MEMOIR. 1XXV 
 
 the responsibilities of manner years, — to those near the 
 age of her who lately left us for the grave. If in what I 
 say I shall make more than one allusion to her, I am 
 sure you will indulge me in it. The days are heavy with 
 me ; it would seem as if the memory of loved ones 
 would soon be all that is left me, and such comfort as 
 I can find in such sad recollections I am sure you will 
 let me enjoy. 
 
 " I would fain impress upon the young the wisdom, 
 the happiness, the absolute necessity, of turning their 
 hearts to God, and would recommend to them to make 
 the sign of their sincere determination to be as much as 
 possible like their Heavenly Master. You may think 
 that you are not ready for this ; your feelings are not 
 ripe for it. I ask not for your feelings ; let them take 
 their own time. What I ask is the deep and solemn 
 determination to follow your Master in all things as fast 
 and as far as human frailty will allow. In other words, 
 I ask you to be children of God, in thought, in action, 
 and in life ; to treat him as a father ; to go boldly to' the 
 throne of grace, and throw open your hearts — all your 
 hearts — before him ; tell him your wants, tell him your 
 temptations, tell him your joys and sorrows, assured that 
 he careth for you. Ask his blessing, ask his help and 
 the influences of his presence, which he is always wait- 
 ing to bestow. When your hearts are once sincerely 
 and faithfully turned in that direction, you will find a joy 
 in life which you have never dreamed of yet ; you will 
 awake at once to a sense of the value and blessing of 
 existence ; all your distaste, anxiety, and restless weari- 
 ness will pass away ; you will feel and confess, for the 
 first time, that you have found peace to your troubled 
 souls. 
 
lxXVi MEMOIR. 
 
 " You observe that I speak as if all this was within 
 your own power. I believe that it is ; they who will 
 may come to the waters. Our Saviour upbraided the 
 thoughtless men of his day, because, having power, they 
 would not come to him that they might have life. You 
 can take the leafless plant from your cellar and set it in 
 the sun ; the influences of heaven in the spring-time will 
 soon cover it with foliage and with flowers. What 
 you can do for the plant which you value, you can also 
 do for your heart, your barren heart, which is now its 
 own sepulchre, which has never pursued, nor acknowl- 
 edged, nor even understood, the purpose for which God 
 made it. I know this is not often done till God's hand 
 has touched the heart. Is it not so with you ? What 
 numbers have you seen in the last few years passing out 
 from this house of God, — the aged and venerable, the 
 manly and matronly and useful, the young and beautiful 
 and tender, — moving in pale procession down to the 
 bosom of the eternal world ! Has not another per- 
 ished in the brightness of her rising, — at an hour which 
 would seem untimely, if that word could apply to any 
 act of God ? She has been called to impress on you 
 how soon you may hear the death-angel's calm but un- 
 relenting voice, — how suddenly you may be summoned, 
 with your present thoughts upon your minds, and your 
 present feelings and passions in your hearts. As you 
 are you must go, perhaps without a moment's conscious 
 warning, to render your account to God. Be not de- 
 ceived by the representations of fancy. The coloring 
 which sentiment and imagination throw around the death- 
 bed is not true. Seen as it is, it is a stern reality. It 
 is an awful thing to die. 
 
MEMOIR. lxxvii 
 
 " My wish and prayer for you is, that you may have 
 the feelings of children of God, — the affectionate rever- 
 ence for him, the quick and living conscience, the warm- 
 hearted sympathy with those around you, which a sense 
 of your filial relation to him will inspire. Never be mis- 
 led by the miserable fiction, that without prayer and 
 without a true love for others you can be the children of 
 God ; for, depend upon it, it is not so. We live in a 
 world of self-delusion ; it is fearful to think how many, 
 living in hollow and lifeless forms, are persuaded that all 
 is well with their souls, though they have not and do not 
 try to have the principles and affections which make the 
 Christian. 
 
 " The mother of the dear child whom I have lost — 
 her views of God and humanity were always hopeful and 
 inspiring — said of her daughter, ' The time will come 
 when she will change, and when she does, the change 
 will be true.' The time did come ; she was changed ; 
 her heart opened to a sense of her relation to her 
 Heavenly Father, acknowledging the various duties 
 which grow out of it, with the sincerest desire and effort 
 to do them. From that hour a lovely serenity and cheer- 
 ful and earnest thoughtfulness spread themselves over her 
 manner, and shone from her placid brow. I cannot tell 
 you what delight it was to me to see the Bible in her 
 hand, and the deep interest with which she used to read 
 it, — to observe how peacefully her days went by, how 
 sacredly the Sabbath was regarded ; for I saw that the 
 prophecy was fulfilled, and the change was true. It was 
 not that she was cold and unworthy before, but a new 
 revelation had evidently dawned upon her spirit. She 
 saw how great a thing existence is, and what wonders of 
 
lxxviii MEMOIR. 
 
 glory and love there are in it to those who, instead of 
 snatching the joys that float by them on the surface, 
 look deeper for their happiness and find their treasures 
 within. We are told by those who have passed the 
 winter in the arctic circle, that almost as soon as the 
 spring returns the snows are gone, the streams are flow- 
 ing, the earth and the trees are green, the flowers pour 
 incense from their little censers, and birds fill the woods 
 with the wild rapture of their song. Such is the change 
 in the heart when it passes from darkness to light, not 
 by that mechanical process by which hearts are bent in 
 one direction, like iron in its red-hot glow,, soon to be- 
 come cold and rigid as ever, but by a glad and voluntary 
 surrender of its energies and affections to Him who 
 gave them ; for all the powers within rise up in happy, 
 harmonious, and powerful action, as soon as the warm 
 sunshine of God's influence is permitted to reach the 
 heart. 
 
 " I would also, if I had power, impress upon the 
 young how much may be done in a little time, if the 
 heart is in it. ' How much we might do if we only 
 would ! ' were the words of a dying man whose virtues 
 I shall long remember. Why cannot the living feel 
 this ? Why should it be left to start up in the hearts of 
 the dying, when the time of action is nearly past ? It 
 was said of him who was translated in the early age of 
 the world, for the example of religious excellence which 
 he gave, that, ' being made perfect in a short time, he 
 fulfilled a long time.' And it is true, that, under certain 
 circumstances, one man may live more in a few days 
 than another in threescore years and ten ; that is, he 
 may do more to fulfil the purposes of existence, more 
 
MEMOIR. lxxix 
 
 to serve God and man, more to unfold the great spirit 
 within him, than another who slumbers on to the late de- 
 cline of age without asking what life is for, how much 
 may be done in it, and what account must be rendered 
 at last. 
 
 " I feel that it was so with the child whom I have 
 lost. The first eighteen years of her life were com- 
 paratively a blank, the last few months were the well 
 filled, the deeply written, the richly illuminated page. 
 Although a stranger to domestic duties till the whole 
 weight of them came at once upon her, she seemed to 
 work out for herself in a few days the experience of 
 years, manifesting an energy and discretion which in- 
 spired in me the most perfect confidence, and which a 
 lifetime is commonly required to teach. She took up 
 the burden of those duties, which was far from being a 
 light one, with a power and gracefulness which seemed 
 incredible in one so young ; but in truth, ' Honorable old 
 age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor is 
 measured by number of years ; but wisdom is the gray 
 hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age.' 
 
 " There is divine philosophy in this. We know how 
 soon the imagination, ' yoked with whirlwinds and the 
 northern blast, sweeps the long tract of day,' and 
 the spiritual powers are equally rapid and resistless 
 when called into efficient action ; in the greatness of 
 their strength they travel over the field of duty, and, 
 after a few short struggles and victories, possess and 
 enjoy it all. The truth begins to be understood. It 
 comes to us in the words of the modern lyrist, which 
 always stir my heart like the sound of a silver trum- 
 pet : — 
 
1XXX MEMOIR. 
 
 ' To all the sensual world proclaim, 
 One glorious hour of crowded life 
 Is worth an age without a name.' 
 
 Let every heart take up that word, and rejoice to send 
 it on ; perhaps it may reach the dull, cold ear of the 
 sensual world at last. O this sleep of life ! how much 
 deeper, heavier, how much more hopeless it is than the 
 sleep of death ! To that sleep there shall be a waking, — 
 the morning is not far ; but to this sleep of life, the 
 morning may never break, — the waking may never 
 come. 
 
 " While the heart that feels its relation to God will 
 delight to come into near communion with him, there is 
 another manifestation of the religious spirit in which 
 there is less danger of delusion. I mean, the sympathy 
 with all, which our religion inspires. Not the sympathy 
 with the few, nor with the many ; but with all, without 
 exception, who bear the form of a man. ' If ye love 
 them which love you, what reward have ye ? Do not 
 even the publicans the same ? ' It must be something 
 more self-denying, more free-hearted, than this that shall 
 resemble the spirit of your Master. 
 
 " O, could you but know how you wrong your own 
 souls, what a death- wound you give to your own moral 
 nature, when you treat any form or aspect of humanity 
 with ridicule or disdain ! When you laugh at the weak- 
 nesses and follies of others, you are yourself the subject 
 of profound compassion to those heavenly beings who 
 look down with interest on our fallen race. ' Have we 
 not all one Father, — hath not one God created us ? ' 
 For his sake, let us treat all others as brethren and sis- 
 ters, having the same earnest desire to serve them, the 
 
MEMOIR. lxXXi 
 
 same pain at seeing them unkindly treated, the same 
 joy in their prosperity, the same sorrow for their sor- 
 row, and most of all for their sin. Cherish in yourselves, 
 with all your care, the spirit of your Master, — I do as- 
 sure you, it requires all the care that you can give, — 
 and remember that his spirit can dwell only in a gentle, 
 forbearing, loving, and patient heart. 
 
 " Such, I may truly say, was the spirit of the child 
 whom I have lost. I mean after her heart was opened, 
 for it was colder and more reserved in former years. 
 She felt that she had made a great mistake, that the 
 regard of every human being was of great value, and 
 she determined to go forth and seek the friendship of 
 others by the only means that can secure it ; for it is 
 always an answering feeling, freely given only to those 
 who freely give. 
 
 " Her heart warmed towards the friends of her moth- 
 er, — and who were not the friends of her mother ? 
 She longed for the season when she could go forth to 
 become acquainted with the members of the society, 
 to express to them her grateful sense of their unwearied 
 kindness to me and mine. From her youth she could 
 have no power over her brothers, but she established at 
 once an influence within them, and they cheerfully sub- 
 mitted themselves to the authority of love. 
 
 " For myself, I was like the wanderer, — who, when 
 falling on the mountain-side, grasped a small plant for 
 his support, and thus brought to light the rich mines of 
 Peru. I was in constant wonder at the treasures of 
 feeling which unfolded themselves in her love for me ; it 
 was watchful, patient, self-denying, and tender. When 
 we parted on the night before her sickness began, I 
 h 
 
lxXXii MEMOIR. 
 
 threw my arms round her, and felt that I had something 
 to live for yet. In her delirious visions she was con- 
 stantly speaking of me. I shall never forget how fond- 
 ly she pressed her burning lips to mine, and her last 
 words to me, ' O my dear father ! ' breathed from 
 depths of affection which no line had ever sounded in 
 her young and fervent heart. It was God's blessing to 
 me, — and till my own heart shall be cold in death I 
 shall be grateful that I possessed, enjoyed, and know 
 how to value this blessing of a daughter's love. 
 
 " I think I am not misled by natural partiality when 
 I say that she gave promise of usefulness had she 
 lived, and in her early departure there is something of 
 the mystery of death, — something more than can be 
 read by the living eye. I know that early death is a 
 blessing to those who are prepared to go ; it is a blessing 
 'to be taken early, while unworn with anxiety and sorrow, 
 while the affections are unchilled by disappointment, and 
 before the heart has become partially hardened, as the 
 best hearts may, by the rough collisions of the troub- 
 ling and the troubled world. It is hard to surrender 
 those who are dear to us, but it is not hard to submit 
 ourselves to the disposal of a God of love. It is in 
 these afflictions that the foundations of our immortal life 
 are laid ; the strait and narrow path is the nearest one 
 to a heavenly home. Some of you have already be- 
 come intimately acquainted with grief, — not heavier, 
 perhaps, but yet harder to bear, than mine, — and those 
 who have been exempt thus far cannot go through life 
 without meeting with changes ; they are the universal 
 doom, from which none may hope to be free. ' In the 
 world,' said Jesus Christ, ' ye shall have tribulation : but 
 
memoir. lxxxiii 
 
 be of good cheer ; I have overcome the world.' Re- 
 member the strength and sympathy which he offers. 
 Remember his promise, — ' To him that overcometh, I 
 will give the morning star.' 
 
 ' The star of the unconquered will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 
 And calm, and self-possessed. 
 O, faint not in a world like this, 
 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong.' 
 
 " It has been as I intimated that it would be. 1 
 have indulged my own feelings with too little regard to 
 the claims and duties of the day. Still, I think that the 
 service will not be lost, for if the words are uninstruc- 
 tive, the act of God is full of meaning. ' The righteous 
 dead condemneth the ungodly that are living, and youth 
 that is soon perfected, the many years and old age of 
 the unrighteous.' Remember how few days since her 
 hold on life seemed strong as yours, and now she has 
 exchanged the happy mansions of the living for the 
 lonely and frozen grave. Remember how soon you 
 may follow in that path where there is no return, 
 and, while you may, secure the preparation of the 
 Gospel, — the only preparation that can avail you in 
 the world to which you go. If you are but faithful 
 to yourselves, to others, and to God, you will close 
 your eyes in peace ; sweet and mournful will be the 
 memory you will leave behind you, and death will 
 conduct you to happiness such as no living lips can 
 tell. Here is a field of high and holy ambition. Live 
 
IxXXiv MEMOIR. 
 
 so that, if the next spring should not find you here, you 
 may be rejoicing in nearer presence with God. So ful- 
 fil the duties of your life that, if you should thus pass 
 away, you may, like her on whom the heavy gate of the 
 tomb last closed, leave the epitaph written on a parent's 
 bleeding heart, — ' Many daughters have done virtuous- 
 ly, but thou excellest them all.' " 
 
 From a letter to a friend, written a week after his 
 daughter's death, and before he had left his sick cham- 
 ber, we may see that, although feeble in body and sad in 
 spirit, he still could say from the heart, " Thy will be 
 done." 
 
 " Feb. 5, 1844. When I wrote you last, I told you 
 that I was prepared for whatever might come ; but I 
 did not know. So far as to be able to receive it with 
 grateful and undoubting confidence, with unaltered love 
 -of my Heavenly Father, and without a wish that it 
 might be otherwise, I was prepared. But not to feel 
 wounded, stricken, and desolate, — for this I was not pre- 
 pared. I was lifted above my former sorrow, but now 
 ' He hath brought me down to the dust of death.' 
 
 Perhaps, as I gain my physical strength, which is now 
 entirely subdued, I shall feel stronger in spirit. I shall 
 commit myself to Him, and he will do with me as he 
 thinks best. His will be done ! 
 
 " How strange, that, when my dearest child had just 
 begun to unfold the rich treasures of energy and affec- 
 tion which had been so long folded up within her, when 
 I had just begun to lean upon her, she should be with- 
 drawn ; her character in its new beauty, power, and love- 
 liness just shown to me, and then withdrawn for ever ! 
 The night of her sickness, when she bade me good night 
 
MEMOIR. 1XXXV 
 
 with her usual kiss, I threw my arms round her, and 
 held her to my heart. I felt that I had something to 
 live for, — it seemed as if a new, bright field of life 
 was opening upon me. Nothing could exceed her ten- 
 der, disinterested affection for me. The last day of her 
 life she was delirious, but talking all the while of me and 
 what she must do for my comfort. When I saw her 
 for the last time, she drew my lips down in close pres- 
 sure to her own, saying, — ' O my dear father ! ' Such 
 was the lovely opening of her new promise, and now 
 the darkness that follows it is extreme. Will it ever 
 pass away ? " 
 
 The shadow of physical weakness and depression 
 passed away, and as he regained his strength, his mind 
 recovered its tone, and we find him writing as follows. 
 
 To the same : — 
 
 " Feb. 15, J844. The few last months have obliged 
 me to be constantly speaking of myself. So much so, 
 that now I feel as if I were in danger of extreme selfish- 
 ness, and yet, as in my former sorrow, I am deter- 
 mined to be perfectly natural in the expression of my 
 feeling, — that is, not to suppress whatever I feel like 
 saying, simply because it may seem like taxing the sym- 
 pathy of friends and holding one's self up as an object of 
 compassion. The great endeavour should be to get 
 back as soon as possible to the healthy state of mind, 
 for in that only can we feel our relation to our Father and 
 perform the duties it requires. With me, the free ex- 
 pression of feeling is the most direct way to it. I trust 
 I shall reach it soon. I am sometimes astonished at 
 the manner in which I bear these things ; they seem 
 horrible as they are coming. My flesh and heart fail at 
 h* 
 
lxXXVi MEMOIR. 
 
 the sight, but when they are come, though I am in the 
 very shadow of death, and feel its chill at my heart, I 
 find myself sustained, — there is no heart-sinking, — I 
 submit, without a wish that it were otherwise ; for the 
 Divine sympathy and presence seem so near me, that I 
 almost doubt whether it is not delusion. But when I re- 
 flect upon it, I feel surer of this than of any thing else ; 
 there are effects produced in myself which only this is 
 sufficient to account for. I know that it must be so, and 
 I throw myself back on this feeling with as much confi- 
 dence as if I was leaning on the Rock of Ages 
 
 will send you what I said last Sabbath by way of 
 
 address to Fanny's companions. There was much in 
 the sudden departure to arrest their attention, and, if I 
 am not under a complete illusion, there was much in 
 Fanny's later character to inspire them to efforts for the 
 unfolding of their spirits, and the attainment of a higher 
 and better life. I do not trust much to any thing that 
 I can say ; — the green tree has never spoken to much 
 purpose, and it cannot be expected of the dry. But in 
 this case God has spoken, and I trust not in vain." 
 
 To the same : — 
 
 " Feb. 27, 1844. Your kind letter has just reach- 
 ed me, while writing. I am very grateful to you for the 
 extract which you send me from Fanny's letter to her 
 young friend. It expresses in words what we saw in 
 living action, or rather expresses in part, for in a letter 
 she does not dwell, as she might have done elsewhere, 
 on the source of those influences which were working 
 the change in her young heart. Still, I hope her young 
 friends will reflect that every effect must have a cause 
 sufficient to produce it. Death, and the impression 
 
MEMOIR. 1XXXVH 
 
 which it makes, are not sufficient, as thousands of cases 
 show. There was in her a quickened sense of obliga- 
 tion, and, of course, a clearer discernment of the love 
 and presence of Him to whom she was thus bound, — 
 to whom the first fruits of her heart and life were due. 
 
 "I am very much struck sometimes with the extent 
 to which I am favored above others. They speak of 
 their want of faith in what seems to me a clear daylight 
 reality. They say, ' Increase our faith,' while it seems 
 to me that nothing short of actual sight and presence 
 
 could make any addition to mine Several have 
 
 said to me that they would give any thing for stronger 
 evidence of the unseen world, whereas faith is the evi- 
 dence ; just in proportion as one believes, and lives ac- 
 cordingly, is he conscious of an effect produced in his 
 heart. An effect so universal and sure cannot come 
 from visions and imaginations ; there must be a reality 
 somewhere. We perceive it, as Columbus found he was 
 nearing the Western Continent by the change in the 
 winds and waters before it rose for the first time upon 
 his view." 
 
 To the same : — 
 
 " March 13, 1844. In your letter you ask if Mr. 
 P. may copy my address. I am sorry he should have 
 had any hesitation about doing it at the time when he 
 felt an interest in it. My whole desire was to have it 
 circulated in manuscript form, because that was the 
 least ostentatious way, and I am very glad when any one 
 cares enough for it to be willing to make a copy. I 
 hope it will be good for others that I have been afflicted, 
 and it does seem to me as if the sudden unfolding of a 
 fine spirit, just shining out and then withdrawn, might 
 
lxxxviii MEMOIR. 
 
 have some effect to touch the heart. It reminds me of 
 the only time when I saw the full moon at Niagara. I 
 was in the tower just over the fall, receiving a strong 
 impression, though the sky was darkened with clouds. 
 All at once the moon hroke through them, gilding the 
 whole prospect, and lighting up the rainbow from the 
 English to the American fall. In a few minutes it was 
 all dark again, and so remained while I was there ; but 
 the memory, and what is more, the effect of that mo- 
 ment's revelation, will go with me to my latest day." 
 
 From this time, Dr. Peabody devoted himself with 
 increased energy to his religious duties. His own ex- 
 perience had taught him how to speak to the hearts of 
 his people with more depth and power than before ; and 
 those who heard him will bear witness that he appealed 
 to them with a spirituality and fervor which made a deep 
 and abiding impression. His health continued to be 
 feeble, and a severe shock was given to his constitution 
 by the afflictions he had undergone ; and he was him- 
 self persuaded that the shadows of night were soon to 
 fall, and that what he was to do must be done quickly. 
 
 The words which he used in speaking to his people 
 of a departed brother,* to whom he paid an eloquent 
 tribute on the Sabbath succeeding his death, f touching- 
 ly describe his own condition at this period of his min- 
 istry : — " We see those, like our departed friend, 
 who live for years in constant suffering, with forms 
 bowed down by infirmity, and yet keep their minds in 
 constant, efficient, useful activity, not considering them- 
 selves released by reason of helplessness from any of 
 
 * Henry Ware, Jr. t September 23, 1843. 
 
MEMOIR. lxXXix 
 
 their obligations to God or man. On the contrary, their 
 energy seems quickened by that which would seem most 
 to oppress it. They devote themselves with more ear- 
 nestness to their duties because the time is short and 
 the service which they render must be rendered soon ; 
 they will not withdraw the fainting hand till it is utterly 
 helpless ; they are determined to give the last remnants, 
 as well as the fulness, of their strength to the labor 
 which they love. Such examples strengthen our confi- 
 dence in the future state, if this be possible, for they 
 show that such persons are able to look over and beyond 
 it ; they live as those who know that they shall live for 
 ever ; they have seized the truth of their condition ; 
 they understand that death is the beginning, not the end ; 
 they keep their powers in constant action here, that they 
 may be prepared to enter at once upon the higher duties 
 which await them in the immortal state to which they go.' 1 
 It has already been seen that the relation in which he 
 stood to his people was very intimate and near ; he felt 
 that in the presence of such friends he could speak with 
 the openness and freedom of familiar intercourse ; and 
 he did speak to them with an earnestness and effect far 
 exceeding those of his earlier years. He seemed at 
 every moment standing on the confines of the eternal 
 world, as one ready to be offered ; permitted just be- 
 fore entering its gate to point out to those he loved, with 
 the failing accents of a dying voice, the way to reach its 
 blessedness. He was always gentle ; but now his soul 
 seemed to glow with Christian love. He was always 
 humble ; but now he wore the aspect of one who never 
 for a moment lost the consciousness that he was in the 
 view of an all-seeing eye, and the great purpose of his 
 being was the only one that occupied his thoughts. 
 
XC MEMOIR. 
 
 It was proposed to him, by members of his society, 
 that he should suspend his labors for a season, in order 
 to visit Europe, and endeavour to establish his health by 
 rest and change of scene ; and they liberally offered to 
 provide him with the means of making such a tour ; but 
 he felt that any prolonged absence might be unfavor- 
 able to the comfort or welfare of his children, and that 
 he could find no happiness elsewhere such as was af- 
 forded by his home. 
 
 It is now apparent that he was at this time drawing 
 rapidly near the grave, but debility had accompanied 
 him so long, that his friends saw no cause for serious 
 alarm, and believed that an effectual remedy might be 
 found in the suspension of some of his labors, which 
 were wearing on his exhausted frame. But his appear- 
 ance and manner gave the impression to strangers, that 
 the period of his labors was not far distant. In July, 
 1846, he delivered a discourse before the Alumni of the 
 Divinity School at Cambridge. Many of those who 
 heard him upon that occasion well remember that he 
 seemed to them to be speaking as a dying man, and that 
 his voice sounded like that of one who is on the border 
 of the grave. 
 
 Here the pen fell from the hands of the only one to 
 whom the friends of his brother were willing to confide 
 the task of preparing this Memoir. While engaged in 
 writing it, he said to a friend that he felt as if he were 
 carving the letters on his own gravestone. His voice is 
 now still. There is a touching eloquence in his silence 
 which it seems almost sacrilege to break. Yet we must 
 follow our suffering friend through the last faltering steps 
 
MEMOIR. XC1 
 
 of his journey ; we would also seek to pay our tribute 
 of affectionate reverence to the memory of that brother 
 who has left none behind him to do justice to his rare 
 genius and excellence. 
 
 Resuming the narrative where we find it is abruptly 
 broken off, we follow Dr. Peabody through six months 
 of debility, until we reach the closing scene. Early in 
 October, 1846, he was attacked with illness, which, 
 though of short duration, was followed by extreme ex- 
 haustion. Writing to a friend, he says of himself : — 
 " My usual way of keeping some subject of active 
 thought before me was out of the question in so weak 
 a state. My mind seems like a leaden weight, or what 
 the boys in fishing call a sinker.'''' At this period, how- 
 ever, he showed that his mind was still awake to the 
 beautiful harmonies of nature. He addressed the fol- 
 lowing lines to a little girl of nine years old, whose un- 
 common susceptibility to natural beauty had attracted 
 his sympathy and attention. They are interesting, as 
 being the last lines of poetry which he ever wrote, and 
 as showing the peculiar grace and facility with which he 
 always directed the young to find in nature the wise and 
 tender teachings of a Father's love. 
 
 " Louisa! did you never trace 
 The smile on nature's glorious face, 
 That seems to breathe from every part 
 The deep expression of a heart ? 
 I know you have ; — in every flower 
 You feel a presence and a power; 
 To you the blue and silent sky 
 Has meaning, like an earnest eye ; 
 And all the warm and living glow, 
 Where foliage heaves and waters flow, 
 Inspires in every changing tone 
 Some feelings answering to vour own. 
 
XC11 MEMOIR. 
 
 " But tell me whence that smile can he. 
 The earth says, — ' It is not in^me ' ; 
 ' 'T is not in me,' the deep replies ; 
 The same voice answers from the skies. 
 The smile divine that nature wears 
 Comes from some higher source than theirs ; 
 For such expression never springs 
 From lifeless and unmeaning things ; 
 They have no influence to impart, 
 They have no power to touch the heart, 
 And all the brightness round them thrown 
 Is beautiful, but not their own. 
 
 " Then there must be a living soul 
 That quickens and informs the whole ; 
 There is ; in nature ever shine 
 The kindlings of that soul divine. 
 And thus the rich and dreamy haze, 
 That sweetly veils the autumn days, 
 The scarlet leaves that, glancing round, 
 With rainbow fragments strew the ground, 
 The clear transparency of noon, 
 The bright and thoughtful harvest-moon, 
 And all around us and above, 
 Reflect a Father's smile of love. 
 
 " I know that your young heart discerns 
 What man's hard spirit coldly learns, — 
 The truth which throws the brilliant ray 
 Of joy upon the earthly way ; 
 You have a Father, — kind and true, 
 And full of sympathy for you, 
 And, though with warm affection blest, 
 Remember that He loves you best ; 
 O, turn, then, to that Friend above, 
 Resolve to answer love with love, 
 And ever act the filial part, 
 With faithful and confiding heart." 
 
 October, 1846. 
 After an absence of two or three Sundays from his 
 
MEMOIR. XC111 
 
 pulpit, he returned to it while yet too feeble to stand. 
 He was deeply impressed with the conviction, that he 
 should not long be permitted to labor, and he wrought 
 " while it was yet day." He did not, however, so dis- 
 tinctly apprehend danger to his life, as the necessity of 
 abandoning his profession, owing to the extreme diffi- 
 culty of speaking in public, occasioned by a failure of 
 his voice. This increased upon him during the winter, 
 and gave him great uneasiness as to the result. So far, 
 however, from allowing his general state of debility to 
 interrupt his course of duty and exertion, he never, per- 
 haps, during any period of his life, accomplished so 
 much intellectual labor. He furnished more than his 
 usual amount of writing for the North American Review ; 
 was never absent from his pulpit on the Sabbath, and in 
 addition to his accustomed labors on that day he took a 
 class in the Sunday School, of which he writes to a 
 friend as follows : — 
 
 " I wish I had some notes on the Scripture to fur- 
 nish you with ; though perhaps, if you take my course, 
 you will find them less necessary. I have taken a class 
 of young ladies to teach on Sunday, and consider the 
 Scriptures simply as intended to throw light on human 
 nature, duties, and relations. So that my first question 
 is, — ' What can I learn from this passage which it will 
 do me good to know ? ' One is surprised to find how 
 many valuable truths are thus suggested. For instance, 
 in the history of the Fall : I would show from it that a 
 state of prosperity is not one of content, — which God 
 knew, but it was necessary for man to know it ; that 
 no virtue can be of any worth, except it be formed, — 
 that is, it must be character ; that happiness and excel- 
 i 
 
XC1V MEMOIR. 
 
 lence can never be gifts, but must be results ; that the 
 earth was cursed for man's sake, that is, his benefit ; 
 that death, too, is a blessing to all who do not make it 
 otherwise, — a blessing to the surviving in its influences. 
 
 " Truths of this kind will start out before you, and 
 with your power of language and your experience of 
 life you will produce a greater effect than in the old ex- 
 plaining way. In fact, it is only thus regarded that the 
 Bible has a deep and abiding interest, and I am grati- 
 fied to see that my class evidently feel the interest which 
 I wish to inspire. Teaching them on the Sabbath is 
 the only thing in the shape of enjoyment which I am con- 
 scious of looking forward to ; it carries me back to the 
 days of anticipation which I passed out from long ago." 
 
 This tone of sadness and discouragement may be 
 directly traced, at this time, to the state of physical ex- 
 haustion in which he found himself. And yet it must be 
 admitted, that, under circumstances the most favorable for 
 enjoyment, he often was inclined to despondency. He 
 reproached himself at times for not " having a stronger 
 relish for life " ; but he attributed it to his physical con- 
 stitution, which often seemed to act like "a weight and a 
 chain " upon his mind. This natural want of elasticity 
 of spirits made the trials which came upon him so heavily 
 during the latter portion of his life much harder to en- 
 dure than they would have been to a person of a more 
 cheerful spirit and a lighter heart. 
 
 In the month of April he was again visited with a 
 severe cough, which affected his appearance so much 
 that his people became anxious and alarmed, and sought 
 to devise some mode of relief to which he might be in- 
 duced to accede. At a parish meeting held on the 
 
MEMOIR. XCV 
 
 1 lth of May, it was unanimously voted, that a committee 
 be appointed to confer with Dr. Peabody upon the ex- 
 pediency of discontinuing his labors for a time, or to 
 make some arrangements by which he may be partially 
 relieved from the active duties of his office. It was 
 also voted, that, if he would take a recess, the society 
 would supply the pulpit and defray all his expenses 
 during his absence. This expression on the part of the 
 people was communicated to Dr. Peabody in the fol- 
 lowing letter : — 
 
 " Springfield, May 12, 1847. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — Inclosed I send you the votes of our 
 society at their meeting of yesterday. Knowing the 
 anxiety of all our friends upon this subject, and in the 
 hope that a release from all your duties to us, and your 
 domestic cares, may result in great benefit to your 
 health, if not to its restoration, we most cordially and 
 earnestly invite you to try the effect of a voyage to 
 Europe, and for this purpose will make immediate ar- 
 rangements, as provided in the second vote. 
 " Most truly and devotedly yours, 
 
 " John Howard. 
 
 " In behalf of the Committee." 
 
 To this communication, Dr. Peabody made the fol- 
 lowing reply : — 
 
 " Springfield, May 15, 1847. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — Nothing could have been more 
 unexpected than the very generous offer which you have 
 so kindly and considerately communicated, and to 
 which, without reflection, I should be wholly at a loss 
 for a reply. I certainly do not need, and therefore 
 
XCV1 MEMOIR. 
 
 could not think of receiving, any thing like the indulgence 
 proposed ; but since the offer is so liberally made, I 
 may say that my life is too monotonous and unexhilarat- 
 ing to be good for health or efficient action of the mind ; 
 and if I could make arrangements for occasional jour- 
 neys, in the course of which I might supply my pulpit 
 by exchange, it would be a great relief to me in tbe 
 approaching season, not to speak of those whose destiny 
 it is to hear me. I could not possibly leave my family 
 for any long tour without a degree of anxiety which 
 would make travelling of no advantage, and I do not 
 see any way, except something resembling that which I 
 suggest, in which the kind purpose of my friends can 
 be answered. 
 
 " I shall be very happy to see you and the other 
 gentlemen at any time most convenient to you. I shall 
 be at home this, and to-morrow, and Monday evening. 
 Perhaps Sunday evening would be most convenient to 
 you, and it is not likely that any calls on me would 
 occur to interrupt us. 
 
 " Your friend and servant, 
 
 " Wm. B. O. Peabody. 
 
 " John Howard, Esq." 
 
 This expression of sympathy and consideration on 
 the part of his people was exceedingly welcome as an 
 evidence of their affection and interest. It gave an ex- 
 hilaration to his spirits, and induced him to propose to 
 himself a visit to Boston during the week of Anniver- 
 saries, which was immediately to succeed the week 
 upon which he had entered. He made an arrangement 
 to exchange with the Rev. Mr. Thompson of Salem, on 
 
MEMOIR. XCV11 
 
 the Sabbath succeeding the Anniversaries, and felt that 
 the proposal for his relief, of which he had agreed to 
 avail himself to a certain extent, would make a most 
 welcome change in his spirits and in his health. 
 
 On Sunday, May 16th, he preached to his people for 
 the last time. His last sermon was from the text, 
 " To be spiritually minded is life and peace." And 
 the hymn with which he closed his last service in the 
 church was, 
 
 " Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, 
 Thy better portion trace ; 
 Rise from transitory things 
 
 Towards heaven, thy dwelling-place." 
 
 Throughout the day, it was observed that he spoke 
 with peculiar earnestness, and with less appearance of 
 exhaustion than he had exhibited for many weeks. On 
 Tuesday he was engaged for some hours in the morn- 
 ing superintending the setting out of trees in the ceme- 
 tery, and in the afternoon he walked to a distant part 
 of the town, to visit one who was in sickness and pov- 
 erty. Some one not belonging to his parish, on seeing 
 him pass, remarked, " There goes Dr. Peabody on an 
 errand of mercy. He looks too feeble to stand, but 
 while he lives he will be found in the steps of his Mas- 
 ter, going about and doing good." On Wednesday, 
 although far from well, he remained nearly all day at his 
 desk, endeavouring to finish an article which was prom- 
 ised for the next number of the North American 
 Review. He hardly left his desk through the day, and 
 at night, complaining of chilliness and exhaustion, he 
 went early to bed. The next morning he attempted to 
 rise, but finding that he could not support himself, he 
 % * 
 
XCV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 went back to his bed, from which he never rose again. 
 He dictated to his son the closing pages of the review 
 which he was so anxious to complete, but seemed un- 
 equal afterwards to any mental or physical exertion. He 
 appeared to be entirely prostrated, and would repeated- 
 ly say, / want rest. On one occasion he asked to be 
 left alone, saying, " I want to be still, — still as death." 
 Yet he would occasionally be roused by a visit or a 
 message from a friend ; and to one sitting by him, who 
 asked if the perfume of cologne water was still agreeable 
 to him, as it had usually been, he replied with energy, 
 " Give me the smell of an open field, — it speaks of 
 the goodness and love of God." And again, when a 
 flower was handed to him, he exclaimed, " Beautiful ! 
 beautiful ! but not more so than many things which show 
 God's love for us." It was, however, very seldom 
 that he uttered distinctly any continued expression of 
 thought. At times his mind was evidently wandering, 
 and he constantly shrank from any attempt to speak 
 which could be avoided. Those who were near him 
 felt, however, from the expression of his countenance, 
 and from some other indications, that he was not un- 
 aware of the change that was approaching. On the 
 Tuesday evening before his death, just as the " western 
 evening light " was kindling the landscape after an after- 
 noon shower, his physician drew aside the curtain, and 
 asked him, if he should not raise him up to look out 
 upon the beautiful view from his window. After open- 
 ing the curtain, he returned to his side, and found him 
 completely overpowered by his emotion, and in tears. 
 He said, "I am wrong, — it is too much for you." 
 Dr. Peabody motioned to him that he would like to 
 
MEMOIR. XC1X 
 
 have him wait a while, and then said, — "I was think- 
 ing of a death upon this bed such as never was before, 
 and never will be again, when the dying one asked that 
 she might be raised up to look out once more upon that 
 view." 
 
 Throughout the week he seemed constantly sinking, 
 and on Friday, May 28th, he lost the power of speech, 
 and seemed almost unconscious 'at times of what was 
 going on around him. At six o'clock in the evening, his 
 friend, the Rev. Dr. Osgood, came to his bedside, as 
 he said, " to look upon his face once more." He ex- 
 pressed, in tender and affectionate words, his sympathy 
 and prayers for him. Dr. Peabody evidently heard 
 him, and endeavoured to articulate his thanks. This 
 was the last conscious recognition, on his part, of any 
 one about him. He continued to breathe with difficulty 
 until near midnight, when he fell asleep, gently as an 
 infant, and, 
 
 " Life's long warfare closed at last, 
 His soul was found in peace." 
 
 The morning after his spirit departed, as those were 
 standing near him to whom in the Sunday School he 
 had spoken, the last time he met them there, of the true 
 life, they were most touchingly reminded of his last 
 words. " Why should we," said he, " speak of the de- 
 parted as dead ; it is a cold, hard word ; when I am 
 gone, I hope no one will say, ' He is dead.' " 
 
 On Saturday, May 29th, a parish meeting was called 
 to make arrangements for the funeral services. It was 
 fully attended by the male and female members of the 
 society, and utterance was given to the most touching 
 and spontaneous expressions of affection and grief. At 
 
C MEMOIR. 
 
 the funeral, on the following Tuesday, the church was 
 thronged with mourners from all the societies in town. 
 Dr. Gannett of Boston delivered a very appropriate 
 discourse, in which he unfolded the inspiring doctrine 
 of the " identity of the spiritual life on earth with the 
 future life in heaven," showing, in view of this doctrine, 
 what is the true life, and in what sense we should regard 
 that which is commonly called death. By a peculiarly 
 natural and happy transition, he then passed to the mem- 
 ory of him in whom " was seen a most impressive ex- 
 ample of the true life." The remains of the beloved 
 and revered pastor were followed to the cemetery, where 
 they were laid in the spot marked out by himself, a short 
 time before his death. That beautiful hymn of Watts, 
 " There is a land of pure delight," was sung around 
 the open grave ; after which, the throng of mourners 
 .slowly and sadly departed, leaving him in the spot he 
 so dearly loved. 
 
 No place on earth is more associated with his pres- 
 ence than this. He was deeply interested in first pro- 
 jecting the cemetery. He gave his time and personal 
 attention in the laying out of the grounds. He marked 
 out the paths, named them, and, even with his own 
 hand, printed the letters which now point them out to 
 the visitor. His voice was heard here as he performed 
 the service of consecration. Here he passed, at some 
 seasons, many hours of every day, either superintend- 
 ing and assisting in the labor of arranging the grounds, 
 or walking through the paths in silent preparation of his 
 Sabbath services. Here, too, those dearest to him had 
 already been laid. And when we turned away, it 
 seemed not like leaving him in a strange place, but 
 
MEMOIR. CI 
 
 within the familiar sound of falling waters, and among 
 the familiar trees, whose green and protecting shadows 
 bent as if in love and care over his grave. Many will 
 be led to this spot by their reverence for him. In his 
 own words, " at every season, whether in the tender 
 green of spring, the bright radiance of summer, or the 
 pensive and rainbow-colored autumn, it is a place where 
 thoughtfulness can indulge in its meditation and affection 
 give way to its tears, secure that nothing shall be there 
 to disturb its quiet repose ; for the genius of the place 
 has power, and few indeed there are so lost in hardness 
 and folly, that they are not softened to at least a tran- 
 sient solemnity when standing on that holy ground." 
 
 And here the ministry of this faithful servant of God 
 seems ended. We can no longer listen to his teachings 
 of wisdom and of love, and nothing remains to us of 
 his pure and beneficent life but the precious memory of 
 his example and the blessed hope of reunion with him 
 in heaven. Yet we cannot feel that his memory and ex- 
 ample are to pass away. There was an influence that 
 went out from his life and character which cannot be 
 lightly estimated, and we would seek to perpetuate it, if 
 we can do so, by dwelling upon some traits which seem 
 to us most remarkable. 
 
 Perhaps the most striking thing about Dr. Peabody's 
 mind was the combination of qualities which are often 
 supposed to be inconsistent with each other ; — his 
 sound, practical, good sense, and his exquisite taste for 
 the beautiful ; his imaginative powers, and his faithful 
 attention to the details both of life and knowledge ; his 
 " poet's eye," and his calm and profound analysis of all 
 
Cll MEMOIR. 
 
 objects of thought and sight ; his lively fancy, and the 
 accurate precision of his mental habits and his state- 
 ments of fact. It was this which gave him his strong 
 hold upon the confidence of clear-headed and sensible 
 men. They saw that there must be a foundation for 
 what he said with regard to spiritual things, because, in 
 matters which came within the sphere of their own ob- 
 servation, they could always trust his judgment and his 
 practical knowledge. Then, too, how wonderful his 
 keen perception of all the individual peculiarities of 
 character, and his native talent for satire, combined with 
 such exquisite discretion, not only in- speech, but in 
 thought, and such an ever wakeful tenderness for the 
 feelings and claims of others. He had the broadest and 
 most all-embracing charity, and this led you at times to 
 feel as if the defects of those around him were hidden 
 from him, when, in reality, no one could be more sen- 
 sitive to every form of evil and every breath of folly or 
 of sin. 
 
 He always contended that sincerity and Christian 
 courtesy need not be separated. " I have no more 
 right," said he, " to volunteer an opinion of my own 
 which I know will wound the feelings of my companion, 
 than I have to take advantage of my neighbourhood to 
 stick a pin into him. We may always bear our testi- 
 mony to the truth, and leave those who desire to know 
 our sentiments in no doubt as to what they are, and 
 when our counsel or advice is sought, may give it in the 
 fullest plainness of Christian sincerity. But ' speak- 
 ing one's mind,' as it is called, is too often a selfish 
 indulgence of personal feeling, and we cannot too care- 
 fully watch the motives which impel us to it." 
 
MEMOIR. Clll 
 
 Any sketch of the character of his mind would be 
 felt to be imperfect, which left out of view that vein of 
 delicate and irresistible humor which added a never 
 failing charm to his conversation, and often found its 
 way into his graver writings. This talent, which is too 
 often a snare to its possessor, betraying him into a dis- 
 regard of the feelings of others, or leading him at times 
 to view in a ludicrous light subjects which should be 
 always sacred, was never used by him excepting to add 
 a zest to the intercourse of familiar friendship, or to 
 give interest to those curious details of knowledge, which, 
 when recommended by the charm of his inexhaustible 
 wit, were welcomed with delight by every one. Not 
 only did he guard with anxious tenderness all those mis- 
 fortunes and follies which are too often a mark for rid- 
 icule, but never, in his most playful moods did he let fall 
 a remark which might give an association of levity to a 
 subject in itself elevated or sacred. You could never 
 remember any thing which seemed inharmonious with 
 his highest moments. His genial and sportive humor- 
 seemed as much in sympathy with all things generous 
 and kind, as the glancing sunbeam which sends a smile 
 over nature's face, and kindles all objects with its cheer- 
 ful light. Those who remember him best will need 
 but this hint to recall the brilliancy of his wit, — the 
 unfailing resources of his imagination, — which made him 
 in conversation the most fascinating, as well as instruc- 
 tive companion. 
 
 Dr. Peabody took a very deep interest in the public 
 affairs of the day ; but he always seemed to regard 
 them as a part of the continued history of the world, 
 and as such worthy of attention and interest. He 
 
CIV MEMOIR. 
 
 therefore did not identify his opinions with his passions 
 and prejudices, and was not unfitted by the influence of 
 any personal considerations to be an expounder of the 
 highest principles. We might best describe his position 
 in relation to public interests, by again quoting from his 
 tribute to the memory of the sainted Henry Ware the 
 following passage : — " With respect to the great moral 
 questions of the day, in all of which he was deeply 
 interested, he was equally true to his conscience, equally 
 independent of numbers and of party. He had that 
 moderation which the Apostle recommends, a trait of 
 character not estimated, because not" understood ; be- 
 cause few men know how difficult it is to maintain, when 
 parties are thundering in the ear their ' Lo here ! ' and 
 ' Lo there ! ' When one set of men are complaining of 
 your indifference, and another of your violence, it is 
 only a clear mind which can trace out its moral path be- 
 fore it ; only a strong heart which walks straight on in 
 it, unmoved by reproach from either side." 
 
 The universality, as well as the accuracy, of his 
 knowledge was amazing. Whether you sought informa- 
 tion of him on any point of history or science, — wheth- 
 er you would ask about the stars or the flowers, the 
 birds or the insects, — his prompt and full replies gave 
 you an impression that this was a subject of special in- 
 terest to him. He was never hurried. He rarely plead- 
 ed as an excuse for the neglect of any thing that he 
 " had so much to do" ; and never, in the most engross- 
 ing preparations for any service, denied himself to one 
 of his parish who wished to see him. He hardly seemed 
 conscious how much labor he performed, because he 
 never stopped to rest. His habits of early rising gave 
 
MEMOIR. CV 
 
 him a great many hours in the day. He never remained 
 in bed, during the last ten years of his life, after half past 
 four in summer, and the hours which he gave to labor 
 in his garden were also filled with preparations for his 
 Sabbath services. He could return from these fatiguing 
 exertions out of doors, and, going into his study, could 
 transcribe, as he expressed it, from his mind what he had 
 been arranging while his hands weVe busy. His habits 
 with regard to the preparation of his discourses may 
 best be described by quoting from the "• Familiar Ad- 
 dress," from which large extracts were introduced into 
 the earlier pages of this Memoir. 
 
 "I do not believe any thing worth hearing or reading 
 can be produced without labor, and the labor of writ- 
 ing wears upon the nerves and exhausts the spirit more, 
 perhaps, than any other. Let any man sit down to pre- 
 pare an address for some public occasion, and he will 
 have an idea of this labor. Doubtless it becomes easier 
 by habit, but the effect of routine and the perpetual 
 recurrence of the demand once, if not twice, in every 
 week, creates a difficulty on the other side. My own 
 habit has been, never to sit down to consider what I shall 
 write, as many do. I find that my mind, such as it is, 
 acts most freely away from the study and in the pres- 
 ence of nature. I therefore construct in my own 
 mind an exact image of every thing which I intend to 
 write, and this, when completed, can either be spoken 
 or written, as the case requires. My sermons are thus 
 written in my mind during my walks in the fields, the 
 cemetery, or the garden, and when matured are com- 
 mitted to paper in very little time. This has given the 
 impression that I write easily and rapidly, when in truth 
 
 3 
 
CV1 MEMOIR. 
 
 I have no advantage in this respect except, perhaps, that 
 of a better system, which, after the experience of years, 
 I would recommend to every writer, whatever his pro- 
 fession may be." 
 
 Dr. Peabody once said of himself, to a person who 
 was expressing surprise at the amount of writing which 
 he performed in a short time, that he could strike off 
 work more rapidly than many others, because the engine 
 was kept so constantly in motion that it never got cold. 
 He was always intensely occupied with some subject of 
 thought. During the long winter evenings he could 
 never use his eyes, and in the winter .of 1S43-4, in 
 answer to a friend who asked him how he contrived to 
 occupy them, he said that he was so much afraid of 
 reverie in the enfeebled state of his mind and spirits, that 
 he made it a rule to keep some subject of active thought 
 constantly before him, and in order to make sure that 
 he did not deceive himself in the matter, he was always 
 composing. He had so trained his mind, that he could 
 leave off in the middle of a sentence if he were inter- 
 rupted by a visitor, and resume his labors without losing 
 a word, the moment the door was shut. It was in this 
 way that he wrote his lecture on the Anglo-Saxon Race, 
 which he delivered in Salem in November, 1843, and 
 the Life of Oglethorpe, written in the December follow- 
 ing, besides the weekly sermons and lectures of that 
 winter ; and the habit which he formed at that time he 
 continued during the remainder of his life. 
 
 What wonder that he sunk under such an unnatural 
 amount of mental and physical exertion ? In his diary, 
 we find the following record, November 19th, 1843 : — 
 " To-day I preached two sermons which I wrote in 
 
MEMOIR. CV11 
 
 Salem ; written in the heavy hours of night, and com- 
 mitted to paper in the morning. So the time is not 
 wholly lost, and if it does not wear too far upon my 
 strength I shall not much care. It gives quiet and un- 
 broken leisure to hold communion with God, and to 
 cherish that nearness to him which must hereafter be 
 the dearest treasure of my soul." 
 
 One of the most touching things in connection with 
 the effect of his sorrow was to see how carefully he 
 guarded himself against that weak indulgence of it which 
 would unfit him for the active and pressing duties of 
 life. He only asked, with more searching scrutiny, 
 "What remains for me to do?" He, therefore, not 
 only gave himself, as we have seen, with unremitted de- 
 votion, to his intellectual and professional labors, but he 
 immediately took hold of the details of life and domes- 
 tic care, from which he had always been spared, and 
 found relief in the faithful and thorough performance of 
 those duties which were least congenial to his tastes and 
 previous habits, seeming to embrace almost with eager- 
 ness every form of self-denial and painful effort. From 
 the period of their mother's death, he devoted himself 
 to his children. In a letter written during the last win- 
 ter of his life, he says : — "I now keep school for the 
 children every evening. Besides aiding the younger 
 ones, I am also desirous to keep F. connected with 
 some intellectual and improving pursuits, which would 
 not be easy, confined as he is in the bank all day, with- 
 out a strong manifestation of interest on my part. We 
 are not liable to much interruption, and though, after 
 writing so much in the day, it is not just the recreation 
 that I should select, still there is always more satisfaction 
 in doing than in neglecting one's duty." 
 
CV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 In the course of the same winter, one of his youngest 
 boys left him to pass a few months away from home. 
 At parting he gave him the following directions, with the 
 request that he would read them daily. 
 
 "1. Never forget that you have a Heavenly Father. 
 Speak to him every day. It is ungrateful to neglect 
 him, and if you do, you will repent it bitterly for ever. 
 
 " 2. Remember your friends at home, and how anx- 
 ious they are for your welfare and improvement. If you 
 will not take the trouble to write to them, they can have 
 no confidence in your affections. 
 
 " 3. Be affectionate and faithful to the friends around 
 you. Give up your own inclinations when they inter- 
 fere with theirs. 
 
 " 4. Govern your passions firmly. You can be their 
 master ; do not be their slave. 
 
 "5. Always attend to duties first, and afterwards to 
 pleasures. Finish with your studies before you allow 
 your amusements to begin. 
 
 " 6. Do not read much fiction. It is to the mind 
 like drinking to the body : it intoxicates and destroys 
 the power of the mind for any strong and useful exer- 
 tion. 
 
 "7. Ask of every thing which you are disposed or 
 tempted to do, Is this right ? If it is, do it, however 
 much it costs you ; if it is not, let nothing induce you to 
 do it. Every time you obey your conscience, you in- 
 crease its power within you. Each time you act against 
 it, you do something to destroy its power. 
 
 "8. Never forget that you are on the way to a world 
 where you must answer for every thing that you have 
 done. Live so that you may give in your account with 
 joy, and not with dread." 
 
MEMOIR. C1X 
 
 He was always anxious to make them realize what 
 are the true objects of life, and to lead them to the high- 
 est aims in the formation of character. A series of 
 minute directions to this effect was written down by him 
 for the use of one of his older children, but a few weeks 
 before his death, beginning thus : — " Character is the 
 familiar and commanding use of the power to pursue 
 the right without submission to circumstances and incli- 
 nations. When the power does not exist, or is not 
 used, the living thing can never be a man." 
 
 In further illustration of the views which he held, and 
 which he always aimed to give his children, of the pur- 
 pose of existence, we copy the following extract from 
 a letter addressed to one of his sons, dated June 27th, 
 1846: — 
 
 " I am glad to see that you begin to be interested in 
 the great problems of existence. They have in all ages 
 taxed the energies of active minds, and such minds have 
 been as unable as you to see why this world should 
 have been made as it is, and why God pronounced it 
 good. The mystery never was explained till Christiani- 
 ty taught us the supreme importance and value of char- 
 acter, — showing that the formation of character in prep- 
 aration for more advanced existence is the chief consid- 
 eration, and comfort and happiness, which generally stand 
 foremost to our minds, are only incidental things. This 
 clears all up. We see that the world, with its difficul- 
 ties and trials, is precisely what is wanted for the pur- 
 pose. The same purpose evidently could not be an- 
 swered without such discipline and training as we en- 
 counter here, and we see that a Heavenly Father, who 
 consults not our wishes, but our welfare, has subjected 
 j* 
 
CX -MEMOIR. 
 
 us to this process of education, for such it is. Children 
 in schools are constantly asking, ' What good will these 
 studies, and this whole machinery of education, r do ? ' 
 Those who are a little ahead of them can see the bene- 
 fit of these things, while they cannot. And so those 
 who make character the great aim and effort of life will 
 discern the fitness of this world and its changes. They 
 admire the wisdom of its arrangements and adaptations, 
 and they gratefully pronounce it good." 
 
 We should certainly omit a most remarkable feature 
 of his mind and habits, if we did not speak of his un- 
 wearied study of the Bible. He gave the strongest im- 
 pression of what might be gained, not only in practical 
 excellence, but in intellectual power, by a devoted study 
 of its spirit and its letter. We hear those who were 
 privileged to listen to his luminous expositions of Scrip- 
 ture speak of the wonderful and living way in which it 
 all seemed to lie open before him. It is still more in- 
 structive to see how it was the bread of life to him, and 
 how it became his intellectual as well as his spiritual 
 food. His taste led him strongly in early life to works 
 of imagination, and few persons had his degree of fa- 
 miliarity with the best works of fiction and with every 
 branch of general literature. His wonderfully retentive 
 and accurate memory made these stores available in the 
 latter portion of his life, when, in writing upon general 
 subjects, as he was called to do in the exercise of his 
 functions as a reviewer, his endless variety of illustra- 
 tion, and his stores of poetic quotations, gave great ani- 
 mation and interest to every subject which he touched. 
 At this period, however, he frequently spoke of his en- 
 tire want of interest in all works of fiction, and in writ- 
 
MEMOIR. CXI 
 
 ing to a friend, he says : — " is deep in Eugene 
 
 Sue's literature, — an individual of whom I shall never 
 ask whence he came, or whither he is going ; only too 
 grateful that I am not condemned to read him in penance 
 for the sins of other days." He sometimes attempted 
 to read those works of fiction which have delighted the 
 reading world during the last few years, but repeatedly 
 said, " I have completely lost my taste for such read- 
 ing." And then would speak of the untiring freshness 
 which he always found in the Scriptures. The word of 
 God was always new and always suggestive ; and he 
 was unwearied in his efforts to induce those in whom 
 he was interested to find there all that he found. 
 
 He was often urged, by those who had listened to his 
 extemporaneous expositions of Scripture, to prepare a 
 commentary upon the Bible, which should fill a place 
 not yet occupied by any. This would have been to 
 him the most delightful of all occupations, and he always 
 looked forward to it in the hope that at some future time 
 he should secure the leisure to prepare it and the means- 
 to publish it. During the last year of his life, measures 
 were taken to secure these to him, and had he lived, we 
 should have seen the work accomplished. 
 
 " As a theologian, Dr. Peabody cared not to place 
 himself among the champions of any class of religious 
 opinions. Decided in his own belief, frank in its 
 avowal, and ' ready always to give an answer to every 
 one that asked him a reason of the hope that was in 
 him,' he had none of the temper of the dogmatist or 
 
 the sectarian The amenity of disposition and 
 
 the personal humility which sealed his lips against all 
 censorious or injurious remark disposed him to avoid 
 
CX11 MEMOIR. 
 
 the asperities of theological warfare. Hence, during his 
 whole residence in this town, he was a peacemaker, re- 
 garded with scarcely less esteem and treated with not 
 less confidence beyond than within the limits of his own 
 congregation. His exhortation was that of one who 
 neither loved strife, nor felt any superiority over those 
 who differed from him. ' Cherish,' said he, ' with all your 
 care the spirit of your Master, and remember that his 
 spirit can dwell only in a gentle, forbearing, patient, and 
 loving heart.' Such a heart he carried in his own 
 breast, and if we desire proof that it was understood in 
 this community, we need only look on this concourse of 
 mourners, and observe how entirely sectarian differences 
 are forgotten in a common sorrow."* 
 
 The common respect and common sorrow are well 
 expressed in the following letter from the pastor of the 
 First Church. It was written in reply to an invitation 
 to be present at the installation of Dr. Peabody's suc- 
 cessor, and leaves us at a loss which most to admire, — 
 the spirit that dictated the eulogy, or the character that 
 drew it forth. 
 
 i £ M% , " Springfield, January 24th, 18* 
 " To the Committee of the Third Congregational So- 
 ciety in Springfield. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — I received your very kind invitation 
 to be present at the services preparatory to the installation 
 of the man whom you have chosen to fill the place of 
 your late beloved pastor. I use the expression as my 
 own. No man had a higher sense of the moral excel- 
 
 * Dr. Gannett's Funeral Discourse, p. 28. 
 
MEMOIR. CX111 
 
 lence and Christian courtesy of the Rev. Dr. Peabody 
 than I had. Our intercourse was always pleasant and sat- 
 isfactory to me, and I should have delighted to have told 
 the congregation of mourners at his grave how much I 
 esteemed him, and how highly I thought of his deep-toned 
 piety as I saw it expressed in his humble resignation to 
 the Divine will in the hours of his sorrow, under his se- 
 vere bereavements. Never shall I forget the impressions 
 which I received in those interviews. I said to myself, 
 ' Here is the patience and faith of the saints.' I surely 
 cannot desire a greater blessing on your society, than 
 that his successor may possess a spirit as kind and gen- 
 tle as his. For the regard expressed for me, you will 
 accept my sincere thanks. I have never had it in my 
 power to do you many acts of kindness, but if you had 
 needed them as a society, I assure you I should have 
 performed them with pleasure. I cannot wish any thing 
 more agreeable to myself than that my intercourse with 
 your pastor, whom you have chosen, may be of a simi- 
 lar character to that which I enjoyed with him ' who is 
 not.' Permit me to express the hope, that the mantle 
 of the departed may have fallen upon the living prophet, 
 and that under his ministrations you and your children 
 may ' grow as the lily and cast forth your roots as Leb- 
 anon,' and ' bring forth fruit in old age.' 
 
 " Accept, Gentlemen, my regards for you personally 
 and my wish for your individual happiness. 
 
 Samuel Osgood. 
 
 " Henry Sterns, 
 John Howard, 
 Samuel Bowles, \ Committee." 
 
 J. WlLLARD, 
 
 Simon Sanborn, 
 
CX1V MEMOIR. 
 
 Peace was indeed, with Dr. Peabody, the language of 
 his lips and of his life. He made the duty of love and 
 forgiveness often the subject of his exhortations from the 
 pulpit, and he was not content to confine his influence 
 to his public services, but would urge the matter most 
 affectionately and earnestly upon those in whom he was 
 interested, whenever he found opportunity to do so. 
 In conversation with a friend during the last year of his 
 life, he said, — "I will not judge others, but this I must 
 say for myself; that if a human being lived to whom I 
 could not cordially extend my hand in sympathy and 
 kindness, I should feel that the gate of heaven was 
 closed to me." This disposition seemed to be com- 
 pletely understood by all those with whom he came in 
 contact, and no unkind jealousy could express itself in 
 his presence. By the force of sympathy, all ungenerous 
 and resentful passions were for the time annihilated. 
 
 During every period of Dr. Peabody's life, his love of 
 nature added greatly to his happiness. This was man- 
 ifested very strongly in his earlier writings, in his poems, 
 and in the admirable instructions which he gave the 
 children in his Sunday school. His intimate acquaint- 
 ance with its most interesting forms and aspects added 
 a peculiar zest to his enjoyment of nature. He seemed 
 always at home when he spoke of the wonderful objects 
 by which we are surrounded, and he loved to introduce 
 others to the sources of his pleasure. After the afflic- 
 tions which threw so deep a shadow over the scenes of 
 his former joys, his love of nature seemed only to grow 
 more intense. We find in his diary the following 
 record : — 
 
 " Dec. 17. I was delighted this morning with the 
 
MEMOIR. CXV 
 
 appearance of the snow on all the branches of the trees. 
 It is a fairy-like beauty. It was followed by a rain 
 which is still falling ; they call it gloomy, — but is any 
 thing gloomy in the creation of God ? " 
 
 And again : — 
 
 " Dec. 27. The trees covered with snow this morn- 
 ing. What a beautiful sight ! What a beautiful world ! 
 And how strange that I should be* more sensible of its 
 beauty than ever, now the being whom I love best has 
 left me ! It is not her loss, however, but her spiritual 
 presence, which strengthens hope and resolution, and in- 
 creases my power to enjoy every thing which displays 
 the love and blessing of my Heavenly Father." 
 
 One dark November day, when a friend remarked to 
 him upon the dreary look of all without, he said, — " All 
 days are pleasant to me ; there is not an expression on 
 the face of nature which I do not love." At the same 
 time, he spoke of the new feeling with which he had 
 looked upon the earth since the form he so much loved 
 had been laid there. He loved it as he had never done 
 before. How much this association endears and conse- 
 crates the beautiful spot where they repose together ! 
 
 Perhaps nothing was oftener remarked about Dr. 
 Peabody, than that he was in all places and under all 
 circumstances the Christian minister. This was never 
 laid aside in the most unrestrained private intercourse. 
 His reverence for sacred things was beautiful and touch- 
 ing. No one could feel that there was any formality in 
 it, and the spirit was contagious. It seemed entirely 
 in keeping with the habit of his thoughts, and you could 
 not regard it as any thing but the result of a peculiar 
 nearness to the most sacred and sanctifying influences. 
 
CXV1 MEMOIR. 
 
 " Was it not a remark often heard, as, with his calm but 
 not stern demeanour, and his air of spiritual thought, he 
 walked along your streets on some errand of duty or of 
 love, ' There goes a disciple of the great Master ' ? 
 Did he not recall to your minds the image of him whose 
 meat it was to do his Father's will ? You remember his 
 Christian deportment, his purity of character, his sim- 
 plicity of purpose, his gentleness of manner, the up- 
 rightness of his walk, the fidelity of his labor. He had 
 opened his heart to his Saviour, and that Saviour had 
 become to him ' wisdom and righteousness, and sanctifi- 
 cation and redemption.' " # 
 
 His deportment was always such as seemed in harmo- 
 ny with the highest purposes of life. Notwithstanding 
 the liveliness of his fancy and the readiness of his wit, 
 his conversation was never frivolous, and his very pres- 
 ence rebuked the levity of others. Nothing was more 
 striking than the fact, that, notwithstanding the fastidious- 
 ness of his taste and the delicacy of his perceptions, he 
 never was known to complain of the companionship of 
 the frivolous, the tedious, or the uninteresting. His 
 spirit of comprehensive charity and love made itself in- 
 stantly recognized by those who were the objects of it. 
 Every thing genuine and good in those around him re- 
 sponded to the touch of his sympathy. It was there- 
 fore true that no one was uninteresting to him, because 
 in every one there are elements which are only waiting 
 to be developed by the presence of sympathy, and when 
 in communication with him, what was wisest and best 
 would be called into action. 
 
 * Dr. Gannett's Funeral Discourse, p. 21. 
 
MEMOIR. CXV11 
 
 This view of human beings made his duties as a par- 
 ish minister delightful to him. He always spoke of 
 them as satisfactory, and after the bereavements which 
 overshadowed his home, he said he found more comfort 
 in going about among his people than in any other em- 
 ployment. We find in his diary the following record : — 
 " December 12. Began to-day to write the Life of 
 Oglethorpe. Pleasant, if I had time, but I have com- 
 menced visiting the people with a full determination to 
 spend at least every afternoon in that employment. God 
 
 make me faithful ! How much good may be 
 
 done by keeping up this familiar communication ! " And 
 again : — "In my visits this afternoon, I was told by a 
 mother that her little child had prayed for me ever since 
 my affliction, that God would bless and comfort me. 
 God bless the dear child ! " 
 
 It was, however, amidst the darkest scenes of life 
 that the power of his presence and Christian sympathy 
 was most brightly manifested. In the chamber of pov- 
 erty and sickness he made himself felt as the protecting 
 and sustaining friend ; and more than one bereaved and 
 desolate being was heard to exclaim, when he was taken 
 away, " I have lost my best earthly friend and adviser." 
 At the bedside of the dying, his strong faith fitted him 
 to speak with a power which was rarely equalled. 
 Those who have listened to his voice at such a season 
 have felt the power of faith to lay hold on eternal life ; 
 and while he cheered and strengthened the departing 
 spirit, he consoled those who were sorrowing round the 
 dying bed, and often preached more powerfully there 
 than he could have done from the pulpit, through years 
 of unbroken prosperity and peace. His faithfulness as a 
 k 
 
CXV111 MEMOIR. 
 
 pastor was often remembered with gratitude by those 
 who were leaving this world, and among the most pre- 
 cious rewards of his ministry were these testimonies 
 which came to him from lips so soon to be sealed in 
 death. 
 
 His faith was indeed like " the open vision." He 
 expresses it most strongly, as we have seen, in the dis- 
 courses and the letters written immediately after his 
 great bereavements ; and then how beautifully he turned 
 back to earth and discharged its humblest duties ! Like 
 the monk, in that touching legend with which we are all 
 familiar, who lingered not in his cell to enjoy the vision 
 of the Saviour, when the hour arrived in which it was 
 his duty to feed the poor at the gate of the convent. 
 On his return he found the blessed vision still waiting 
 for him, and uttering these words, — "Hadst thou staid, 
 I must have fled." 
 
 We cannot cease to speak of him without observing 
 that the predominant impression which his character, 
 especially in his last years, left upon the mind, was that 
 of the supremacy of duty. He had the martyr spirit, 
 and could have endured to the end had the martyr's 
 fate been his. His was the unconquerable will ; all 
 things were possible to him through Christ strengthening 
 him. Hence his resolute purpose to let nothing lead 
 him aside from the great object of this life, which, as 
 he always loved to state it, was " the formation of char- 
 acter in preparation for life eternal." 
 
NOTICES 
 
 REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 
 
 We feel that, after closing the life of this true minis- 
 ter of Christ, our sacred work is not completed unless 
 we endeavour to combine with our recollections of him 
 a sketch of that brother with whom through life he was 
 so intimately associated in the minds of their friends and 
 of the public. The first pages of this Memoir might 
 almost be regarded as an autobiography, so much did 
 the brothers, in their early days, resemble each other, 
 not only in taste and character, but in the outward 
 course of their lives. They had the same humility and 
 self-distrust, united with dignity and independence ; the 
 same uprightness of principle and firmness of purpose, 
 blended with a gentle deference for the feelings and 
 claims of others, which in youth seem so lovely, and 
 which in maturer life lead to such efficient and benev- 
 olent action. They had the same exquisite humor and 
 wit, combined with a tenderness and discretion which 
 are rarely found in youth ; — the same uncompromising 
 devotion to duty and to the highest standard of right, 
 united with the most gentle and generous judgments of 
 
CXX NOTICES OF THE 
 
 others. They were alike reserved in manner, and of 
 course were fully known only to their more intimate 
 friends ; and yet few persons probably ever gave a more 
 true impression of themselves than they did by the sim- 
 ple force of a character, which, by its freedom from 
 pretension, disarmed criticism, and by its benignity, pu- 
 rity, and excellence, secured the confidence and respect 
 of all. 
 
 We copy from the Christian Examiner* some details 
 respecting the subject of this notice, together with an 
 eloquent tribute to his virtues, feeling that we can offer 
 nothing which will do equal justice to his rrlemory. 
 
 " Oliver William Bourne Peabody was born 
 at Exeter, N. H., on the 9th of July, 1799. He was 
 twin brother of the late Rev. William Bourne Oliver 
 Peabody, and, like him, bore the names of his father, 
 the late Judge Peabody, and of his mother's father, 
 Hon. William Bourne. The brothers grew up togeth- 
 er, together were educated by Dr. Abbot in the acad- 
 emy of their native town, and together entered Harvard 
 College, in 1813. From the moment of their birth to 
 that of their separation, the last year, by the death of 
 Dr. Peabody of Springfield, they were bound together 
 by the closest attachment, and by a striking sympathy in 
 tastes, which was marked by such occasional differences 
 of temperament as strengthened and gave beauty to the 
 union. The very strong personal resemblance between 
 the two, which all their friends observed, was not more 
 remarkable than this close union of sympathies and 
 
 * For September, 1848. The article is understood to have been 
 written by the Rev. Edward E. Hale, of Worcester. 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXX1 
 
 aims, which always lasted through difference of pursuits 
 and of homes, and to which we now look back as if it 
 were a forewarning to us that in death they would not 
 long be parted. 
 
 " The brothers entered college at an age now con- 
 sidered early, but even at that period Mr.. Oliver Pea- 
 body showed traits of character and fancy which have 
 since been familiar to his friends. ' He was,' in the 
 words of one of his early friends, ' a most amiable, 
 pleasant young man, full of wit and most irresistible hu- 
 mor, with a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the power 
 to communicate it to others. He had a love and talent 
 for music, and played the flute and sang very agreeably. 
 He was also fond of drawing, and sketched with great 
 spirit and delicacy. He was always a most delightful 
 companion, his conversation most agreeable, enriched 
 as it was from his wide reading, from which he always 
 had at hand the most apt illustrations.' 
 
 " On leaving college, Mr. Peabody studied his fa- 
 ther's profession, under his father's direction, at Exeter. - 
 He spent some time, also, at the Law School in Cam- 
 bridge, before he was admitted to the bar in New 
 Hampshire. He then began the practice of the law in 
 his native town. In the eleven years which followed, 
 he was not confined to the cares of his profession alone. 
 He was a member of the State legislature, and at dif- 
 ferent times took the editorial charge of the Rocking- 
 ham Gazette and the Exeter News-Letter. In the files 
 of these papers are articles from his pen sparkling with 
 vivacity and humor. These, and other essays and po- 
 ems, which he published then and afterwards in various 
 journals, are distinguished no less for brilliancy and 
 k* 
 
CXX11 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 freshness of thought than for a certain polished accuracy 
 of style, the result of his patient and diligent care. 
 Always nice in expression, always accurate in style, he 
 was never formal, dull, or commonplace. His mind 
 never lost that eagerness for fresh combinations, and for 
 a distinct, unabused point of view, which had given to 
 him his early humor and love of the ludicrous. This 
 was the reason that he wrote so little in comparison 
 with the great army of what are called literary men. 
 But, for the same reason, there is scarcely any thing 
 which he has written that is not worthy of publication, 
 and that did not fully answer its purpose, whether to 
 rouse a laugh as coming from the carrier of a newspa- 
 per, or as an episode in political controversy, or as de- 
 manding thought and study, when published in a review 
 
 -or delivered before a lyceum Many of our readers 
 
 •will recollect the poem which he delivered at Cambridge 
 before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, in 1822. When 
 the citizens of Portsmouth celebrated the second cen- 
 tennial anniversary of that town, he delivered a poem 
 which is still remembered with pleasure. He had early 
 shown his poetical genius and facility of versification, — 
 talents which he always possessed, though he used them 
 too little. He and his brother each delivered a poem 
 when they graduated at Cambridge, and there are sev- 
 eral poems among the published papers to which we 
 have alluded. 
 
 "In 1830, Mr. Peabody removed to Boston, which 
 was his home for most of the remainder of his life. 
 His brother-in-law, Mr. A. H. Everett, was then the 
 editor of the North American Review, and Mr. Pea- 
 body acted as a constant and valuable assistant to him in 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXX111 
 
 that duty. Till near the close of 'his life he was an 
 occasional contributor to that journal, and for some 
 years there is scarcely a volume which does not contain 
 one or more articles from him. At the same time, for 
 several years, he was an assistant editor of the Boston 
 Daily Advertiser, and some of his most pointed essays 
 were published in that paper, as from time to time they 
 were called forth by the changing aspects of political 
 or literary affairs. There are certain duties of an ed- 
 itor's life for which he was peculiarly fitted. His very 
 wide general information, frequently relating to subjects 
 where the most careful books of reference are dumb, 
 and all indexes useless, served him especially, when 
 called upon, as the editor of a daily journal constantly 
 is, to illustrate unexpected movements and explain new 
 events on the shortest notice. 
 
 " Mr. Peabody served for two or three years as a 
 member of the Massachusetts legislature. In the year 
 1836, he was appointed Register of Probate in Suffolk 
 county. He filled the duties of this office until 1842. 
 It is a laborious post, requiring, under the probate ar- 
 rangements of this State, the constant personal attention 
 of the incumbent, and close labor from him, if only as 
 a copyist. But Mr. Peabody found time for literary 
 studies and occupations. His daily exercise was made 
 the means of that study of nature which he always loved. 
 And, while both faithful and popular in an employment 
 which is certainly not the most refreshing or invigorat- 
 ing, he was still to his friends, and to any whom he 
 could serve, as full of spirit and life as he had ever 
 been when engaged in more exciting daily duties. His 
 health, however, always delicate, was impaired by the 
 
CXX1V NOTICES OF THE 
 
 labors of the office, and in 1842 he resigned it, on ac- 
 cepting from Jefferson College, an institution endowed 
 and supported by the State of Louisiana, an appoint- 
 ment as Professor of English Literature. He entered 
 on the duties of this post in the autumn of that year. 
 But the climate of Louisiana proved unfavorable to his 
 constitution, and, unwilling to contend longer with the 
 lassitude which it induced, he resigned his professorship 
 the next year, and returned to the North. 
 
 " It was at as recent a period as this that he entered 
 directly upon the sphere of life which commends him 
 especially to the interest of the readers of the Exam- 
 iner. For many years, perhaps, he had wished to en- 
 gage in the Gospel ministry. From his early days he 
 had lived under high and pure religious influences, the 
 result of clear and well-sustained religious convictions ; 
 and of late years his reading had more and more taken 
 that turn which would especially prepare him for the 
 duties of a Christian minister. On returning from the 
 South, he immediately carried out his intention of en- 
 tering the ministry, and continued without interruption 
 the studies which, with that view, he had thus begun. 
 His residence at this time was sometimes in Boston, 
 and sometimes in Springfield, with his brother. While 
 in Boston, he acted as the Secretary of the c Emigrant 
 Society,' as long as that valuable society was in ex- 
 istence. Its object was to communicate true informa- 
 tion to emigrants, and to those who proposed to em- 
 igrate, — and to make arrangements for their reception 
 here, that they might be free from the impositions to 
 which their condition is peculiarly liable. In this charge 
 Mr. Peabody was greatly interested. But the public 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXV 
 
 failed to support the society, and after about a year its 
 action ceased. 
 
 " In the summer of 1844, Mr. Peabody received 
 from the Boston Association its license to preach ; and 
 in August, 1845, he was settled as the pastor of the 
 Unitarian church in Burlington, Vermont, where he 
 had preached in the previous spring and summer ; and 
 in that beautiful town he lived, in the discharge of his 
 ministry, until his death. His health, however, be- 
 came more and more delicate during the last years of 
 his life, and, after a short, acute illness, he died, on 
 the 5th of July last, four days before closing his fiftieth 
 year. 
 
 " The ministry had been the profession of his ma- 
 ture choice. He knew what it was, or what it might 
 be, for he had seen for more than twenty years all the 
 detail and beautiful completeness of his brother's min- 
 istry in Springfield. He knew what he himself should 
 labor to do in it, for no man had a deeper sympathy for 
 others, or a more devoted reliance upon God. With 
 more and more interest, therefore, as his life passed on 
 in other labors, did he contemplate this field of action. 
 And therefore, when he entered on his duty at Bur- 
 lington, it was to test hopes which he had long enter- 
 tained, to try plans which were of old familiar to him. 
 To himself it was a very happy epoch. It opened to 
 him the whole of a field of labor in which he had 
 already gleaned more than many professed reapers who 
 had less fervency and zeal than he. The relief of the 
 poor, the comfort of the sorrowing, the raising of soci- 
 ety, were no new efforts to him ; and the duties of a 
 Christian minister only united in a specific form hopes, 
 
CXXV1 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 labors, and exertions, to which, in whatever occupa- 
 tion, he had always devoted his life. His entrance 
 upon those duties, then, could not but be a happy event 
 to himself. It was peculiarly a pleasure to his friends, 
 who felt that he was now exactly where he ought to be. 
 You could not see him without feeling that he was too 
 refined, too delicate, too tender, to bear much of the 
 rough intercourse of the world. You could not know 
 him without thinking, that, in whatever calling, he was 
 one standing between God and his children, — between 
 Jesus and his disciples. He himself would never have 
 disowned any activity or rigid monotony of labor. In 
 the hard routine of official life, he had no complaint to 
 make of his position. But his friends, for him, could, 
 and did, rejoice that he should be transferred to another 
 scene and sort of effort. 
 
 " And in his ministry, their presages were all made 
 real, and his own satisfaction was never dimmed for a 
 moment. An affectionate people became more and more 
 attached to him, until the moment of his death, which 
 separated him from no formal relationship, but from con- 
 nection with a company of Christian friends most near 
 and most dear. Whoever listened to his fervent, and 
 eloquent, and tender exhortations from the pulpit, or 
 joined in his affectionate, devout, and appropriate pray- 
 ers, thanked God that such a precious servant was min- 
 istering at his altar. And his own people, who knew 
 him, day by day, and year by year, in the ebbs and 
 flows of his delicate health ; who saw him, day by day, 
 in his enthusiastic discharge of the home duties of his 
 parish ; who followed him in the zeal and poetical ardor 
 with which he traced out God in the beautiful scenery 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXV11 
 
 which surrounded them, — in its prospects, its vegeta- 
 tion, its exquisite changes of summer and winter ; they 
 who knew him as his friends knew him — and his friends 
 only — were bound to him every day by a closer and 
 closer tie, and every day must have come with him 
 nearer and nearer to the God whom he loved while he 
 worshipped. The gentle fearlessness with which he 
 passed from the world to heaven will always linger in 
 their memory. And, now that he has gone, they will 
 enjoy more and more with every day that gift which 
 death is forced to leave, as one compensation for a part- 
 ing, — that nice perception of excellence, which, in the 
 hour of grief, springs up from the clear memories of a 
 whole life, far more definite, far more complete, than 
 can be the ever-changing sentiment with which we regard 
 a present, living friend. 
 
 " To give an idea of such a man, the set facts of a 
 biography are powerless. The dates and other details 
 which we have been repeating do not mark eras in Mr. 
 
 Peabody's character Before his entrance on the 
 
 ministry, as afterwards, he was a man of broad, generous 
 culture, of the kindest heart, of the most active gener- 
 osity, and of a living, fervent, devoted soul. Before, 
 as well as afterwards, he trained himself by a diligent 
 intellectual culture, which was doubtless seconded by a 
 high, secret, spiritual effort ; so that his education was 
 never over, — so that his life was always fresh, and he 
 always young. And as his friends look back upon him 
 to-day, it is to look back upon one whom they never 
 saw without being glad that they saw him, whom they 
 never parted from without making him promise soon to 
 meet again ; one from whom, whenever they met, they 
 
CXXV111 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 received some gift of fancy, of learning, or of love, 
 which they always prized, and by which they always re- 
 membered him, and to whom, when they separated, 
 they looked back with new admiration and love. 
 
 " Such reasons have his friends for remembering him 
 and mourning for his loss. But by the public he is re- 
 membered rather for his gifts of intellect, and as a liter- 
 ary man. In all his different occupations, he retained, 
 as we have said, the studies and tastes with which in his 
 earlier life he had followed literary pursuits, and by 
 which he gained the ease and power of usefulness which, 
 as a man of letters, he always had. He Was interested 
 in foreign literature, but was most attracted by the clas- 
 sical literature of England. In this he was thoroughly 
 versed. His lectures upon it were lively and interest- 
 ing, and by his study of it he illustrated his writings and 
 his conversation. But as a literary man he deserves this 
 as his highest praise, that, even in the goading haste of 
 an editor's duty, he never wrote carelessly, or without 
 something to say, — that, while he read more than most 
 men of letters, he wrote much less, — and that he never 
 prostituted his reading to the purpose of mere indolent 
 amusement, glancing here and there at the reflections of 
 the shadows of what were once great ideas. Passing 
 hastily over the ephemeral reviews and restatements 
 which shallow flippancy digests from the original effort 
 of great minds, he recurred for himself to the authors 
 who were worth study ; coped with them, whether dull 
 or quaint or obscure, with his own resources ; for him- 
 self found out their meaning, and with his own thought 
 and labor arranged it for the world. He never published 
 any thing but the miscellaneous papers to which we have 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXX1X 
 
 already alluded, and such reports and other papers as he 
 drew up in the course of his public duties. At the 
 time of his death, however, he had been occupied in 
 preparing a memoir of his brother, and this book he left 
 nearly ready for publication. 
 
 " What we have said of Mr. Peabody is eulogy, and 
 is meant to be. It is eulogy coming from those who 
 knew him too intimately to analyze his character, or 
 even to undertake now to write his biography, without 
 the presence of fresh regrets. It is the eulogy, how- 
 ever, of a spiritual man ; of one in whom the true spirit 
 always held ascendency over mere intellect, as over the 
 body ; who was less and less bound to the earth, the 
 longer he lived upon it. Such a man does not often 
 attract around him a large circle of friends, and in Mr. 
 Peabody there was a shrinking from observation, a del- 
 icate distrust, that perhaps separated him from the wide 
 or general intimacy which a bolder man of his genius 
 would have sought and gained. But those who knew 
 him intimately and well remember him as one whom 
 it was a privilege to know, and whom it is a privilege to 
 remember." 
 
 It is indeed difficult to analyze the character of this 
 devoted Christian and minister, without using language 
 which would sound like extravagant eulogy to those who 
 knew him not ; for the more nearly we approached him, 
 and looked upon the " daily beauty of his life," the 
 more did it seem to us that he was one " of whom the 
 world was not worthy." He passed through life with- 
 out ever having in view the objects for which most men 
 live. His own comfort, interest, reputation, were al- 
 l 
 
CXXX NOTICES OF THE 
 
 ways secondary, and any service that he could render to 
 another was more attractive than the pursuit of any ob- 
 ject which could only benefit himself. 
 
 Manifesting this spirit, as he did, in every situation in 
 life, it seemed peculiarly a blessing to himself and to 
 others, when he entered that profession where such self- 
 forgetting devotion can be most happily and beneficent- 
 ly exerted. Nor were his own hopes and those of his 
 friends disappointed. He found in his new course of 
 duties more happiness than he had ever dared to im- 
 agine, and in his " short, but precious, ministry," he 
 accomplished more than even his friends had anticipated 
 for him. He often spoke of the delight that he found 
 in the most common duties of his life as a parish minis- 
 ter, and he said that he never returned from visiting 
 among his people without feeling his heart lightened and 
 his best hopes and purposes animated and strengthened. 
 
 His unremitted labors in his distant and isolated field 
 of duty soon began to wear upon his strength, and in the 
 year 1846 his health visibly declined. At the com- 
 mencement of the next year, he said to a friend that he 
 felt a deep conviction that he should not live to see its 
 close ; and when, in the course of a few months, he was 
 summoned to the death-bed of his brother, he expressed 
 surprise that he should still be left ; adding, " It is but 
 for a little while." 
 
 It was touching and inspiring to see how this convic- 
 tion blended with all his thoughts and purposes ; never 
 diminishing his cheerfulness, and only adding new ener- 
 gy to the feeling of self-devotion with which he returned 
 to his labors. At this time he was urged by many of his 
 friends to accept the proposition which had been made 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXX1 
 
 to him to remove to Boston, and assume the editorial 
 charge of the Christian Register. In many respects he 
 was eminently fitted for this work, and he was well 
 aware that such a lightening of his labors would have a 
 beneficial effect upon his health. But he could not be 
 induced seriously to think of it. He felt that in leaving 
 Burlington he should leave a scene of usefulness which 
 he could not hope to find elsewhere. It was, too, the 
 home of his choice, the spot in which he loved to labor, 
 and where he hoped to die. 
 
 During the last few weeks of his life, he was engaged 
 in preparing a Memoir of his brother, which the friends 
 of both were most anxious to have completed by him. 
 But while it was in progress, he was arrested by the ill- 
 ness which so suddenly terminated his life. During the 
 spring, although feeble, he had appeared in nearly his 
 usual health, and in more than his usual spirits, and had 
 repeatedly observed that he never enjoyed so much the 
 beauty of the opening summer. In the latter part of 
 June he took a violent cold from exposure to the rain, 
 but he still continued his daily visits among his people 
 until Saturday, June 24th. On the next day, contrary 
 to the advice of his friends, he attempted to preach, 
 but, in consequence of complete exhaustion, he was 
 obliged to omit the afternoon service. On Sunday 
 evening he sent for a physician, and never again left the 
 house. His disease, which assumed the form of dysen- 
 tery, prostrated him immediately, although there ap- 
 peared no symptoms which were particularly alarming. 
 Throughout the week he was under the influence of 
 opiates, and was disposed to converse but little. On 
 Sunday morning, however, he requested a friend who was 
 
CXXX11 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 sitting by him to read aloud to him the fourteenth chapter 
 of John ; and after a little sleep, he roused himself to 
 make some inquiries with regard to the service at 
 church. On Tuesday he dictated a telegraphic despatch 
 to his sister in Boston, requesting her to come to him. 
 He then again asked to have portions of St. John's 
 Gospel read to him, after which he expressed a desire 
 for quiet and for sleep. After waking, his mind ap- 
 peared clear, and all his symptoms more favorable. He 
 enjoyed the flowers which were offered to him, and 
 manifested pleasure in having his friends converse to- 
 gether in his room. Early in the morning of Wednes- 
 day, July 5, a great change was visible in his appear- 
 ance, and a friend who was watching with him commu- 
 nicated to him his impression of his danger. He said 
 that he had much to do which he had hoped to finish, 
 and afterward expressed the conviction that his friends 
 were unreasonably anxious about him ; often repeating, 
 that he felt perfectly comfortable and free from pain. 
 Towards noon he evidently drew near the end ; and his 
 physician told him that he thought him dying. He said 
 that he hoped it was an error ; but added, " Living or 
 dying, I am in the hands of God." After which his lips 
 moved as if in prayer, and his whole soul seemed absorb- 
 ed in communion with Heaven. He continued to breathe 
 but a short time, and so he peacefully " passed on." 
 
 The following letter was addressed to the editor of 
 the New York Inquirer, by a friend and parishioner of 
 Mr. Peabody. It is a heartfelt and beautiful tribute to 
 the value of his life and ministry. And we feel sure 
 that every one will read it with interest. 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXX111 
 
 " You will probably have heard, ere this reaches you, 
 of the sudden and lamented death of the Rev. Oliver W. 
 B. Peabody, pastor of the Unitarian Church in this 
 town. That sad event occurred on Wednesday, the 5th 
 instant, and plunged, not merely the society to which he 
 ministered, but the whole community, into the profound- 
 est sorrow. It has been apparent to most of us, since 
 the death of his twin brother, the Rev. Dr. Peabody 
 of Springfield, a little more than a year ago, that our 
 beloved pastor was wounded by the blow too deeply for 
 recovery, and that he could not long be spared to lead 
 us in the way of life. Possessed of a self-forgetting de- 
 votion to duty, which forbade him to yield to his feelings 
 to the injury of his usefulness, he has labored on for 
 months against our earnest remonstrances, when he must 
 have felt as we did, that he was truly wearing himself 
 out in his Master's service. The last time he preached, 
 which was on the next Sabbath but one preceding his 
 death, he was unable to go through with the afternoon 
 service, and gave notice of the fact at the conclusion of 
 the morning exercises. This was to be the end of his 
 short, but precious, ministry. He left the pulpit with 
 feeble and trembling step, and on the next day was 
 seized with the malady which terminated his life on the 
 Wednesday of the week following. 
 
 " It is impossible to convey to the mind of one re- 
 moved from the scene of this good man's labors any 
 adequate idea of the universal affection and veneration 
 with which, in a short ministry of three years, he has 
 inspired this large community. All sectarian divisions 
 have yielded to the spontaneous homage of the heart, 
 extorted by his unpretending but active excellence. He 
 I* 
 
CXXX1V NOTICES OF THE 
 
 has done more by his walk and conversation to shadow 
 forth the beauty of holiness, than many sermons could 
 have effected. His life was a most eloquent sermon, of 
 which his weekly discourses, though filled with beauty, 
 tenderness, and power, seemed but the least important 
 part. Wherever the heart of humanity was bowed with 
 the weight of sorrow, or pinched by the hard hand of 
 penury and want, there most of all he loved to go and 
 to be an angel of succor and consolation. Every abode 
 of wretchedness within our limits can bear witness of 
 his wise counsels, his tender consolations, his unstinted 
 generosity. Amid the rigors of our bitterest winters, 
 with a frame attenuated and enfeebled by disease, he 
 never found an excuse for ceasing from his pursuit of 
 the children of woe. 
 
 . " A large number of emigrants have been thrown 
 among us since the famine in Ireland, and have been the 
 subjects of much suffering and distress. To them he 
 has been a friend indeed. Day after day, unshrinking 
 amid the most malignant diseases, he moved among 
 them to cheer and to relieve. To the poor, indeed, his 
 loss will be irreparable. One day last winter, while out 
 upon an errand of mercy with another clergyman of our 
 village, he found occasion to dispense his charity freely 
 to an object of uncommon suffering, when his associate 
 said to him, ' I cannot do as you are doing ; my family 
 has claims upon me which I cannot disregard.' ' I 
 know that very well,' replied Mr. Peabody ; ' but 
 these are my FAMILY,' pointing to those whom his 
 bounty was relieving. His bounty, like his Christian 
 charity, knew no bounds of sects or creeds, but distilled, 
 like the blessed dews of heaven, on all alike. He had 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXXV 
 
 the same indescribable smile of tenderness, which will 
 form the sweetest and most enduring feature associated 
 with his memory in the hearts of those who knew him, 
 for all whom he met. Rich and poor, young and old, 
 alike were sure to meet with sunshine in that beaming 
 and expressive face. It was beautiful to see how the 
 children loved him. If one of them was unfortunate, 
 or less favored than the rest,' he was sure to strive, 
 with winning gentleness and delicate generosity, to re- 
 move the inequality. While the happy and prosperous 
 shared his regard, it seemed as if his heart gushed out 
 toward the children of sorrow, whatever the cause or 
 form of their afflictions. In all these ministries of love, 
 he was himself the unfailing bearer of his own bounty 
 and consolation. Scarce any debility was sufficient to 
 deter him from the most protracted and laborious walks 
 over our widely extended village, and ofttimes, on re- 
 turning from them, he had almost as much need of care 
 as they whom he had cared for. He seemed to toil on 
 as if he had no time to lose in order to finish the work 
 appointed for him to do, and often remarked that it 
 seemed better for him to wear out than to rust out. 
 Thus he pressed ever onward in the path of duty, be- 
 coming each day more and more detached from the 
 world, in which he lived but for others, and nearer and 
 nearer to that realm whither most of those to whom he 
 was bound by ties of kindred had preceded him, until 
 he seemed at last to live rather in heaven than upon 
 earth, and only waited the welcome summons which 
 should call him to his rest and his reward. 
 
 " That summons has at length come. Full of bitter 
 affliction as it was to us-, we cannot find it in our hearts 
 
CXXXV1 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 to lament for him. The weariness of the strife against 
 debility and disease has given place to the ' fulness of 
 joy.' The gentle voice, the winning smile, the slender 
 form and feeble step, are with us, indeed, no more ; but 
 their memory will remain to cheer and animate us to the 
 latest hour of life. 
 
 " The sense of bereavement seems to be universal. 
 It has been a common remark since his death, as indeed 
 before, that he seemed to be the best living impersona- 
 tion of Christian excellence ever known among us ; and 
 to those who knew him, this will seem no extravagant 
 praise. 
 
 " His disease was not regarded as alarming until a 
 few hours before his death, though many of us feared, 
 when he was confined, that he would never preach again. 
 
 -" The funeral took place on Friday afternoon, at the 
 church where he had so faithfully and acceptably min- 
 istered. The services were conducted by the Rev. John 
 Cordner, of Montreal, and the Rev. John Pierpont, of 
 Troy. Mr. Pierpont made an impressive address, en- 
 tirely extemporaneous, but full of touching allusions to 
 the character of the diseased, and of improving reflec- 
 tions on the blessed uses of the death of the righteous. 
 The large church was hung in black, and filled with a 
 sad and silent assemblage of our citizens, who came to 
 pay a parting tribute to a good man's memory. The 
 address was just drawing to a conclusion, when a stage- 
 coach stopped at the door of the church, and the sister 
 of the dead, the widow of the Hon. Alexander H. Ev- 
 erett, late Commissioner to China, who had been sent 
 for a few days before, and whose arrival was anxiously 
 expected up to the very hour of the funeral, came to 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXXV11 
 
 take her last look at the face of her brother, in the 
 midst of the people to whom he had ministered, and 
 who were now assembled to pay the last tribute of af- 
 fection and regard to his remains. The scene was such 
 as few will ever witness again. The tears of the be- 
 reaved sister, as she gave one look at the calm face of 
 the unconscious dead, whom she had not seen for years, 
 and would never see again in this world, fell not alone. 
 For several minutes the sobs throughout the house, the 
 tears that fell from ' eyes unused to weep,' attested the 
 intensity of that sympathy which every heart spontane- 
 ously offered to one so sorely tried. 
 
 " After the coffin was deposited in the grave, the 
 children of the Sunday School gathered around it, and 
 flung each a bouquet of flowers as an offering to their 
 beloved pastor and friend. ' Here,' said Mr. Pierpont, 
 * are the three most beautiful things in the world, — 
 flowers, the most beautiful things in the vegetable world, 
 brought by children, the most beautiful objects in an- 
 imal nature, as an offering to the most beautiful thing in 
 the spiritual world, the memory of a pure, and good, 
 and holy man.' 
 
 " On Sunday, Mr. Pierpont preached a most appro- 
 priate discourse from 2 Timothy iv. 6 — 8, to a large 
 and attentive audience." 
 
 On Sunday, July 16th, Rev. Dr. Parkman preached 
 an appropriate sermon in the church where Mr. Pea- 
 body had ministered. We copy the following extract, 
 which was published in the Christian Register soon after 
 the delivery of the discourse. The text was taken from 
 Job xiv. 19, and from the First Epistle of Peter, i. 3: — 
 
CXXXV111 NOTICES OF THE 
 
 " Thou destroyest the hope of man." But, "Bless- 
 ed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
 who, according to his abundant mercy, has begotten us 
 again to a lively hope of an inheritance incorruptible, 
 undefiled, and that fadeth not away." 
 
 " You need, my Christian brethren, amidst the dis- 
 appointment of your cherished earthly hope, the strength 
 and solace which can come alone from faith in God, and 
 from the hope that is full of immortality. It has pleased 
 Him, who ' doeth all things well,' the Sovereign Dis- 
 poser of life and death, to appoint to you the bitterness 
 of bereavement. You mourn with this day the depart- 
 ure of him on whom your hearts reposed. Those of us 
 who have been favored by the privilege of his friendship, 
 who observed in other and various scenes his rich en- 
 dowments, his well-ordered mind, his generous affec- 
 tions, his fidelity to duty, and his blameless life, can 
 well mingle our sympathies and prayers with yours in 
 this night of your sorrow. Some of us were witnesses, 
 in his earlier years, of the ability, faithfulness, and con- 
 siderate care with which he discharged an honorable 
 trust, before he entered upon that which your expe- 
 rience of his gifts has shown to have been his appropri- 
 ate calling, and which, I believe, had ever been the first 
 choice of his heart. There was much in his fulfilment 
 of that relation that was congenial with the kindness of 
 his spirit ; and many a widow and orphan, who amidst 
 the tenderness of recent bereavement were the objects 
 of his official service, cherish gratefully his memory, as 
 of a compassionate friend. You, my brethren of this 
 flock, have witnessed here, in this fair and beautiful 
 scene of his labors, how he ' walked so as to please 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. CXXX1X 
 
 God ' ; with what serenity and gentleness, with what 
 modest dignity and meekness of wisdom, with what 
 guileless simplicity and disinterested charity, that sought 
 not, however justly it was meriting, the praises of men, 
 he made proof of his ministry among you. The young 
 of the flock he led as a good shepherd by the side of 
 still waters, and guided with the skilfulness of his hands. 
 Even the least of the little ones were encouraged by the 
 tenderness of his instructions ; and it was seen, as I 
 have learned, what a place he had gained in their hearts, 
 as with weeping eyes they strewed the flowers which he 
 loved, and had taught them also to love as ' the smiles 
 of God's goodness/ upon his closing grave. The sick 
 and the desponding were soothed by his gentle consola- 
 tions and availing prayers. The sinner might have been 
 won to goodness by his example ; and all you, my 
 friends, have tasted together here of the fruit of his 
 lips, have been admonished by his faithful counsels, and 
 have seen how well they were illustrated in his holy 
 life. 
 
 " Nor was it within the circle of your religious society 
 alone that his good influence was felt, or his worth ac- 
 knowledged. God has given to virtue a power that can- 
 not fail, and our friend possessed in no common meas- 
 ure those qualities which command the confidence of 
 mankind. The modesty of his spirit was not permitted 
 to check the activity of his benevolence, but rendered it 
 only the more attractive from the delicacy and unobtru- 
 siveness with which his bounty was conveyed. His 
 walks of usefulness extended far beyond the limits of 
 his flock. In his charities, dispensed silently as the 
 dew of heaven, he admitted no distinctions that did 
 
CXI NOTICES OF THE 
 
 not embrace the suffering of every name. And, were 
 evidence needed of the respect which his character in- 
 spired in all classes of this community, especially of the 
 humblest, it would be found in the earnestness with 
 which, on the day of his funeral, they came up to this 
 house of prayer, which was to them, as well as to you, 
 the house of mourning, and in the touching demonstra- 
 tions of their grief as they paid their tribute to his hon- 
 ored remains. 
 
 " It was your earnest hope, that one so honored and 
 beloved should be spared to bless you. The few months 
 or years in which you were favored with- his ministry 
 only quickened your solicitude, that it might long be 
 continued to yourselves and to your children. But it is 
 not the pleasure of our Heavenly Father that the high- 
 est purposes of usefulness should be here accomplished. 
 He has other spheres and brighter worlds in which to 
 employ and make perfect the gifts which he has be- 
 stowed ; and honorable age is not that which standeth 
 in length of days, or that which is measured by the 
 number of its years ; but wisdom is the gray hairs of 
 man, and an unspotted life old age. Having been per- 
 fected in a short time, he hath fulfilled a long time. 
 What though his sun has gone down while it is yet noon- 
 day ; what though the lips that spoke sweetly for God 
 and virtue are silenced in death, and the hands that were 
 lifted in prayer or stretched forth in charity are lifeless 
 in the grave. Even so, Father, for so it seemed good 
 in thy sight. It is good for him, for he has ascended to 
 his reward ; and it shall be good for us, if we only be 
 faithful to his memory and follow in his steps. Let it 
 please Him with whom are the souls of the righteous, — 
 
REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABOJDY. Cxli 
 
 who can make bereavement as well as bounty, death as 
 well as life, the ministry of his love, — to quicken us by 
 his spirit in the work he has given us to do, so that, 
 when the shadows of earth shall have passed, we may 
 be gathered with the pardoned and redeemed in the 
 kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." 
 
 m 
 
SERMONS. 
 
SERMON I. 
 
 EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 they rest not day and night. — Revelation iv. 8. 
 
 Would not any one say that this was meant as a 
 description of mankind in the present world ? Al- 
 ways intent on some favorite object, they are some- 
 times lifted to the skies with the prospect of success, 
 then despairing in the same proportion when their 
 hopes are overcast, and so agitated till this momen- 
 tary object passes from their minds and gives place 
 to another, to be pursued with equal devotion, and 
 then cast off with equal disregard. Even if mankind 
 have no such objects, the same words well describe 
 them ; for then they become equally restless for the 
 want of some object. " They rest not day and 
 night," because their minds, having nothing to en- 
 gage them, prey upon themselves. In either case, 
 employed or not employed, men are like the troubled 
 ocean, always heaving, with or without a visible cause, 
 always in motion, even when all the winds are still. 
 
 But however descriptive of the usual state of this 
 world these words may be, such was not their pur- 
 pose. They were not said in reference to this world, 
 1 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 nor to any thing in it. The beloved disciple in his 
 lonely exile had his mind cheered with visions of the 
 future prosperity of the church, and sometimes was 
 permitted to see a glimpse of heaven through the 
 broken clouds. It was when one of these bright but 
 momentary revelations glanced upon his view that 
 he saw the eternal throne surrounded by its rainbow, 
 with the elders in white robes and crowns of gold, 
 and the mystic cherubim, before it. He heard the 
 cherubim saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Al- 
 mighty," and the elders responding in the heavenly 
 anthem, and casting their crowns before the throne. 
 They rested not day and night. 
 
 While, then, these words were spoken in reference 
 to what the Apostle saw in another world, and not 
 in this, they suggest what seems to be an indispen- 
 sable condition or law of high spiritual attainment 
 and earnest devotion. 
 
 When man was first placed upon the earth and 
 commanded to subdue it, how helpless he seemed to 
 contend with the elements of nature ! Without ex- 
 perience, without skill, without instruments, with 
 nothing but his mind and his frame, it must have 
 seemed impossible that the earth should ever be sub- 
 dued by him. But behold what he has done. The 
 desert is turned into a garden ; the mountains have 
 given way, and the valleys have been filled up, before 
 him ; taking the winds and fires for his ministers, he 
 has rushed fearlessly across the depths of the sea. 
 Not content with earthly labors, his enterprising sci- 
 ence has wheeled in triumph through the skies, ex- 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 ploring the balanced clouds, measuring the distance 
 of the sun, and pursuing the star that wanders to the 
 utmost verge of heaven. And how has all this been 
 accomplished ? How has man been able to do these 
 things which seemed so immeasurably above his 
 reach ? It is because he has not rested day nor 
 night. It is because, when his mind once became 
 possessed with one of these great ideas, he has given 
 himself no repose till his work was accomplished, till 
 he has known all that patient thought could discover, 
 and done what persevering industry was able to do. 
 
 In the Apostle's vision of heaven, he is struck with 
 the glowing devotion of the spirits before the throne. 
 It is pure, fervent, and exalted ; it is subject to no 
 changes of rising and falling emotions ; it is always 
 as great as the perfections of the Infinite require, 
 and as the nature of the hearts from which it pro- 
 ceeds permits it to be. Do you ask, " How can it be 
 sustained at such a height, when all human devotion 
 is so easily brought down, — how can their minds be 
 kept fixed on the object of their adoration, when hu- 
 man thoughts so readily wander away ? " The ex- 
 planation is found in the words, " They rest not day 
 and night " ; their hearts are always engaged in the 
 service ; the night suspends it not, for there is no 
 night there. It is because they are thus devoted, — 
 in a word, it is because they rest not, — that their de- 
 votion maintains itself so fervent, and towers so high. 
 
 This, then, illustrates the great truth which ought 
 to be impressed on every heart before me : religious 
 improvement, the chief object of existence, requires 
 
4 EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 the steady devotion of all our powers to secure it. 
 In proportion as man rests from that labor does he 
 surrender the hope and power of ever securing that 
 prize. In proportion as he resists that temptation 
 does he advance in excellence and devotion, and 
 therefore in resemblance to the seraphs and sons of 
 light who surround the heavenly throne. 
 
 Consider the effect of inaction upon the physical 
 nature. The frame which is regularly exercised, if 
 not urged beyond its strength, grows in firmness and 
 energy, and expands in full and fair proportion. All 
 the currents of life in it are quick and glowing ; the 
 man hardly feels that he has a body, so little does it 
 encumber the free action of the soul. But let the 
 frame be given over to rest, let the man have no steady 
 employment that requires interest and exertion, and 
 it is not long before disease begins to spread through 
 the system, sometimes manifesting itself in the whole 
 head sick and whole heart faint, or treasuring up its 
 hidden wrath against the day when it shall strike 
 one desperate blow, and break the frame with hope- 
 less infirmity, or crush it down at once into the 
 grave. 
 
 Consider the effect of inaction upon the mind of 
 man. There is a strong analogy between the wants 
 of the body and the mind ; exertion is indispensable 
 to the health of each ; and though one who lives 
 without exercising either may not yet perceive the 
 injury he is doing to himself, it is not less certain 
 that the day of recompense and sorrow must come. 
 Disease is as sure to follow the inactive mind as the 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. O 
 
 inactive body. Its effects are not open to the eye, 
 or rather they are not noticed by careless observers, 
 though they may be seen in the incapacity for serious 
 reflection, in the depraved intellectual taste which 
 can relish only miscellaneous novelty or intoxicating 
 fiction, or in the distaste for common enjoyments 
 which drives men to indulgences that stupefy the un- 
 derstanding and destroy the soul. Yes, there is dis- 
 ease to the mind, and there is death that follows it, 
 far more sad than the disease and death which lay 
 the body in the dust. When the body dies, its pains 
 and sorrows are over ; not so, not so with the mind, 
 which dieth not ; when coldness wraps the suffering 
 clay, the mind still lives and must live for ever. 
 
 Consider the effect of inaction on the spiritual na- 
 ture of man. It is common to meet with those who 
 neither look forward to eternity nor up to God ; and 
 the consequence is, not only that their devotion, if 
 they ever had any, dies, but also that they lose the 
 power of devotion. They lose all power of spiritual 
 discernment, so that the great realities of another 
 world have no presence nor life to the soul. Some 
 are so thoughtless, that they are not troubled at what 
 is going on within them ; but those whose conscience 
 is not quite gone cannot live thus without uneasi- 
 ness. They are disquieted within ; they try to ac- 
 count for their indifference to the things which ought 
 to engage them by ascribing them to other influen- 
 ces or other men. The views of religion in which 
 they were educated, the preachers they have been 
 used to hear, the unworthy representatives of Chris- 
 1* 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 tian character they have been accustomed to see, — to 
 these, and indeed to any thing sooner than to them- 
 selves, they ascribe their indifference, when the truth 
 is that it originates within. They will make exper- 
 iment of new teachers and new fancies ; one painted 
 form of godliness will be adopted and dismissed after 
 another; each will be in its turn enthusiastically wel- 
 comed and coldly rejected, but the disease will re- 
 main the same, because it is one of those incurable 
 infirmities which in the order of nature inevitably 
 comes on spiritual natures not exerted, and it ends 
 in what inspiration calls the death of the soul. 
 
 This is the darkest and most fearful thought that 
 can be presented to the human mind, — the death 
 and ruin of the soul. I know there is a common 
 -persuasion, that, even if the powers of devotion have 
 slept for years, if the man has been through all his 
 life steadily indifferent to spiritual things, he may 
 yet be awakened to a sense of his guilt and danger. 
 It is true he may ; but if he is awakened to a sense 
 of guilt and danger, that consciousness is not suffi- 
 cient to remove them. I know there is strength in 
 Jesus, who is " the power of God and the wisdom of 
 God," more than sufficient to remove them. But can 
 the man be sure that he shall ever have that faith in 
 Jesus Christ, without which the blood of the ever- 
 lasting covenant will not avail him? There is a time, 
 when, as the Apostle says, " ye cannot do the things 
 that ye would," — when the awful sentence passes 
 on the unprofitable soul, "Let no fruit grow on thee 
 henceforth for ever ! " 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. 7 
 
 The same is true of love to men, that other great 
 duty which God has so intimately associated with 
 devotion. This feeling can be strengthened into a 
 principle by the common sympathy of life, — that 
 sympathy which is never so strong and sure as when 
 sanctified by religious feeling. But if our benevo- 
 lent impulses are not followed^ we lose not only the 
 opportunity of the moment, but we lose the power 
 of exertion ; and thus it is that men, without know- 
 ing it, sink into a selfishness so inveterate that they 
 will do nothing and sacrifice nothing either for God 
 or man, and, while others wonder at their hardness, 
 never suspect that their hearts are cold. They are 
 like the wayfarer in the polar regions ; after suffering 
 awhile with the cold, he feels a sleep stealing over 
 him ; it comes without pain, it gives no warning of 
 danger ; unable to resist the persuasive influence, he 
 sinks into slumber, from which he never wakes in 
 this world again. It is in the same way that hearts 
 are frozen ; they feel no danger, they suspect not 
 that the sleep which is stealing over them is the 
 sleep of death. 
 
 Having thus endeavoured to show what law we 
 are under, let us take a more practical view of the 
 subject. Love to God and love to man are the great 
 elements of that character which we are sent into 
 this world to form, and it is practising on these prin- 
 ciples which gives them power and increases their 
 power within us. It is because the seraphs rest not 
 day and night, that their hearts become living flames 
 in the service of their God. 
 
8 EARNEST DEVOTION. 
 
 We are to remember, then, that God has so arranged 
 the present life that all things favor the growth of 
 love to man in those who really determine to pos- 
 sess it, while all things seem to hinder it in those 
 who hold it in slight regard. Whenever an oppor- 
 tunity of benevolence is offered, — whenever God's 
 providence makes an appeal, as it often does, to our 
 kind feeling, — we should feel that to resist it or reject 
 it is wrong. Not only is there sin in the immediate 
 act of suppressing the kind suggestion. It is not a 
 thing that ends here ; it is not a thing neglected 
 and then over ; no, the results of that neglect are to 
 go deep and far into the life. It is so much done to 
 injure and destroy the principles and affections which 
 form the only treasures of heaven ; they are all the 
 wealth we can carry from this world into another, 
 and without them we shall be poor indeed. 
 
 So, if we have the least desire to possess the spirit 
 of devotion, we shall take advantage of every time 
 and every service that can awaken the spirit of de- 
 votion. We shall welcome the Sabbath as often as 
 it returns to remind us of that duty and invite us to 
 perform it. We shall welcome its deep silence and 
 sacred repose, in which we sometimes seem to hear 
 the bells of heaven sounding far and faintly in the 
 sky. We shall not say, as the manner of some is, 
 that we need not go with the multitude to the places 
 of social prayer ; for He who knows our nature sees 
 that unless love to men goes hand in hand with love 
 to God, the latter may become a degenerate, even 
 a selfish affection, losing all its life and power. 
 
EARNEST DEVOTION. 9 
 
 Therefore does He associate the duties, that we may- 
 grow in familiarity and attachment to our brethren, 
 while we are advancing in the heavenly preparation 
 of love to God ; and therefore does He expect us to 
 improve these means of strengthening that power of 
 devotion, which, if not exerted, sinks into withering 
 inaction and incurable decay. To neglect these op- 
 portunities is not simply losing what can be made up 
 at some future time ; it will not do to say that some 
 future time is as good as the present hour. No, for 
 if the time should come, the power may be gone ; 
 and when the man tries in agony to kindle the faint 
 spark within him into a flame, he may find that his 
 heart, once suffered to grow cold, shall never be 
 warm again. 
 
 To return, then, to the vision of heaven with which 
 we began j we hope at some future time to be there. 
 Our days are fast going down to join the past eter- 
 nity, and the day cannot be distant which shall call 
 us to the land of souls. If we hope to join with 
 the radiant spirits round the throne, we must faith- 
 fully cherish the power of devotion. After the man- 
 ner of those who rest not day and night, our prayer 
 must ascend when the morning lights up the skies, 
 and when the evening sheds its sweet influences on 
 the world below. We must suffer no other care, no 
 other pleasure, to prevent our engaging in that earth- 
 ly communion with God, which, more than any 
 thing else, prepares us for his presence and service 
 on high. 
 
SERMON II. 
 
 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 THIS WOMAN WAS FULL OF GOOD WORKS AND ALMSDEEDS WHICH 
 
 she did. — Acts ix. 36. 
 
 The incidents of Scripture are told with perfect 
 simplicity, — with almost severe simplicity, — trust- 
 ing, doubtless, that the book would be near men's 
 -hearts; for if the thought and imagination are quick- 
 ened into strong, powerful action by the deep interest 
 which it should inspire, the barren outline will fill 
 up, the faded colors will kindle into life. These 
 records of the past will come before us in present 
 reality, and we shall feel their power ; for they not 
 only record what has been, but what can be again, — 
 what will be, must be, again. They are histories of 
 the heart, which is ever new and ever young. 
 
 It is an affecting history of the kind which is now 
 before us. In the town of Joppa, which, under its 
 present name of Jaffa, has been the scene of bloody 
 tragedies in our own day, dwelt a young person who 
 had given herself to labors of humanity, and there- 
 fore was among the foremost to become a Christian. 
 Her name, Tabitha, was the Syrian name of the 
 
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 11 
 
 gazelle, which throughout the East is the image of 
 beauty and gracefulness, of 
 
 " airy step and glorious eye, 
 That glance in tameless transport by " ; 
 
 and this, as all antiquity agrees, was given her for 
 her singular loveliness and attraction. With all the 
 means of enjoying life, as it is called, — O, how little 
 that enjoying of life is understood ! — she chose the 
 better part ; in the days of her youth, when life was 
 bright before her, she lived for others and for God. 
 In the midst of her usefulness she fell sick and died ; 
 many hearts died within them at the loss. In their 
 sorrow they sent for the Christian apostle, to receive 
 from him the comfort which his religion bestows. 
 When he came, they took him to the chamber where 
 the lifeless body lay ; and the poor and destitute 
 crowded round him, telling him, with many tears, of 
 the virtues of their benefactor, and showing with 
 warm-hearted gratitude what she had done for 
 them all. 
 
 He perceives at once that such a life cannot yet 
 be spared. It is wanted to give loveliness and at- 
 traction to the religion which she professed, while it 
 is yet new and unwelcome to the world. He kneels 
 down and prays, and the life returns to the tenant- 
 less clay. How, like a flash from heaven, it must 
 have fired with heavenly joy those hearts which 
 were mourning for her as lost for ever ! But was it 
 not hard to recall her from the mansions of rest ? Was 
 it not hard to reclaim her, to pass through the bitter- 
 
12 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 ness of life and the agony of death again ? No ; 
 for to such a spirit life could not be otherwise than 
 happy, and the pains of death are swallowed up in a 
 victory of the soul. And it must be remembered 
 that a spirit like hers is in perfect harmony with its 
 Father's will, having no desire to rest before its work 
 is done, no desire to live or die, except as it pleases 
 God. 
 
 I present to you this sweet passage of sacred his- 
 tory, in hope that it will inspire some of the young 
 to give themselves, as she did, to the service of hu- 
 manity, resisting the selfish influences' and maxims 
 of the world, — to resolve, in the outset of existence, 
 that they will spend it as the Saviour did, going 
 about doing good. Here you see what enthusiastic 
 , affection such a life awakened in those who saw it, 
 and how deep was the sense of personal loss, when 
 it seemed to have closed in death. You see, too, and 
 let this be remembered, that such a life was impor- 
 tant, even in the sight of God himself ; so much so, 
 that he gave power and charge to an Apostle to send 
 his voice into the world of spirits to summon back 
 her soul. Such a life is within your reach ; any one 
 of you may secure the same treasures of affection, 
 the same peace of conscience, the same unfading 
 crown. 
 
 Has the Christian world been unmoved by these 
 inspiring and beautiful examples ? or rather, has the 
 voice of the Saviour produced no effect on young 
 hearts when it calls them to glory and virtue, — to 
 the service of humanity and the bearing of the cross? 
 
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 13 
 
 In the Catholic Church there have been those who 
 have listened to his words, — who, in the morning of 
 existence, when the world was bright before them, 
 with wealth, high birth, and beauty, and every thing 
 to bind them to earthly things, have, nevertheless, 
 chosen the better part, — content to watch by the 
 bedside of the sick, to visit the sufferer of the cottage, 
 to enlighten the dark soul, to give their sympathy to 
 the destitute and forsaken, and follow as Sisters of 
 Charity in the path of their heavenly Master. There 
 were errors in the Catholic Church, no doubt; but not 
 in this. It was religion, pure and undefiled before 
 God and the Father ; and well would it be for us, 
 when we condemn a sect or party, to cherish and 
 imitate every thing that is good about them, and 
 suffer their frailties to rest, always remembering that 
 goodness is goodness, in whatever heart it dwells, 
 and that whoever in early life turns away from the 
 broad and beaten path, and labors up the hill of truth 
 and duty, must, as heaven is true, be like charity 
 itself, for ever blessing and for ever blest. 
 
 We boast that our faith is purer than theirs. If 
 so, it should produce more of the fruits of righteous- 
 ness and mercy. The faith which works by love 
 is the faith which Jesus would fain inspire; and 
 when I ask that some would give themselves thus 
 to the service of humanity and the cross, shall not 
 the call, — it is the call of God, — shall it not find 
 an answer in some young heart ? I ask none to sep- 
 arate themselves from the world, "for the field is the 
 world " ; there it is that these constant acts of kind- 
 2 
 
14 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 ness are to be done. I ask none to separate them- 
 selves from domestic life and happiness, but only 
 that the same light which blesses those that are in 
 the house should shine out to cheer and bless the 
 darkness of the less favored sons of men. Choose 
 this path of truth and mercy, and you will hereafter 
 glory in your choice ; it wall be a life-long blessing ; 
 and with what a radiant happiness it will light up 
 your closing day ! 
 
 But let us look at the subject nearer. I think I 
 hear some one saying in her heart, " I cannot make 
 this sacrifice." I would answer, My friend, you are 
 deceiving yourself with a word. You may be sure 
 that you can make no sacrifice to God, whatever 
 you do or suffer ; you may be sure, that, if your heart 
 -is right, you will receive far more than you give up 
 to him ; if he calls you to suffer, he will give you 
 more than he takes away. But why this constant 
 demand for happiness ? Why do you feel as if life 
 was lost, unless you enjoy every hour ? This is not 
 the purpose for which you are here ; it is not to be 
 happy that you are sent into this world. The single 
 object of existence is to be holy, heavenly-minded ; 
 if you can secure this treasure of holiness, it is of 
 little importance whether life is passed in want or 
 comfort, in sorrow or in joy. But I pray you to ob- 
 serve the goodness of heaven in this, that the paths 
 of duty and happiness are inseparably one. The 
 person who makes the most entire surrender of self- 
 indulgence and self-will, who devotes herself most 
 earnestly, most intensely, to the service of others, 
 
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 15 
 
 never seeming to have a thought for her own com- 
 fort or pleasure, shall receive what she is daily meas- 
 uring out to others, returned in full measure, pressed 
 down and running over into her own breast. The 
 deepest enjoyment of life that ever I have seen, the 
 finest sensibility to all those blessings in which this 
 world abounds, — yes, by far the truest and surest hap- 
 piness that I have ever witnesse'd, — has been found 
 in connection with this self-sacrificing spirit ; by lov- 
 ing itself last, it gained all the joy of others in addi- 
 tion to its own. If I thirsted to secure the happiness 
 of any human being, I should pray that such a being 
 might take up the cross, giving heart, hand, and life 
 to the labors of love which the Saviour delighted to 
 do ; for then I should be sure that His joy would be 
 in that heart, and its joy would be full, so that, at 
 the close of every laborious day, it would pour itself 
 out in the words, — " O God, thou hast blessed me ! 
 I ask for no more." 
 
 But while it is not necessary that a human being 
 should be happy, it is necessary that every one who 
 values his soul should be united in full sympathy 
 with the Saviour, drawing the support of its relig- 
 ious life from him and through him, as a branch is 
 nourished by the vine from which it grows. Christ 
 thus in us, exerting influence in us, and quickening 
 life in us, is our only hope of glory ; and there can- 
 not be an object more important to every true heart, 
 than to secure this union of sympathy, desire, pur- 
 pose, and endeavour with the Saviour, which shall 
 make his feelings our feelings, which shall make us 
 
16 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 look on all things as he saw them, and give us a 
 deep and sincere interest in that which he most de- 
 lighted to do. There is no way in which this union 
 can be formed so surely and so soon, as to engage 
 with all the heart in those labors and charities which 
 were the daily work and pleasure of his life when 
 he was on earth. Perform a kind action and you 
 find a kind feeling growing in yourself, even if it 
 was not there before. As you increase the number 
 of objects of your kind and charitable interest, you 
 find, that, the more you do for them, the more you 
 love them. If such charities are guided by your 
 taste or fancy, and limited to those in whom you 
 happen to be interested, it will not be so. You will 
 find that charity itself may be a self-indulgence 
 -merely, and then it will only strengthen selfish feel- 
 ing. But only act upon the broad principle of love, 
 as unfolded in the Saviour's life ; serve others, not 
 because they are your friends, not because they are 
 interesting, not because they are grateful, — serve 
 them when they are unfriendly, when they are dis- 
 tasteful, even disgusting, — serve them when they 
 are ungrateful, — serve them because they are the 
 children of your Father, and therefore are all your 
 brethren, — and you will soon find that the fervent 
 heart keeps time with the charitable hands, and warms 
 towards the Saviour as its best and kindest friend. 
 Surely such labor is not vain ; and when Christ, who 
 is your life, shall appear, you will rejoice that you 
 chose that path, however hard it may have been to 
 tread. 
 
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 17 
 
 But this full sympathy with our Saviour in his 
 views, principles, and feelings is not the ultimate 
 object, the great object, of the Christian life. The 
 only worthy object of any life is to be as nearly as 
 possible one with the Father ; so that when we act 
 or suffer, our will shall be in perfect harmony with 
 that of God. It is through Jesus Christ that we can 
 ascend to this attainment. He is the way through 
 which we can reach the knowledge and love of the 
 Father ; beginning with the imitation and love of 
 Jesus, we travel upward to that filial reverence, trust, 
 and love of God, which is the prize of our high 
 calling, — which whoever has is rich, and cannot, be 
 poor, whatever else is taken away. " As thou, Fa- 
 ther, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be 
 one in us." As the Father was in his heart, and he 
 in his Father's, that these weak human hearts might 
 be turned to the heavenly spirits who love them with 
 answering confidence of love. Labor as you will, 
 dream as you will of other happiness, you will find 
 in another world that this is the great happiness of 
 existence, — the only one that satisfies, the only one 
 that endures ; it is fulness of joy, it is life for ever- 
 more. 
 
 But how can you reach this great attainment, — to 
 be thus in harmony with the Father ? There are 
 worlds of delusion here. It is frightful to think how 
 many are constantly using religious language, and 
 expressing devotional feelings, merely from a re- 
 ligious taste, and because they enjoy it, when there 
 is no consecration of temper, of passions, of heart, 
 2 # 
 
18 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 or life, to God. How can you escape this most 
 dreadful of all delusions ? You see the Father in 
 the life of his Son ; he said that a favor to one of 
 the least, the most despised, the most hated, of these 
 my brethren, — observe those words, of these my 
 brethren, — was a favor done to him. And in this 
 shone forth the spirit of the Father, and his deep 
 and tender concern for all the creatures he has made. 
 Would you be, then, in harmony with the Father ? 
 After holding near communion with him, go forth to 
 serve the least of your brethren, those whom even 
 the Samaritan passes by ; make it sure that you can 
 treat those whom the Saviour calls his brethren as 
 your own. Do not deceive yourself as thousands 
 do, by gratifying your own taste and feeling, and 
 calling this charity ; but under all circumstances of 
 disgust, contempt, and provocation, be unwearied in 
 well-doing, and be sure that you are doing it, not for 
 your own sake, but your Master's. The more faith- 
 fully, the more entirely, you can do this, the sooner 
 will the love of God be shed abroad in your hearts. 
 By doing his will, you will arrive at the understand- 
 ing of Christian truth, and the full enjoyment of 
 that peace which passes understanding, with which 
 it is happiness to live, and glory and gain to die. 
 
 I am the more earnest in offering this example, 
 and proposing this dedication of the life, because 
 there is a service to Christianity which some should 
 step forward to render. There is much genuine re- 
 ligious feeling in the world, but it is not seen in at- 
 tractive forms. It is found in connection with nar- 
 
THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 19 
 
 rowness, gloom, and unsocial feeling, and the unen- 
 gaging aspect which it wears is associated with the 
 faith itself in the minds of beholders ; so that now 
 the greatest service that can be done to religion is, 
 to make it lovely by the daily beauty of the Chris- 
 tian life ; to show it forth again as it appeared in the 
 life of Jesus, so that all shall be impressed with a 
 sense of its loveliness, and all hearts shall open to its 
 power. This work is for the young to do. Like 
 the person of whom it is said that she was full of 
 good works and almsdeeds, let them show what the 
 faith is which inspires them, by their active, bound- 
 less, and never-failing charity, and words cannot tell 
 how much they will do to remove all unbelief and 
 indifference, and to clear the way for Christianity to 
 travel from heart to heart, and from glory to glory. 
 Any one who can do this, any one who has done 
 this, shall come up in grateful remembrance before 
 God. Do this, and on your tomb shall be written, — 
 " She suffered long, and was kind ; she envied not ; 
 she was not variable ; she was not puffed up. She 
 never behaved herself harshly ; she sought not her 
 own ; she was not easily provoked ; she thought no 
 evil. She rejoiced not in iniquity ; she rejoiced in 
 the truth. She covered all things, believed all 
 things, hoped all things, and endured all things." 
 Give yourself wholly to these things, and such will 
 be the memory you will leave behind you. Such a 
 memory shall be like the sunlight reflected from the 
 western clouds, even more beautiful than the rays of 
 that glorious luminary before it went down ; and 
 
20 THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 
 
 bright shall be your rising in the world beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 I propose this example and this life to you, in the 
 hope that it will meet an answering feeling in some 
 heart before me. What a privilege, what a glory, to 
 you it would be ! 
 
 " Lives of sainted ones remind you 
 
 You can make your life sublime, 
 And in parting leave behind you 
 
 Footsteps on the shores of time, 
 Footsteps, which perhaps another 
 
 Voyager o'er life's solemn main, . 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again." 
 
 For whoever leads a life of charity serves God, 
 not only by these acts, and smiles, and expressions 
 of love, but also, and even more, by inspiring others, 
 by the " Go thou and do likewise," which every 
 such life breathes out with a commanding voice. I 
 entreat you to secure this blessing ; it is within the 
 reach of any hand, if the full heart goes with the 
 endeavour. It is one of the few things which here- 
 after you will not wish undone or otherwise done ; 
 it will be the pearl of greatest price in your immor- 
 tal crown. 
 
SERMON III.* 
 
 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 I AM NOW READY TO BE OFFERED, AND THE TIME OF MY DEPART- 
 URE is at hand. — 2 Timothy iv. 6. 
 
 I know not where you will find in man's history 
 a nobler scene than this. It is a servant of God 
 standing near the eternal world ; and where the timid 
 and the brave alike turn pale, he gazes, with clear, 
 calm, I might say with triumphant eye, into that 
 eternity where most men are afraid to look. In the 
 midst of long imprisonment, deserted by his friends, 
 entirely in the power of his foes, evidently having 
 nothing human to support him, he feels neither de- 
 spondency nor dismay. He rejoices, — that word is 
 not too strong, — he rejoices in the hope set before 
 him. That same hope, which to thousands in the 
 Christian world is nothing, having less power than 
 the poorest earthly hope to make them glad, is every 
 thing to him, having power to make even the deep 
 dungeon bright. He is "troubled on every side, yet 
 not distressed ; perplexed, but not in despair ; perse- 
 
 * Preached at the funeral of William Bliss, Esq., who died March 
 
 8, 1838. 
 
22 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 cuted, but not forsaken ; cast down, but not de- 
 stroyed." 
 
 See how he employs himself in that awful hour ; 
 not with his own feelings, not with his own hopes 
 and fears ; for he was dead to the world, and the 
 world was dead to him. His hopes are for others ; 
 his fears are for others ; he ardently desires that 
 others may share the faith which has given such firm- 
 ness to him. And therefore does he charge his friend, 
 in the presence of the living God, — before Jesus 
 Christ, who is to judge the living and the dead, — 
 to press home the truths of the Gospel to" every heart ; 
 to suffer no consciences to sleep, if it is possible to 
 wake them ; to prevent them from going unprepared, 
 unconcerned, to the place where every one shall re- 
 ceive according to his deeds. For himself, he says 
 that he has fought a good fight ; he has finished his 
 course without losing the faith ; and now he is ready 
 to be offered, when, as he fully believes, the time for 
 the sacrifice had come. 
 
 Here is a mystery, — that a human being, frail 
 and helpless as human beings are, should maintain 
 such perfect serenity at such an hour, should be so 
 forgetful of himself and so anxious for others ! And 
 how will you explain it ? Is it a delusion ? No ; 
 for delusions sink and vanish before the stern reality 
 of death. Is it enthusiasm ? No ; he is collected 
 and firm as ever ; he understands his own feelings ; 
 he has weighed his words. The reason that he 
 stands firm when others tremble is, that a strength 
 not his own supports him ; he leans on the Rock of 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 23 
 
 Ages ; he has light from on high to cheer and guide 
 him in the dark valley of the shadow of death. 
 
 Let us endeavour to understand this state of mind. 
 It is one that all are concerned to know. For an 
 hour not far from any one of us is to determine how 
 we shall go to the grave ; — whether we shall have 
 this holy confidence, which nothing but a trust in 
 Jesus Christ inspires ; or whether we shall approach 
 the close of life, insensible, unsustained, having no 
 resource but to shut our eyes to all that is before us, 
 and to keep our hearts fixed fast on this world, till 
 the dream is broken, and we find ourselves in that 
 world where we can sleep no longer. 
 
 Undoubtedly, the chief reason of this holy and 
 happy confidence was, that he was living no longer 
 to this world; he was living "the life of God." He 
 had begun a new life from the time when he saw 
 the vision of his Master looking down upon him, in 
 sorrow, not in anger, and asking what he had done 
 to deserve such persecution. From that moment his 
 views were changed ; his feelings were changed ; his 
 whole heart was changed. No longer burning with 
 ambition, no longer dazzled by this world's glories, 
 his spiritual nature was awakened ; he saw himself 
 in a new light ; he abhorred himself, and repented 
 in dust and ashes. He saw that in those days when 
 his countrymen cheered him as the defender of their 
 Law, he had been governed, not by conscience, but 
 by self-deceiving passion, — passion which led him 
 to trample on the rights of others, and to bring deep 
 stains of blood upon his soul. He felt that he was 
 
24 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 the chief of sinners. But when he came to the feet 
 of Him " that liveth and was dead," when he found 
 that, so far from being cast out and scorned, he was 
 welcomed, trusted, employed in the service of that 
 cross which he had dishonored, it seemed to him as 
 if the entire devotion of all his life and all his soul 
 to his Master would be too little to atone for the in- 
 sults and injuries of former days. A clear, bright 
 flame of love to God and man shot upward in his 
 heart ; he cared for himself no longer. Days of 
 hardship, nights of watching, prisons, chains, dangers 
 by land and sea, had no more terrors for him ; and 
 when affection urged that he was going too far, he 
 tore himself away. " What mean ye to weep, and 
 to break my heart ? " For the Lord Jesus he was 
 willing, not only to be bound, but to die. 
 
 Could such a man fear to be offered when the 
 time of his departure was at hand ? O, no ! Death 
 had no terrors that could affright the living martyr. 
 His only desire was to take the post assigned him in 
 life, and there to fight the battles of the cross till the 
 Chief of his salvation permitted him to lay down his 
 arms. In his breast the world was overcome. See- 
 ing what others did not see, governed by influences 
 which had nothing to do with this world, sustained 
 by a faith in unseen realities which the world knew 
 not of, to him it was not death to die. He could 
 look on the fires of martyrdom, even if burning for 
 him, almost as serenely as a returning wanderer sees 
 the warm red light shining from the window of his 
 home. 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 25 
 
 Again : the same change which had destroyed the 
 power of the world over him had brought him into 
 near communion with his God. From a child of the 
 world, wholly bent on its pursuits, wholly enslaved 
 by its influences, never looking above it nor beyond 
 it, he had become a child of God ; not only believ- 
 ing that there is a God, but feeling it, rejoicing to 
 feel it, always ready to go to him and pour out his 
 soul to him in the glad confidence of love. While 
 to many God is nothing but a name, while millions 
 of thoughts pass over their minds every day, of which 
 God is not one, while others have each some human 
 beings whom they love and some whom they fear 
 more than the Highest, in his soul God was the 
 great central thought. All others received light from 
 it, like the planets round the sun ; no other thought, 
 not the whole world, could eclipse it ; to him God 
 was all in all. 
 
 Having the profound conviction that God is a fa- 
 ther, and one whose kindness far exceeds the best 
 tenderness of human love, he could go to him with 
 filial confidence, to cast his care upon him, to make 
 known his wants and sorrows, to revive his spiritual 
 affections in that communion where hearts almost 
 bursting with agony have found the truth of the 
 promise, ' : Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace 
 whose heart is stayed on thee." To him, there was 
 no such thing as accident or chance ; nothing ever 
 happened to him ; every event was appointed and 
 assigned, and, as the act of a Father, he not only 
 submitted to it, but gave it welcome, knowing that, 
 3 
 
26 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 however painful, it was meant as a blessing. It was 
 a blessing ; how it was a blessing he should after- 
 wards know. 
 
 Fully believing that, while much which men bring 
 upon themselves is evil, every thing which God 
 brings upon them is good, he was willing to leave 
 the time, the place, the manner, of his departure to 
 God. He knew that each one who leaves the world, 
 not destroyed by his own act, not wasted by his 
 own sensuality, goes at the very moment which is 
 best for him. He knew that God would say whether 
 his life should expire in prayer, or gush out in blood; 
 and he was ready to lie down upon the bed, to pine 
 in the dungeon, or to shrivel in the flames, to-day, 
 or to-morrow, or to wait God's time. To him Death 
 was not a spectre, gloomy, unrelenting, striking 
 men's hearts, and crowding the graves with dead; to 
 him the act of death was no other than the act of 
 God, — of him who cares for us more than we care 
 for ourselves. Therefore, though he had a desire to 
 go, though he longed, if it might be, to be with his 
 Master, he was ready to do his duty in life as long 
 as it pleased his God. Being pure in heart, pure 
 from selfish passions and desires, he was able to see 
 his God. God, though not seen by the living eye, 
 was present and visible to his soul. By faith he saw 
 the Invisible, and his whole heart was one living, 
 burning sacrifice to his God. 
 
 Once more : the secret of his readiness to depart 
 was, that things unseen and eternal were realities to 
 him. Other men will talk of them ; let their minds 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 27 
 
 play about them ; say that they ought to awaken in- 
 terest, that they are entitled to profound regard. 
 Still they awaken no interest in fact ; they are not 
 regarded ; the merest trifle of the day engages the 
 attention and influences the conduct more than these 
 things, in which man's eternal interests are bound 
 up. To him God and eternity were more than empty 
 sounds ; they were words of meaning, words of pow- 
 er, words which not only fell upon the ear, but 
 touched and stirred the heart. When he thought of 
 going into eternity, it did not seem like going from 
 firm ground into unsubstantial space, uncertainty, 
 darkness ; he felt that this world, which rocks, and 
 wastes, and changes under us, is not the immortal 
 home of the immortal soul. " For we know," he 
 says, — not we believe, but "we know," — that if 
 our earthly dwelling, this tabernacle of flesh, be dis- 
 solved, we have yet a building of God, eternal in 
 the heavens. " We are confident, I say, and willing 
 rather to be absent from the body, and to be present 
 with the Lord." 
 
 This is the great attainment, — to see things as 
 they are, — to give most heed and most heart to the 
 most important things. This was what enabled him 
 to say " our light afflictions " ! Light did he call 
 them ? Heavy indeed would they have seemed to 
 any but him. This was what enabled him to glory 
 in sufferings where others sank helpless under tbem. 
 This made heaven so near, that death had no terrors. 
 Hence the inspiration of those words, — memorable 
 and glorious so long as the world shall stand, — "I 
 
28 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 am now ready to be offered, and the time of my de- 
 parture is at hand. I have finished my course ; I 
 have kept the faith ; henceforth there is laid up for 
 me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the 
 righteous Judge, shall give me at that day." 
 
 I have endeavoured to describe the confidence 
 which faith in Jesus Christ inspired in one of his 
 earliest and greatest disciples. It can inspire the 
 same again. It has inspired it in many Christians. 
 Sustained by this faith in the Crucified, they have 
 maintained a similar confidence ; a similar joy has 
 breathed itself in their dying words, and shone in 
 the " face as it were an angel's," which told of 
 heaven within. 
 
 Such was the confidence of him who has just left 
 us for the grave. He died as man ought to die. I 
 may speak of his departure, though I may not tell 
 you of his virtues. I may not praise the dead. Nor 
 is it needed here. That it is not needed, there is 
 many a tear to tell, 
 
 " None knew him, but to love him, 
 Nor named him, but to praise." 
 
 It was the earnest wish of our friend that he 
 might meet us here again ; that he might approach 
 the table of his Master, and join his prayers with 
 ours in a Sabbath sacrifice to the God of love. The 
 prayer is answered. Behold ! he is come. Not as 
 we wished and prayed ; but he is come. Not with 
 his cheerful bearing ; not with his smile of kind- 
 ness ; not with serene and manly brow ; but borne 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 29 
 
 by the hands of others, the shadow of death on his 
 eyelids, the hand which would have returned a warm 
 pressure to yours cold, icy cold, his repose so deep, 
 that no sound can reach him but the shout of the 
 archangel and the trump of God. Still I say, he is 
 come, — come to give you an affectionate warning, 
 come to bid you a last farewell. Give him wel- 
 come ; for he comes to remind you of that which it 
 may be life to remember, of that which it may be 
 death to forget. He hath no ueed of words. To 
 your hearts he says, — " Weep not for me, but weep 
 for yourselves and for your children." 
 
 I have now a duty to perform. When I saw him 
 last, he felt that he was a dying man. He had 
 watched a fading flower that stood near him, and ho 
 felt that its decline was prophetic of his own. Feel- 
 ing that he was moving to the grave with a rapidity 
 which man had no power to stay, he spoke with the 
 sincerity of the dying. For himself, he said, he had 
 no fears. He deplored the sins of his past life ; he 
 lamented that so much of that heart which belonged 
 to God had been given to other things. But he had 
 prayed most fervently to be forgiven, through " the 
 Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world " ; 
 and his prayers were answered ; he had found rest to 
 his soul. To the world he had no wish to return ; 
 it had lost all its attractions. The only desire he 
 had was to go once more to the house of God, to sit 
 at the table of his Master, and to meet with friends 
 with whom he might improve in spiritual things. 
 
 " How much might be done," he said, " if we only 
 3# 
 
30 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 would ! " As to life and death, he had no anxiety ; 
 but it was his earnest prayer, that, if he should re- 
 turn to the world, it might be with a different spirit, 
 with higher and holier influences than ever before. 
 Remember his words, — " How much might be done 
 if we only would ! " 
 
 Finding that he had no anxiety for himself, I 
 asked him if he had none for those whom he was 
 leaving, — for the wife, for the children, who were 
 inexpressibly dear to him. He said that he had none. 
 He placed full confidence in God. He was willing 
 to leave them in the hands of his Father and their 
 Father, of his God and their God. When he bade 
 farewell to his children, seeing that one of them 
 was overcome with sorrow, he told her he had often 
 left her to go on journeys, and now he must leave 
 her once more. It was true that he could not return 
 to her, but she might come to him. He trusted she 
 would come to him. And thus he took leave of 
 them ; but not for ever. He doubted not that they 
 would enjoy the protection of the Father of the fa- 
 therless, and the widow's Friend. "I have been 
 young, and now am old ; yet never have I seen the 
 righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." 
 
 But I found that he had his anxiety, and it was 
 all for you, — for those whom he had been used to 
 meet in the intercourse of life. For them he was 
 anxious that their hearts might turn to God ; that 
 religion might be to them a living spirit, and not a 
 dead letter. For he feared, — he was oppressed to 
 think that some had no more feeling than he once 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 31 
 
 had of the truths of the Gospel ; that they were in 
 the way that seemeth right, though the end of it 
 are the ways of death. He would have sent an af- 
 fectionate message to you, were it not for his shrink- 
 ing fear of display. But it is not needed. He him- 
 self is come. There is no speech, no language ; 
 his voice is not heard ; and yet \\e speaks to you from 
 the frozen silence of death. Let your hearts listen ; 
 it is the last time. 
 
 He sent no message ; his life, he said, had not 
 been such as gave him a right to speak. Did not 
 you think that his. life was virtuous ? Amiable in 
 all his feelings, exemplary in all his conduct, did not 
 you think that he was always prepared to die ? He 
 thought not so. When his heart was turned to God, 
 he saw himself differently ; and painfully did he feel, 
 that, though man found no fault, God had reason to 
 upbraid him ; if man's claims had been answered, 
 God's claims were immeasurably greater, and those 
 had not been answered. He saw the hollowness of 
 that virtue which leaves God and eternity out of 
 view ; he knew that, while the hands are full of 
 earthly cares, man cannot work out his salvation. 
 " I have lain on this bed," he said, " and had deep 
 communion with God. But, O this body of sin ! 
 it seems too great to be forgiven. But the blood of 
 Christ cleanseth from all sin ; on that I build my 
 hope. In these last few weeks, heaven, the Lamb 
 before the throne, and saints and angels have seemed 
 very near." 
 
 When he seemed, to all but experienced eyes, to 
 
32 READY TO BE OFFERED. 
 
 be gaining strength, when his friends were encour- 
 aged, and he himself hoped that he might be spared 
 a little longer, the prospect was suddenly changed, — 
 darkened to us, but not to him. He said then, — "I 
 see my spirit must depart, and I lay me down to die, 
 forgiving all who have injured me as freely as I hope 
 to be forgiven." 
 
 When the closing scene came on, and his frame 
 was torn with suffering, the voice that was ever dear- 
 est to him said, " O the mortal agony of this hour ! 
 but God will support you." He said, " My burden 
 is lifted; God and Jesus Christ do sustain me." His 
 last hours were spent in prayer ; and thus, meekly 
 relying on the support which never fails, he was per- 
 mitted at last to depart in peace. 
 ' Again I say, he is here, — come to warn you 
 against trusting to the present world. It can afford 
 you nothing, for it has nothing which will stand 
 under the shadow of death. Nothing but a living 
 faith, nothing but a faith which sees God and eter- 
 nity as realities, can support you in that awful hour. 
 And now he implores you to live so that you may 
 meet him again. Do not say to him, " Farewell for 
 ever ! " When he goes to his wintry grave, " enter 
 thou into thy chambers, and shut the doors about 
 thee." Open your hearts to God. 
 
 Let me ask you now, which is the living, and 
 which is the dead ? They are not dead to whom 
 Jesus is the resurrection and the life. They are not 
 dead who are alive for evermore. They whose 
 mortal hath put on immortality need not. your tears. 
 
READY TO BE OFFERED. 33 
 
 Why weep for those who are happy in the mansions 
 of the blest ? 
 
 The dead are they who are enslaved to the pres- 
 ent world. " She that liveth in pleasure is dead." 
 He that liveth in worldliness is dead. They are the 
 ones to mourn for. Bitter tears may be shed for 
 them. But sorrow is not for the happy. Tears are 
 not for the blest. 
 
SERMON IV.* 
 
 GROUNDS AND LIMITATIONS OF HUMAN 
 RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 THE LOT IS CAST INTO THE LAP ; BUT THE WJiOLE DISPOSING 
 
 thereof is of the lord. — Proverbs xvi. 33. 
 
 There were cases occasionally in the Old Testa- 
 ment history, when the Hebrews were permitted to 
 resort to the lot ; as, for example, in dividing the 
 promised land among the tribes. The lots were 
 thrown into the bosom of one present, who hid them 
 in the fold of his garment, from which they were 
 afterwards drawn. In this, they considered them- 
 selves as leaving it to chance to determine ; but not 
 so the sacred writer; it was Divine Providence which 
 determined. " The whole disposing thereof is of 
 the Lord " ; there is no such thing as chance. Since, 
 then, there is no such power as chance, since it is a 
 mistake to say that any thing ever happens, or to 
 speak of any thing as accidental, — language which, 
 however common, gives wrong impressions of our 
 
 * This discourse was occasioned by a "shocking accident," as it 
 was called in the newspapers, which occurred on the Western Rail- 
 road, December 18, 1840, by which four lives were lost. 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 6b 
 
 condition in this world, — it follows that all things 
 which take place must be owing either to God or 
 man, are brought about by Divine or human agency. 
 We will begin by attempting to define the prov- 
 inces of human and Divine agency. Our duty is 
 commensurate with our power. We are responsible 
 for the moral character of what ( is done, just so far 
 as it depends on ourselves. God does not deal with 
 mankind as with other animals. They have action, 
 but no moral action ; because they have not power 
 to foresee the consequences of what they do, nor a 
 power to discern between right and wrong. The 
 few cases in which they betray fear after having 
 done wrong are to be explained by supposing that 
 they have associated such actions with suffering, the 
 fear of being punished, thus occasioned, leading to 
 that manner which is sometimes thought to express 
 penitence and shame. But with man it is not so, 
 who not only has a moral and a spiritual nature by 
 which he can understand his God and his duty, but 
 also a power to do or not to do, to choose or to re- 
 fuse, which is not given to other created things. 
 Within that circle, then, where man has this power 
 to will and to do of his own pleasure, is the field of 
 human agency. Here man is held responsible ; he 
 is bound to look about him and before him, to reflect 
 seriously on the motives and consequences of his 
 actions, to hold his thoughts, feelings, and actions in 
 the light of conscience, that he may see how his 
 acting or his neglecting to act will affect the beings 
 around him, how it will appear in the sight of God, 
 
36 LIMITATIONS OF KESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 to whom he must answer, and what bearing it will 
 have on his own character and destiny. 
 
 All beyond this province of human responsibility 
 is done by the power of God. Since he is every- 
 where present, with a never-sleeping providence, 
 guiding the operation of all created things, we know 
 that every thing, except what he has intrusted man 
 with power to do, is done by him. When we speak 
 of the strange and mysterious instinct of animals, of 
 the sureness and certainty of its operation, — of the 
 bird finding its path over untravelled shores and 
 oceans, or the beast, when transported to a distance, 
 returning straightway to his home, and thus doing 
 what transcends the power of man, — we need not 
 wonder ; for it is all done by the agency of God. 
 It directs and manages all things which man's intel- 
 ligence and power cannot reach, and over the actions 
 of man himself it exerts a superintending care, never 
 interfering with the freedom of his agency, never 
 preventing the consequences of his neglect or his 
 action, so far as respects the agent himself, but pre- 
 venting the injury which his action or neglect might 
 occasion to others, and thus bringing good in the 
 end out of that chaos and confusion of evil which 
 men are constantly doing, so as to make them all 
 blessings in the result to the human race. Mean- 
 while the individual agent is held fast to his respon- 
 sibility, obliged to eat the fruit of his own doings, 
 and suffered, if he will, to abuse his privilege of free- 
 dom, which otherwise would not be either a priv- 
 ilege or freedom, to the injury and ruin of his soul. 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 37 
 
 This thought of Divine Providence, ever superin- 
 tending the great interests of mankind, ever caring 
 for his children, is the most consoling and inspiring 
 that ever visits the heart, though it cannot give joy 
 to the heart where it is not welcomed. It is delight- 
 ful, when you wake at deep midnight, to think of 
 Him who watches while you are sleeping, and keeps 
 the vast and silent spheres wheeling in their order 
 above your guarded head. Still more, to think that 
 the spirit of God is over this world's troubled waters, 
 on which we are all embarked for immortality, — that 
 his eye follows us in these unsounded seas, and that 
 when the waves rise or fall they obey his voice of 
 mercy, — this thought blends the glory of our moral 
 freedom with a sense of our dependence on a Fa- 
 ther's power and love, in such a manner as to call 
 out the energies, to silence the fears, and to give the 
 peace of living action, not of indifference nor of 
 death, to the soul. 
 
 Having thus stated and attempted to define the 
 provinces of Divine and human agency, I would next 
 ask you to consider how our knowledge of them is 
 constantly extending. With respect to human agen- 
 cy, for example, we are continually opening upon 
 new views, which show us that many things which 
 are called acts of God come within the sphere of 
 our own responsibility, and are in truth our own 
 actions, springing from our own doing or our own 
 neglect ; and the consequences of them we must 
 expect to bear. How often have we seen the poor 
 invalid on his bed of anguish, endeavouring to still 
 4 
 
38 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 his troubled nerves to repose, that he may learn the 
 lesson of submission to what he deems the will of 
 God, when we cannot but remember his own care- 
 less exposure, his own unnatural habit of living, his 
 own contemptuous neglect of the beginnings of dis- 
 ease, and we say to ourselves, if not to him, that it is 
 his own doing which has brought him to the brink of 
 an untimely grave ! Many cases there are in which 
 we cannot trace home the event to human agency, 
 or rather to the men who caused it, while the con- 
 nection between the two is clear to the eye of God. 
 For example, some unprincipled builder in the hur- 
 ried city, for the sake of gain, puts up a house too 
 weak to stand. When it falls, and crushes the inno- 
 cent beneath it, he may call it the act of Providence 
 if he will ; but it was his own, — and he will find 
 it darkly recorded against him at the judgment of 
 the great day. 
 
 But never has this province of human agency 
 been so much extended to human apprehension, as 
 in connection with those arts and improvements of 
 civil life which have invested man with new pow- 
 ers, and given him a mastery over nature which in 
 former days he never dreamed of possessing. He 
 would as soon have thought of guiding the stars in 
 their courses, as of conducting chariots that outstrip 
 the winds, vessels which ask no aid from the out- 
 ward elements to bear them on their way. This 
 same development of power opens new fields of re- 
 sponsibility ; for it is enough to make men thought- 
 ful when the lives of thousands are at the mercy of 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 39 
 
 one. Where the conscience has not lost all power 
 by disuse and inaction, the person to whom the lives 
 of others are largely intrusted will feel the great- 
 ness of the charge, and the solemnity of his obliga- 
 tion. And if the manager of one of these vessels, 
 in foolish and desperate rivalship with another, dis- 
 regards the danger, and hazards the safety and hap- 
 piness of thousands to gratify his own childish pas- 
 sion, when the explosion takes place, and the deck 
 bleeds with mangled ruins, and one electric shock of 
 agony is sent to hearts and habitations more than can 
 be numbered, let him not doubt that he shall be ac- 
 cused before God as the author of that world of woe. 
 Yes, and should they pass safely through the danger, 
 no thanks to him ; his guilt is the same in the sight 
 of God. So if the proprietors of such a vessel, in 
 their thirst of gain, set at naught their obligations, 
 and send out hundreds on the deck which there is 
 reason to fear may become their funeral pile, the 
 conflagration on the midnight sea, the wild cry of 
 agony sent over the waters, and the bitter tears of 
 unknown and unnumbered mourners, are so many 
 witnesses against them. And if they say that they 
 did not think of this result, tell them it was their 
 crime that they did not think of it, — that they 
 thought of nothing but their own gain, when duties 
 and dangers should have been first regarded. When 
 such things are, no matter how stern and general the 
 voice of condemnation ; but do not confound with 
 such examples that of those who have no motive of 
 interest or passion to expose others to danger, who 
 
40 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 have much to lose and nothing to gain by such ex- 
 posure, who indeed are themselves as much en- 
 dangered in life, and more in reputation, than any 
 who suffer by them ; for there may be error in judg- 
 ment, without guilt, and if they acted according to 
 their best judgment under the circumstances, their 
 conscience is clear of blood. Where the disaster is 
 owing to circumstances which no ordinary prudence 
 could foresee, — in a word, where they have done 
 their best, — the action is not their own, and the 
 responsibility is lifted from their soul. 
 
 But some may ask, " When the province of hu- 
 man agency is thus extended, is not the sphere of 
 Divine Providence lessened ? Shall we not feel as if 
 God had less to do with human affairs, and will it 
 hot lessen that feeling of dependence on him, which 
 ought to be much greater rather than less ? " On the 
 contrary, the more we feel our own responsibility, 
 the more shall we recognize the agency of Heaven 
 in all things. For in your own experience you may 
 observe the reciprocal action of these two principles : 
 those who think most of Heaven, and see the hand 
 of Providence in all things, are most alive to their 
 own accountability ; and they who feel most deeply 
 the magnitude and importance of their duties are 
 the readiest to understand how much they depend 
 upon their God. So that all these advances in hu- 
 man knowledge, all this extension of the bounds of 
 human power, carry up the thoughts to Him whose 
 inspirations are the fountains of all knowledge, and 
 enlarge our conceptions of his providence, which 
 intrusts these powers to our hands. 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 41 
 
 I now come to the subject of our duty in relation 
 to this power which God has given us in charge. 
 Here I would observe, that, from what we know of 
 Divine Providence, we may learn how to use and 
 improve that human providence which brings us into 
 our nearest resemblance to God. When it is said 
 that man was made in God's image, and had dominion 
 committed to him over other works of God, it must 
 be remembered that the image is but imperfect, far 
 off, and dim at first, and it must be our own care to 
 make the likeness greater than it is in the beginning. 
 For this purpose Jesus Christ has made us acquainted 
 with the Father in and through himself, and set him 
 before us as an example ; but so neglected is the 
 privilege, that thousands lose all traces of divine 
 original in the defacing stain of this world's corrup- 
 tions. Still, this is our work and our glory, — to be 
 as much as possible like Him who was entirely like 
 his Father, and, by cherishing a resemblance to our 
 Master, to be transformed into the same image, — 
 from effort to effort in this world, from glory to glory 
 in another. 
 
 Now what is it we adore in the providence of 
 God ? Is it not the vast reach of vision and design 
 with which it embraces all considerations bearing on 
 its action, — never swayed, as man is, by those which 
 are near and pressing, but looking to the last as well 
 as the first, the distant as well as the nigh, — never 
 swayed by undue partiality or aversion, but always 
 steadfastly regarding and pressing on to that which 
 is right ? And more than all, is it not the perfect 
 4# 
 
42 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 disinterestedness of Divine Providence, the regard to 
 the welfare of all, which sends rain and sunshine 
 alike on the just and the unjust, the thankless as 
 well as the good ? 
 
 Here, then, we see straight and plain before us 
 the way to improve our own moral power, — by en- 
 deavouring, as much as possible, to make it resemble 
 the providence of God. That is, to consider all the 
 bearings and consequences of what we do or neglect 
 to do, — overlooking selfish inducements, resisting 
 temporary influences and clamorous passions, and 
 always doing that which under the circumstances, 
 so far as we can see them, our deliberate judgment 
 approves as the best course we can pursue. We are 
 never to count any thing which concerns our duty 
 'beneath our attention, because it may affect others 
 in a way which we cannot foresee ; and if not, it 
 will still concern ourselves to do the best we are 
 able, and in the best manner we are able, since there 
 is a day when our actions, and the character and 
 consequences of our actions, will pass before us in 
 stern and fearful review. And we must remember 
 that we cannot do the best thing in the best way, 
 unless we imitate the providence of God in acting 
 with regard to the right rather than with regard to 
 ourselves, — never suffering our sordid interests, our 
 malicious feelings, or our ungoverned passions to 
 darken the clearness of our judgment, and turn us 
 aside from the course which duty would have us 
 pursue. If we do this as far as possible, we shall 
 find that it will give us a wise forecast in the con- 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 43 
 
 duct of our lives ; saving us from many an error, 
 and saving others from the consequences of. our 
 errors ; and, whether in our daily employments or on 
 great and trying occasions, will give us power to 
 maintain the bearing of children of God. 
 
 I will, however, detain you no longer with this 
 discussion, though all I have said applies to the 
 subject which I intended to 'bring before you ; I 
 mean the calamity which lately overcame us like 
 a summer cloud, filling every heart with sorrow and 
 spreading gloom on every brow. These things are 
 painfully familiar in some parts of our country ; but 
 so unusual here, that they are more terrible when 
 they come. And is it not a subject of gratitude and 
 of wonder that a gigantic undertaking has been com- 
 pleted, and gigantic powers been put in successful 
 action, and that so few in our community can say 
 that they have suffered in person, in circumstances, 
 or in heart ? 
 
 Was this disaster to be ascribed to Divine or hu- 
 man agency ? One or the other must have occa- 
 sioned it, for chance is a name for that which has no 
 existence. To call it accidental is only saying that 
 we cannot determine whether it comes within the 
 circle of human responsibility, or whether it should 
 be regarded as an act of God. We can only tell 
 where to assign it by deciding another question ; and 
 that is, whether ordinary foresight could have fore- 
 seen and prevented it. If so, man was responsible 
 for it ; but otherwise it is to be regarded as an act 
 of God. Had any one concerned in it neglected 
 
44 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 reasonable precautions, encountering danger for the 
 sake of gain or display, — had he tampered with 
 powers that never had been tested, and made bold 
 and rash experiments, doubtful beforehand whether 
 they would succeed, — carelessness would have been a 
 crime, because caution was a duty, and each one so 
 offending would be answerable for that which, with 
 common prudence, he might have prevented, as well 
 as for that which he has done. But if the calcula- 
 tions of science gave them confidence in their power 
 to descend the steep with safety, if former experi- 
 ence of that power strengthened them in -the opinion 
 that it could be done without danger, if all the 
 danger apprehended was from the effect of gravita- 
 tion, and they believed themselves provided with a 
 force more than competent to resist it, still more, if 
 the frost upon their slippery path unexpectedly coun- 
 teracted the effects of their engine and left the vast 
 weight helpless on the descending steep, — in a 
 word, if man did what could be reasonably expected 
 of him to anticipate and avoid all danger, the disas- 
 ter came not within the sphere of human responsi- 
 bility. Their conscience need not be burdened ; 
 the blood of the sufferers will not be required at 
 their hands. This, then, is the result : if human 
 prudence, in its ordinary action, could be expected 
 to foresee and prevent a disaster, it is the work of 
 man ; otherwise, it must be ascribed to the prov- 
 idence of God. 
 
 If the question be asked in reference to the suffer- 
 ers, whether it was the act of man or of God, I an- 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 45 
 
 swer at once, it was the act of God. He does not 
 abridge our freedom ; he suffers us to do or neglect 
 to do, and leaves us to bear the consequences our- 
 selves ; but at the same time he takes care that, so 
 far as respects others, the wrath or folly, the care- 
 lessness or madness, of men shall do nothing more 
 than work out the purposes of the Most High. In 
 any one of those dark deeds with which our public 
 prints are blackened over, the murder was the vol- 
 untary act of man ; so far as the murderer was con- 
 cerned it was human agency, to be answered for here 
 and hereafter as a wilful and deadly sin. But that 
 high Providence, which cares for all the living, did 
 not suffer the welfare of the murdered to be injuri- 
 ously affected by the action of another ; he was per- 
 mitted to suffer, because in the book of Providence 
 it was written that this was the best time for him to 
 die. And so I say with reference to those who have 
 so lately fallen ; it seems mysterious, indeed, that, 
 when their lives were so important, they should have 
 been taken from their desolate wives and children. 
 How often have we heard it lamented that the 
 weight of the ungovernable train did not fall harm- 
 lessly into the waters ! But no ; let us remember, 
 that from the moment when it burst through all hu- 
 man control, and came thundering down the steep, it 
 was God's providence that determined where the blow 
 should fall. Had it been, as no one believes, the 
 most wanton rashness which brought it thus head- 
 long, — yes, had it been wilful design which sent it 
 down to mangle and destroy, — even then it would 
 
46 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 be true that He, without whom not a sparrow falls, 
 permitted it to crush the innocent, — not because 
 they deserved to suffer, not in wrath nor in ven- 
 geance, — but for the single reason, that their hour 
 was come. The time, the place, and the manner of 
 their departure were ordered by the God of love. 
 
 But the question of most importance is, In what 
 light are these disasters themselves to be regarded ? 
 And in respect to human agency they should un- 
 doubtedly be used to learn that needful forecast in the 
 employment of mighty powers, which nothing but 
 experience — I may say sad and sorrowful experi- 
 ence — can give. When the evil has taken place, we 
 can all see that there was danger. But was this dan- 
 ger distinctly predicted by any one before. Wise 
 cautions were given by some who must now rejoice 
 that they gave them ; but with a force of more than 
 two to one to resist the effect of gravitation, would 
 any one have said beforehand that wheels would be 
 palsied in their action, and levers lose their foothold, 
 and the weight roll helplessly down the steeps which 
 it found no difficulty in ascending ? Here, then, the 
 bounds of human forecast are extended by a fearful 
 warning; and that warning may be the means of sav- 
 ing many a life hereafter from a danger which other- 
 wise would not have been understood. It is well, 
 then, that we are sometimes taught that our power is 
 less than we suppose, and our responsibility greater ; 
 and the warning is written in blood, because all expe- 
 rience must be gained at startling prices, and unless 
 the warning is solemn its effect will pass away. 
 
LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 47 
 
 Once more, these calamities should impress our 
 hearts with an overwhelming sense of the power 
 and providence of God. We should reverse the 
 wheels of our enterprise for a moment, and consider 
 our relation to the Most High ; for power without the 
 sense of responsibility is a fatal gift to man. If we 
 see a man of great intellectual power destitute of all 
 moral elevation, he seems unnatural ; we cannot de- 
 spise, indeed, but we cannot reverence him ; we re- 
 gard him with wonder and pain. And so if a com- 
 munity, highly intelligent and highly favored, forget 
 the source of power and blessing, they show them- 
 selves unworthy of their privilege ; they are in dan- 
 ger of losing it ; for He who sitteth in the heaven 
 may dash them down from that elevation when they 
 think themselves triumphantly ascending, and strew 
 them in broken and hopeless ruin below. He has 
 but to send his lightning, and the iron bands of their 
 communication will shrivel like a burning thread, 
 the improvements of life will disappear, the rose- 
 garden will relapse into a wilderness, and the ancient 
 woods and waters will possess their own again. 
 
 In all thy ways, then, acknowledge Him, and He 
 will direct thy paths. In the confidence of human 
 agency, never forget, that, " except the Lord build 
 the house, they labor in vain who build it." In 
 every enterprise, in every endeavour, remember that 
 it is the first dictate of wisdom to turn unto God. 
 
SERMON V. 
 
 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 
 
 THEN CAME PETER TO HIM AND SAID, LORD, HOW OFT SHALL MY 
 BROTHER SIN AGAINST ME AND I FORGIVE HIM? TILL SEVEN 
 
 times ? — Matthew xviii. 21. 
 
 This question, taken in connection with the reply, 
 is the more instructive, because it was proposed by 
 a person of great generosity of feeling ; who was 
 ardent, but always ready for reconciliation, impetuous 
 to hurry into wrath, but equally swift to repent and 
 forgive. Knowing his Master's feelings and princi- 
 ples, he evidently thinks that a great effort will be 
 required of his followers, and he evidently thinks 
 that it would be a great effort to forgive an injury 
 seven times repeated. And this is true. Still it is 
 not all that the Saviour requires, not all that he 
 himself would do. It is plain that he had in his 
 mind a measure of the duty of Christian love, car- 
 ried as far as he then thought it could be carried. 
 He placed his mark on the outmost bounds of what 
 he considered the reach of human attainment. The 
 farthest flight of human generosity and kindness 
 which he could imagine was that of seven times for- 
 
CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 49 
 
 giving the seven times repeated wrong. How much 
 he must have been astonished at his Master's reply, 
 — "I say not unto thee until seven times, but until 
 seventy times seven " ! — that is, about five hundred 
 times as far as he thought it possible for human 
 kindness and generosity to go. 
 
 Now the moral of this short and striking story is 
 this. Every one, like the Apostle, has in his own 
 mind a measure of Christian love in what he thinks 
 is its full extent; — not always very definite, but still 
 there is a sort of boundary in his mind beyond which 
 he thinks it cannot be expected to pass. It is his 
 mark. It is the point to which he thinks it reason- 
 able that the duty should be carried, — or, what is 
 the same thing, to which he thinks that he should 
 be willing to go. And thus he assumes that the 
 mind of God is the same with his own. Instead of 
 saying, as St. Paul did, " We have the mind of 
 Christ." and consulting that oracle without regard to 
 any other, he takes it for granted that his own nat- 
 ural feelings are always to be trusted, though they 
 were formed and came into his heart he knows not 
 when nor how. The Indians, when they can count 
 to six, believe that numeration can go no farther ; 
 and thus, in morals and religion, we make our own 
 attainment the measure of what man can do. One 
 is not less unreasonable than the other. For as 
 Newton and Laplace extended the power of num- 
 bers immeasurably farther than the unenlightened 
 could follow, one Christian may have enlarged ideas 
 of religious duty, which another, so far from attain- 
 5 
 
50 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 
 
 ing, is not yet able to understand. The truth is, no 
 one knows what he can do. No one is able to fix 
 the boundaries of his own power, or, what is the 
 same thing, of his obligations which are commen- 
 surate with his power. None, save He who knows 
 what is in man, can be an authority here ; for that 
 man does not know what is in himself is taught us 
 by the experience of almost every day. 
 
 But there are some considerations worth regarding, 
 which may show us that forgiveness, forbearance, 
 and kindness may be carried farther than we now 
 think possible, — more than seven times farther than 
 we carry them now. To a few of these I will ask 
 your attention. 
 
 First. It is certain, that, if our kindness is limited 
 and partial, there must be something in us which 
 prevents its growing and extending. What is it ? 
 There is nothing in our nature which says to our 
 generosity or forbearance, " Hitherto shalt thou 
 come, and no farther." Therefore it must be some- 
 thing in our acquired feelings, — in the passions 
 which have sprung up in our communication with 
 the world. There are some individuals who have 
 excited in us feelings of distaste, perhaps aversion, 
 which we think it impossible to overcome. Cer- 
 tainly this is a disadvantage, and one not likely to 
 be overcome without effort and care. It is compar- 
 atively easy to keep the garden clear from weeds if 
 they are not permitted to grow; but when they have 
 once struck their roots deep beneath the surface, it 
 is not easy by direct effort to dislodge them. What 
 
CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 51 
 
 then can be done ? Carefully prevent their rising ; 
 cut off every sign of their growth as fast as it ap- 
 pears ; and if the leaves are thus suppressed, the 
 roots will be sure to die. The same is also to be 
 said of the wild growth of unkind feelings in the 
 heart. Suppress their manifestations, and the feel- 
 ings will perish after a time. That is, if you do it 
 in good faith, and with a true desire to get rid of 
 those feelings which are the outlaws of the heart. 
 The effort which good-breeding makes to appear 
 kind is not enough ; but if, from a real principle of 
 kindness and self-improvement, you suppress all man- 
 ifestations of unkindness, the passions from which 
 they spring will perish from the soul. 
 
 Now what I say is this : if we have in our hearts 
 any feelings of dislike to others which have gath- 
 ered strength by indulgence, we cannot judge how 
 far the kindness of one who has destroyed those 
 feelings in his heart by suppressing them can go. 
 It can go farther than we can go with it ; it can go 
 farther than we can imagine now. It is said that 
 the patient faithfulness of Chinese industry has ex- 
 terminated the roots and seeds of that useless and 
 troublesome vegetation in which our fields abound ; 
 and the result is, that their agriculture has a richness 
 and abundance unknown and unimagined in other 
 lands. So must it be with labor applied to the heart. 
 This labor is applied at disadvantage while any un- 
 kind feeling, cherished and defended, usurps the place 
 where better ones might grow. O if the heart were 
 free ! if it could once brinsr itself into that state of 
 
52 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 
 
 liberty from passion wherewith Christ would make 
 it free ! If you say it cannot be, remember that 
 nothing was ever yet accomplished by despair. The 
 charge, " Love your enemies," contains a duty that 
 can be done ; — not, however, by one who intrench- 
 es himself in his unkind feelings, but by the fol- 
 lower of his Master who by patient labor has re- 
 moved every root of bitterness from his heart. 
 
 Again : they who doubt whether obedience to the 
 command which enjoins the love of man can be car- 
 ried as far as the Saviour would have it go are not 
 aware what facility and power are gained by the 
 familiar practice of religious virtue. In every thing 
 else it is evident to their eyes. They see the ease 
 and grace with which mechanical movements and 
 physical operations are conducted by those who have 
 followed them for years. They wonder at the rapid 
 grace with which the artisan accomplishes what 
 would be impossible to unskilful hands. Nor is the 
 admiration less when we behold the results of intel- 
 lectual training, by which calculations, which are a 
 mystery to the uninitiated, are seen through with a 
 glance like the eagle's ; by which thoughts are 
 arranged and marshalled in the mind at the slightest 
 summons, and the orator makes his way through the 
 most difficult subject in a path of light, as the ship 
 seems to throw fire from its keel in the midnight 
 sea. The same command of resources, the same 
 readiness, ease, and gracefulness in the use of the 
 spiritual powers, is the reward of those, who, as the 
 Apostle says, " exercise themselves " in these high 
 
CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 53 
 
 endeavours. Like men familiar with mountain paths, 
 they move with careless confidence where others 
 would think it impossible to tread. 
 
 This is what our Saviour alluded to, when he en- 
 couraged those who took up his burden with the 
 hope that they would find it light. He knew, and 
 they knew, that it was not light at first ; but each 
 succeeding effort lessened the difficulty ; they soon 
 welcomed that which at first they shrank from, and 
 at last, came to love the duty which at first was a 
 subject of dread. The conscience, if once diso- 
 beyed, — how hard it is to recover our sense of ob- 
 ligation ! But if we obey it faithfully, the next 
 effort is more easily made; the difficulty lessens with 
 each succeeding endeavour. Thus it is with those 
 who determine to forgive every injury, to clear their 
 minds of every resentful feeling. It may be hard 
 the first time, — but the seventh time it is compar- 
 atively easy ; the seventh time, one faithfully dis- 
 posed begins to acquire a taste for the duty, and long 
 before he reaches the seventieth effort he will enjoy 
 the new feelings so intensely, that nothing would per- 
 suade him to return to his indifference and hardness 
 again. And so with the affections. Who, but those 
 who have tasted it, can tell the happiness which 
 their familiar exercise bestows? You may wake the 
 sleeper, and tell him what joy it is to breathe the 
 fresh air of the morning, and to see the daily resur- 
 rection of the sun from its grave. Should you per- 
 suade him to go forth, he will wish himself back in 
 his slumbers ; but after a few efforts to overcome his 
 5* 
 
54 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 
 
 first distaste, he will begin to enjoy it as you do, 
 and wonder how he could have sacrificed to dulness 
 and inaction the best and brightest hours of the day. 
 And so with the happiness which springs from re- 
 ligions feelings, — no one can understand it till he 
 has at least tasted and seen it ; nor can it come to 
 him in fulness of joy till those feelings have become 
 familiar inmates of the breast. 
 
 In fine, no one can tell what advances may be 
 made in kindness and good-will to others by one 
 whose object it is to divest himself of selfish feel- 
 ings. All men are selfish, no doubt ; but there is 
 this difference, made by religious principle where it 
 exists. Some are earnest to suppress and overcome 
 those selfish feelings, while others love to indulge 
 them. While the latter talk about resisting them, 
 they still indulge them, either from the feeling that 
 they are natural and may be innocently indulged, — 
 that good-will to others may go far enough without 
 going far, — or from reliance on those barren words 
 and feelings, which, like sunset-light on windows, 
 give the appearance of warmth to the heart, when 
 all is cold within. These two classes there are. 
 Now our Saviour states the law of the heart ; it can- 
 not serve two masters. If its general direction is in 
 favor of self-indulgence, love to man has no chance 
 there. The banner of love may be kept flying above 
 it, but there is nothing of the reality below. On the 
 other hand, if a Christian really makes it the effort 
 of his life to resist his own selfishness, he will be 
 surprised himself and he will surprise others by the 
 
CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 55 
 
 amount of service which he can render to God and 
 man, and still more by the ease, and joy, and grace 
 with which it is rendered. 
 
 I have made these suggestions, and many more 
 might be added, showing that we ought never to 
 pronounce upon the extent of a Christian obligation 
 from what we know of our. own disposition and 
 our own power. It is a common delusion to think 
 that duty goes only so far as we now think we can 
 go. We may find hereafter, as doubtless the Apos- 
 tle did, that we can go seventy times farther. And 
 not only so ; we may also find that we can take the 
 seventieth step more easily than the seventh, — each 
 succeeding effort being less than the former, and 
 the way of duty easier to tread, though it spread 
 out immeasurably far before us. We must remem- 
 ber, that it is not ours to say what duty requires, 
 nor what man is expected, or is able, to- do. For 
 as the measures of length were preserved in the 
 dimensions of the stones of the temple, where they 
 could be invariably ascertained in future ages as 
 long as that building stood, so the measures of 
 Christian obligation are preserved, and can be seen, 
 in the life and history of our Lord. We have noth- 
 ing to do with metes and bounds ; we have only 
 to follow him. If we follow him, we cannot wan- 
 der ; and the only way in which we can be sure 
 of going far enough in any duty is to follow him 
 faithfully to the last, — to follow him till our last 
 step sinks in the grave. 
 
SERMON VI. 
 
 VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 
 
 AND, BEHOLD, A THRONE WAS SET IN HEAVEN, AND ONE SAT ON 
 
 the throne. — Revelation iv. 2. 
 
 We can see, even through the medium of a mis- 
 taken and unfortunate translation, that there is a 
 wonderful richness and magnificence in the Apoca- 
 lyptic vision, — particularly in its representation of 
 the Most High. Every thing in it is either dazzling 
 or shadowy ; there is no clear outline, no exactly 
 discernible form. In this place it is said that a 
 throne was placed in heaven, and One, it is not said 
 who, sat on the throne. It is not said who, be- 
 cause there is no distinct image before the writer's 
 eye ; and though he knows who it must be, his in- 
 spiration faints and fears to tell. But the imagina- 
 tion of the thoughtful reader is powerfully excited, 
 and the effect is, in one who reflects, to turn away 
 his contemplation from the visible glories before him 
 to those moral perfections, which, in the view of the 
 angel, are infinitely more lovely and commanding 
 than can be represented by any forms, colors, or ra- 
 diance such as delight the eye. And this undoubt- 
 
vision of god's throne. 57 
 
 edly was meant to be the effect of every thing grand 
 and beautiful in the visible works of God. Our ad- 
 miration of them does not answer its purpose, unless 
 it aids us to ascend to a purer sense and clearer un- 
 derstanding of those divine glories of wisdom, pow- 
 er, and love, in comparison with which all things 
 seen with the eye are but dust and ashes. Now this 
 is my purpose in asking your attention to this strange 
 and splendid vision, — that we may learn how to as- 
 cend through it, and above it, to a higher and nearer 
 communion with Him whom no eye hath seen or 
 can see, and who, after all the pains and the power 
 with which he is thus presented, never becomes to 
 us " our Father," till he is welcomed and has his 
 dwelling in the heart. 
 
 But let us turn to the vision, for I wish that all 
 may observe this peculiarity which I have men- 
 tioned, — the manner in which it eludes the eye, and 
 at the same time fills it with glory. As in the dream 
 of Eliphaz, it stands still, but we cannot discern the 
 form of it ; while at the same time an image is be- 
 fore our eyes. The One who sat upon the throne — 
 that is, the glory that surrounds him — resembles the 
 jasper and sardine or carnelian ; the former of which 
 is of various and dazzling colors, while the latter in 
 all its changes retains a resemblance to flesh-color, 
 which doubtless has its meaning here, by which it is 
 intended that there was something which gave the 
 impression of a person and a form in all this surpass- 
 ing glory. But it is not here as in the words of 
 the modern lyrist : — 
 
58 vision of god's throne. 
 
 " He passed the bounds of naming space, 
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
 Where angels tremble as they gaze. 
 He saw, and, blasted with excess of light, 
 Closed his eyes in endless night." 
 
 For the seer of the Revelation, more in the spirit 
 of his religion, represents the fierce brightness as 
 softened down into the rainbow, — the sweet sign of 
 mercy, — " very beautiful in the brightness thereof, 
 compassing the heaven with a glorious circle where 
 the hands of the Most High have bended it " ; and, 
 with yet kinder regard for human weakness, shaded 
 with the emerald, — the tender green, the color on 
 which every eye can dwell undazzled, and with ever 
 new delight. Before him spreads out the pavement, 
 resembling a crystal sea ; by which is meant the 
 upper surface of the firmament, of which the lower, 
 with its delicious blue, is over our heads. And God 
 is represented as looking down from his throne 
 through this transparent ceiling of the universe, hav- 
 ing all the sons of men, and all that passes in the 
 earth beneath him, at once in full and perfect view. 
 
 Need I say that in this brilliant presentment of 
 the heavenly glory we have before us the Christian's 
 God ? for while the intense brightness, the uncertain 
 form, the lightnings and thunders, and the changing 
 rays of fiery light, all give the impression that it 
 is a fearful thing to fall into his hand, the gentle 
 rainbow of peace, and the emerald softness in which 
 this radiance melts away, show us how Christianity 
 has changed this contemplation of the Highest ; — 
 
vision of god's throne. 59 
 
 not by any means depriving him of his sterner glo- 
 ries, but only softening them to the eye, or rather to 
 the heart, in such a manner that we can bear the 
 sight which was impossible before. For you re- 
 member that the Hebrews at Sinai entreated that the 
 word might never be spoken to them again, though 
 it was a word of favor and mercy. Their great 
 leader even quaked and trembled to feel himself in 
 presence of his God, while the humblest follower of 
 Jesus may come boldly into that same presence, 
 with sweet confidence in the place of shivering 
 dread. Surely no emblematical representation can 
 be imagined which should set before us with more 
 beauty and power what the Saviour has done to 
 remove the terrors of the Almighty, and to turn the 
 hearts of his children to their kind and gracious God. 
 Again : the heavenly beings who are seen in this 
 vision, surrounding and sustaining the throne of the 
 Most High, are presented in such a manner as to 
 give us the strongest impression of angelical excel- 
 lence and glory. And let it be observed, that it is 
 only an impression which the seer intends to give, — 
 not a definite and exact description. There is no 
 clear outline ; on the contrary, it is implied through- 
 out that they cannot be represented with precision to 
 human view. This is intimated in the name which 
 he gives them ; they are called living ones, or be- 
 ings, — a general and purposely undefined expres- 
 sion, which our translators have degraded, profaned 
 I might almost say, into the word " beasts," a trans- 
 lation of the original term which is strangely, pain- 
 
60 vision of god's throne. 
 
 fully untrue. Nor can it be accounted for except 
 from what the Apostle says of their expression. So 
 far as they are bodied forth, they are graceful and 
 radiant forms, with wings to represent the lightness 
 and rapidity with which they move in the service of 
 their God. But he says that one had the expression 
 of strength and majesty, such as is seen in the lion ; 
 another, of patient faithfulness, of which the ox is 
 the sign ; another had the look of human intelli- 
 gence, indicating his sympathy with mankind; while 
 yet another had that determined gaze with which 
 the eagle fronts the sun. As an emblem of the 
 lustre that surrounds them, it is said that they were 
 full of eyes ; and this word, as the Hebrew scholar 
 knows, is applied not only to the organ of sight, but 
 to the bright sparkling point in the precious stone 
 from which its flashes of colored light stream forth, 
 giving an idea of the animated grace and airy free- 
 dom of motion by which this radiance, various and 
 ever changing, starts out with each movement to the 
 gazer's view. These " beings," as he calls them, — 
 for he knows not what else to call them, since they 
 are more than human, yet not quite divine, — are 
 not described as angels, because the angels are those 
 Avho are sent to accomplish the purposes and perform 
 the orders of their God ; while these are represented 
 as attendant spirits, always near his throne, always 
 rejoicing in the brightness of his countenance, always 
 rendering heartfelt adoration ; for it is said, " They 
 rest not day and night, saying, Holy, holy, holy, 
 Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to 
 come." 
 
vision of god's throne. 61 
 
 Undefined as this description of these heavenly- 
 beings is and must be, nothing could give us a finer 
 impression of those higher orders of existence, for 
 such undoubtedly there are, which have not needed 
 to come into this lower world and to have their re- 
 ligious character formed as ours must be, in conflict 
 with the sins and sorrows of the present state. The 
 taste and imagination of some great artists have dis- 
 cerned what our translators of the Scripture failed to 
 see ; and they have represented these heavenly beings 
 with many of the traits of humanity, but none of 
 heaven, — with feminine delicacy and manly strength 
 and freedom, — with the grace of youth in their 
 forms, but the wisdom of age upon their thought- 
 ful brows, — with an expression of thoughtful sad- 
 ness when their mission brings them into the world 
 to witness its wretchedness and corruption, but joy- 
 ful adoration, unspeakable and full of glory, when 
 their eye turns upward to heaven and to God. Now 
 it is true that there may be a taste of this kind, and 
 power to represent these things vividly, where there 
 is no true religious feeling ; but it is also true, that 
 something is gained to true religious feeling by sur- 
 rounding all sacred subjects with images of beauty 
 and peace, by sweet and holy associations. For 
 there is a natural alliance between that which is 
 lovely, and that which is true and heavenly ; and it 
 is one of the evils of this strange and sorrowful 
 world, that things unworthy are disguised in raiment 
 of light, while religion itself is too often profaned 
 by a sincere, but most unfit, union with violence. 
 6 
 
62 vision or god's throne. 
 
 narrowness, and bitter feelings, which bring it down 
 to the very dust. 
 
 But we must look through the visible image to 
 what it represents and implies, which is, that the 
 most exalted characters and powers find a subject 
 of never-ceasing interest in the contemplation of 
 God. They are never weary of adoration. By day, 
 and all the day, it is their delight to engage in it, 
 and there is no night nor slumber there. But let no 
 one take the impression, that life in heaven is spent 
 in offering verbal praise. It is true that the mouth 
 speaks from the overflow of the heart', and if the 
 affections are interested they will inspire the tongue ; 
 but it is rather the language of the life which is here 
 intended. The meaning is, that the various pur- 
 suits of heaven — various and extended as they 
 must be far beyond the pursuits of this narrow and 
 sensual world — are of such a kind as to make man 
 better as well as happier, to elevate and refine his 
 devotion, to open his mind with a larger understand- 
 ing of divine excellence, and to fill his heart with 
 purer and holier love, thus showing that the wor- 
 ship of the soul, which is the duty of the mortal, is 
 the joy of the immortal ; and that in the same pro- 
 portion as spiritual beings, whether human or heav- 
 enly, are higher exalted, the more do they delight 
 to pour themselves out in grateful and adoring 
 praise. 
 
 But the part of this wondrous vision which is of 
 nearest interest to ourselves is yet to come. Around 
 the great central throne were other thrones, humbler, 
 
vision of god's throne. 63 
 
 and yet highly exalted, and on these were human 
 forms, — persons who were translated to these high 
 places for the faithful service which they had render- 
 ed when in life below. " Elders " they are called ; 
 but the name has reference to maturity of character 
 rather than length of days ; for in the estimation of 
 heaven, " honorable age is not that which standeth 
 in length of time, nor is measured by number of 
 years ; but wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and 
 an unstained life is old age." They who left the 
 world in youth, and they who died infirm with 
 years, are alike embraced in that name, and placed 
 equally near to their common Father. They were 
 dressed in white robes, and there were golden crowns 
 upon their heads ; some of them had harps in their 
 hands, and others golden censers, from which fragrant 
 clouds of incense were rolling upward. And when 
 they saw the Son of God, to whom they were indebt- 
 ed for heaven, they sang the new song, — " Thou 
 art worthy, for thou wast slain and hast redeemed us 
 by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and 
 people, and nation, and hast made us kings and 
 priests to God." Their adoration rises yet higher 
 to the great Source of all blessing, for as often as 
 those mysterious " beings " give glory, honor, and 
 thanks to Him upon the throne, who liveth for ever 
 and ever, the elders cast down their crowns before 
 him, and when the anthem is sung by all the bright 
 armies above, — " Blessing, and honor, and glory, and 
 power to Him that sitteth upon the throne and to 
 the Lamb," — the elders fall down and worship Him 
 that liveth for ever and ever. 
 
64 vision of god's throne. 
 
 But, amidst all this magnificence of description, we 
 must not forget that this is but the outward sign, 
 the visible presentment, of a spiritual reality far 
 greater and more inspiring to those who are able to 
 understand it. For these elders, as I said, are human 
 spirits, — whether in youth or age, in wealth or 
 want, in humility or greatness, on earth, — who were 
 eminently faithful while they lived, and therefore are 
 welcomed in heaven when they die. Their crowns 
 are but the emblems of that eminence which their 
 excellence gives them in that world where — O, how 
 unlike this present world ! — all things are seen as 
 they are, and where it is seen and confessed that 
 they who have rendered most useful service to oth- 
 ers, and held fast their confidence in God, are the 
 only true sovereigns of the race of man. For while 
 all other influence declines, and all other glory grows 
 pale as stars at sunrise, their power over others ex- 
 tends, and their names become more illustrious, as 
 ages pass away. Did not our Saviour say to his fol- 
 lowers, that they should sit on thrones preeminent 
 among the tribes ? And so it is. What other 
 Hebrew names are now in power ? what Hebrew 
 spirit exerts the least influence on any living heart ? 
 — while these men, humble as they were when liv- 
 ing, are now set as stars in the firmament, brightest 
 among the sons of light, and their influence as 
 teachers of heavenly truth and apostles of their 
 Master is deeply felt in every Christian land, in 
 every dwelling, and almost every heart. 
 
 There is meaning, too, in the incense which rolls 
 
VISION of god's throne. 65 
 
 upward from their censers, — " phials," as our trans- 
 lators have strangely" and improperly called them, — 
 and also in the golden harps which they bear. The 
 former is a sign of acceptable devotion. It repre- 
 sents, we are told, the prayers of the holy ; and it 
 assures us, that even in. the sacred presence, in the 
 midst of the cherubim and seraphim, these humble 
 prayers of human spirits shall be heard, — the pale, 
 faltering lips of the mourner on earth shall find audi- 
 ence as soon as the angel's burning tongue. And 
 the white raiment of the elders, — what is it but the 
 illustration which our Saviour himself employed, 
 when he represented the religious character as a 
 wedding garment? that is, as the appropriate dress 
 of the festival, signifying that he who put it on, or 
 became holy, was for the first time to taste the true 
 enjoyment, not only of the hope of heaven, but 
 of the blessings which surround him in the earth 
 below. 
 
 The harps which they bear, — they too have their 
 meaning. They are the sign, not only of worship, 
 but of that harmony of the soul, that perfect free- 
 dom from all discordant action, which forms so large 
 a part of the happiness of the blest. We know how 
 it is with the living ; we see that there is something 
 harsh and grating in the elements within them ; and 
 as long as it is so, there never can be peace. There 
 is some unkind feeling to others, some cherished 
 worldliness, some sinful self-indulgence, which is 
 enough to destroy all the grace and harmony of their 
 spirits within them, throwing darkness over all the 
 6* 
 
66 vision of god's throne. 
 
 blessings of this world, and darkening the prospect 
 of the other. Indeed, all of us know enough of this 
 to appreciate the joy which must come from the full, 
 free, and harmonious exercise of all the powers with- 
 in us in some effort worthy to engage them; — how 
 it silences the passions, how it spreads calmness over 
 the troubled waters, giving us power to conceive 
 that peace which passeth understanding, and which 
 God reserves for the blessed in heaven. 
 
 And now the question arises, — Can we take in 
 the meaning of this vision ? Is there any thing 
 within us by which we can understand the glory of 
 things not seen with the eye, such as truth, holiness, 
 and love ? or do we give all our attention to the out- 
 ward splendor of this description, having no heart to 
 feel the superior beauty and greatness of spiritual 
 things ? Does generous action affect us like some 
 fine object in nature ? Do our hearts, which grow 
 warm in the presence of fine scenery, equally kindle 
 when we look on excellent and lovely deeds? Have 
 we never learned to regard a high soul with the 
 same feeling of sublimity which the mountain, the 
 ocean, or the broad heaven awakens ? When we 
 look over the human prospect that surrounds us, with 
 its heights of joy and depressions of sorrow, does it 
 not awaken interest, — yes, and a deeper interest 
 than that inspired by the rich landscape spreading 
 out beneath our view ? For this is the difference 
 between those who are spiritual and those who are 
 not. The spiritual mind is touched, affected, and 
 impressed by things which are not visible to the eye. 
 
vision of god's throne. 67 
 
 It finds more inspiring beauty and attraction in the 
 higher traits of conduct, character, and life, than in 
 the greatest and loveliest of visible things ; and 
 therefore it turns with enthusiasm to the life and 
 spirit of the Saviour, as the pencil of inspiration 
 has painted them ; and through him who was the 
 image of his Father, it looks up with joy unspeak- 
 able, with a heart full of glory, to its awful and yet 
 gracious God. Such is the mind which prepares for 
 the enjoyment of heaven. For all these visible 
 things set before us in the vision cannot endure ; 
 they are perishable and fleeting; crowns, and harps, 
 and jewels shall soon blend with common dust. 
 The only enduring crown of immortality is the 
 smile and favor of the Most High ; the harp of 
 heaven is the harmony of a soul at peace with itself, 
 with others, and with God ; while the jewels which 
 never lose their lustre are those virtues and affec- 
 tions which are always rich and glorious even here, 
 and they are the heavenly treasure which death can- 
 not take away. 
 
SERMON VII.* 
 
 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 LORD, NOW LETTEST THOU THY SERVANT DEPART IN PEACE. 
 
 Luke ii. 29. 
 
 This beautiful expression of grateful readiness to 
 die came from the lips and from the heart of an 
 aged man, who had waited through a long life in 
 the hope of the Messiah's coming. When the Son 
 of God was come, and he held the infant Saviour 
 in his arms, he felt that he had nothing more to live 
 for, and whenever it pleased God to call him away 
 he was willing, perhaps more than willing, to go. 
 And the reason of this cheerful self-surrender was, 
 that the wants of his soul were satisfied. Through 
 his whole life he had felt a want, — a conscious 
 want within him, which nothing could ever supply, 
 till the sight of the Saviour — of him whom proph- 
 ets and kings desired in vain to see — shone upon 
 his late evening of life, and gave the peace desired to 
 his soul. 
 
 In this we have an image of humanity wherever it 
 
 * A funeral discourse on a lady whose death-bed experiences had 
 been peculiarly affecting and satisfactory. 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 69 
 
 is found ; — "As in water face answereth to face, so 
 the heart of man to man." In every human being 
 there is a want which nothing in this world can sup- 
 ply. Riches, comforts, luxuries, or, if his taste rises 
 higher, intellectual resources and enjoyments, are 
 tried in vain. He enjoys them, and yet, in the midst 
 of his pleasure, there is the same conscious want, 
 troubling him somewhat in his prosperity, but lying 
 heavy upon his heart in dark and lonely hours. 
 Those who are least in the habit of attending to 
 what passes within themselves, — even they are con- 
 scious of an uneasiness, an unsatisfied yearning for 
 something better. The instrumentality of outward 
 blessings, on which they relied for satisfaction, has 
 not answered the purpose. You can see in the ex- 
 pression of their face, if they do not say it in so 
 many words, that something is not right ; there is 
 still a want, and this want is a want of the soul. 
 
 What will satisfy this want? What does the soul 
 crave ? It is not pleasure ; it is not that happiness 
 which is generally desired, and which appropriates 
 the name ; what mankind call pleasure comes only 
 from sources within this world. The soul wants 
 something that is unchanging ; and this is not to be 
 found in a perpetually changing world. The soul 
 wants rest ; and this is not to be found in a restless 
 world. God, who is himself a spirit, knows what 
 the spirit needs, and has provided for it ; — peace, as 
 inspiration calls it with its usual power of expres- 
 sion, which is not quite the same with happiness, 
 for it is higher, nor by any means the same with 
 
70 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 pleasure, because it is steady and lasting. It has its 
 sources far in the highlands, like the great river of 
 Egypt, where no human eye hath seen its fountains, 
 and thence comes down in its rejoicing fulness to 
 revive and bless the sons of men. 
 
 What the soul wants is peace ; — peace with our- 
 selves, peace with others, and peace with God. Nei- 
 ther of these can it have in truth and reality with- 
 out having the others also. No man who is not at 
 peace with himself is ever at peace with others ; for 
 it is not so much their affronts and injuries, but 
 something within himself, which wakes his hatred 
 and revenge. No one who is not entirely, heartily 
 at peace with others can ever be at peace with God. 
 If he believes that he is, he holds a delusion and 
 falsehood to his heart. This peace is what we need 
 for this life, in order to live well and happily here. 
 Without it, we cannot be prepared to go into eter- 
 nity ; for to die in peace is the blessing which every 
 heart desires, and would desire still more fervently, 
 if it saw through the world into its depths of solemn 
 meaning. 
 
 But to be at peace with ourselves, — is that so un- 
 usual ? Indeed it is. Self-content, self-satisfaction, 
 abounds ; but what I mean is, to be at peace with 
 the conscience after the heart and life have passed 
 often before it in stern and sincere review. The 
 conscience seldom speaks loud ; no man in the ordi- 
 nary course of life is obliged to hear it ; he has the 
 power to shut his heart against it, if he wills. And 
 when he does so, it will stand apart in silent sorrow, 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 71 
 
 like a friend who would fain give him warning, but 
 feels that it is useless, and therefore looks sadly upon 
 the self-destroying way in which he goes. To be 
 at peace with conscience means to be at peace with 
 an active and awakened conscience ; and no man 
 ever secures this blessing till he has courage to be 
 alone with it, to ask and hear what it has to say, and 
 then regards its gentle intimations as so many com- 
 mands of God. Do you ever look over the relations 
 in which you stand, to know whether you discharge 
 their obligations or not ? Do you ever examine your 
 own sense of duty, to know whether it is living and 
 strong within you ? Do you seriously endeavour to 
 know what your conscience thinks of the life you 
 are leading ? If not, you may be self-satisfied, — 
 alas for you if you are ! — but at peace with your- 
 self you cannot be. You have yet, like the prod- 
 igal, to come to yourself, before you can be ready to 
 depart in peace. 
 
 To be at peace with others. It may not be easy 
 in this world ; for we receive some neglects and in- 
 juries at times, and we imagine a thousand more. 
 The passions of others come in conflict with our 
 passions, and we resent as a personal insult their do- 
 ing what we should do in their stead. Besides, 
 merely to refrain from alienation is not to be at peace 
 with them. We must be in full harmony ; our 
 hearts must be in living sympathy with theirs ; and 
 any selfishness, indifference, or pride, which prevents 
 this union of interest and feeling, is inconsistent with 
 the spirit of our Master. Till these are suppressed, 
 
72 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 and supplied by better affections, there is no peace 
 with onr fellow-men. 
 
 And to be at peace with God. Do we not know 
 that our Saviour came for this purpose, — to recon- 
 cile us to him, to his dispensations, and his law ? — 
 to make us one with himself, and therefore one 
 with the Father, so that, when able to discern the 
 indications of his providence, we shall say, whether 
 they bring us joy or sorrow, " Father, thy will be 
 done ! " Not that we shall never suffer. It is neces- 
 sary that we should suffer ; it is good for us to suffer. 
 No easy path can lead us upward ; in 'the midst of 
 suffering, under the wearing labor which duty and 
 submission require, we find the truth of the prom- 
 ise, " I will give you rest." Peace we may have. 
 We must not ask for joy ; joy is the wick of candle 
 soon burnt out, while peace is the serene and never- 
 setting star. And this peace is for him who stands 
 ready to leave the world in harmony with his own 
 conscience, in friendship and full sympathy with 
 others, and in union of purpose and spirit with his 
 Saviour and his God. 
 
 I am now to remind you of a peaceful departure 
 of one of our number, who has just left us for the 
 unseen world. Though her living form cannot be 
 present here, her living spirit may ; her memory and 
 example may ; and would that I had power to bring 
 them before your hearts with the same lifelike 
 impression which they have made and left in my 
 own ! 
 
 Her conversion to God was sudden. The act of 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 73 
 
 self-surrender was made at once ; after it she seemed 
 to live for God and duty alone. But do not under- 
 stand me as saying that nothing went before it, that 
 there was no preparation made or needed for that 
 effort of self-sacrifice to God. O, no ! There were 
 many hours of thought fulness ; there were prayers 
 which the world did not hear ; ( there was a deep in- 
 terest in the word of truth before she felt its power. 
 Was it indifference which brought her in pain and 
 sickness to this house, when many of the firm and 
 strong, through fear of the frowning elements of na- 
 ture, were kept away ? There is a path, — a straight 
 and narrow path, — in which we must travel up to 
 this great attainment. It could only have been by 
 cherishing religious impressions, by regarding it as a 
 matter of life and death, by exercising herself in obe- 
 dience to conscience and to God, that she gained 
 the strength to give her heart with such entire unre- 
 serve, such affectionate self-devotion, to her Saviour 
 and her God. 
 
 I say, to her Saviour and her God. She found 
 the truth of the saying, that he and his Father are 
 one, and whoever looks on him is looking on the 
 Father ; — a truth which, mechanically stated, may 
 lead into error, but which cannot be misunderstood 
 by the devoted and reverential heart. For as when 
 we look into the reflecting telescope we see only the 
 image, but say that we are looking at the sun itself, 
 so it is only through Jesus Christ that we arrive at 
 any understanding of the Father, — only through 
 him that the Unseen and Unapproachable is brought 
 
74 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 within the reach of mortal view. Nothing could 
 be deeper than her sense of gratitude to Him who 
 died for her ; it was through him that she hoped for 
 the forgiveness of her sins. She found in herself, 
 as all true Christians find, that her growing interest 
 in the Saviour passed upward, by easy and uncon- 
 scious transition, to his Father ; and as her heart 
 opened to her Father, she delighted more and more 
 in the bright image and divine presentment of his 
 love. 
 
 When her heart was thus turned to her heavenly 
 Father, in thorough sympathy with his holy will 
 and fond reliance on his mercy, she was at peace 
 with herself. Not that she was insensible to her un- 
 worthiness. She felt — as erring man should feel 
 ^— deep self-abasement for her sins, and wonder and 
 adoration of his forgiving love. In former days, to 
 her, as to all the rest of us, there had been some- 
 thing wanting ; but after she arose and went to her 
 Father, the dissatisfied feeling, the uneasy desire, 
 which is found in so many, passed away for ever 
 from her heart. Her very countenance was changed. 
 The light and the love shone bright from within ; 
 no one came near her without feeling that a genial 
 and reviving influence was there ; the beauty of ho- 
 liness was in the expression of her features ; — for 
 this, when all other beauty is a faded flower, can 
 still remain, an un withering crown upon the brow. 
 What a persuasive charm there is in this unbroken 
 serenity ! Who would not pray for this warm- 
 hearted glow which survives in the very face of 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 75 
 
 death ? It is like the sunny place which we some- 
 times find in the dead of winter, in the bosom of 
 the evergreen wood. The verdure is bright, and 
 the spring is cheerfully flowing on the edge of the 
 far-spreading snow ; and the redbreast, lingers there, 
 in fearless confidence, when all its brethren are fled. 
 She was also at peace with others. I do not mean 
 simply that she forgave those who had injured her, 
 for the dying have seldom much memory for wrongs ; 
 it is not easy to be unforgiving, when we are made 
 to feel how much we need to be forgiven. More 
 than this. She felt, and manifested an affectionate 
 interest in all, — loving her friends better than ever, 
 but feeling that the heart is for the many as well as 
 the few. She earnestly desired to lead them to the 
 fountains of living waters, where she had relieved 
 the thirst of her soul ; still, there was no forcing the 
 subject upon them, but a delicacy and judgment, 
 united with fervor, showing how well sympathy un- 
 derstands the way to the heart. When her friends 
 came to visit her, she did not think it necessary to 
 change the religious subject on which she was con- 
 versing, nor to suppress the voice of prayer. With 
 that refinement which true religion inspires, she 
 made them welcome, not only to her chamber, but 
 to those subjects of interest in which all have equal 
 concern, — taking for granted, that, if they were 
 friends to her, they were not strangers to her Father 
 and their Father, to her God and their God. Thus 
 when she lay, to all appearance, helpless and power- 
 less, she was in truth doing much in the service of 
 
76 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 her Master ; and it cannot be that any whom she 
 was so affectionately desirous to impress will coldly 
 forget the lessons which they learned at her dying 
 bed. If so, she died in vain for them ; nor is there 
 hope that those who suffer themselves to forget these 
 impressions will ever find words of power to touch 
 their hearts again. 
 
 But, what is more than all beside, she was at peace 
 with God, — entirely ready to accept the condition 
 of existence which he assigned her ; and though it 
 cast her down from envied prosperity into the gloom 
 of a sick-chamber and the weariness of a sick-bed, 
 from which she knew there was no release but the 
 grave, she never for a moment doubted that his will 
 was love. She knew that her suffering came from 
 her best and kindest Friend. Assured of his tender 
 sympathy, she found relief in communion with him. 
 She feared not to be alone with her Father. It was 
 the familiar dictate of her heart to pour out her feel- 
 ings in prayer ; and in those later stages of disease, 
 when the powers of the mind, like the weak hands, 
 could not retain in their grasp the things they en- 
 deavoured to hold, her spirit would return from its 
 wanderings to listen to the voice which spoke to her 
 of heaven and of God. 
 
 I have seen genuine religious feeling in various 
 forms and trials ; but seldom have I seen it on the 
 death-bed so healthy and unexcited, at once so fer- 
 vent and so self-possessed. Her manifestations of 
 feeling carried with them the conviction, that they 
 were severely true. Sometimes you listen almost 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 77 
 
 with sadness to the expressions of the dying, doubt- 
 ing if they know themselves, — doubting whether, if 
 their days were prolonged, the life would make good 
 the words. But here there was something which 
 inspired confidence that the feeling was not only 
 sincere for the moment, but strong and sure, — a flame 
 which, once kindled, would no more go down. The 
 truth must have been, that there was a strength and 
 depth of feeling in her heart, to which she herself 
 and others were strangers, which had not been seen 
 in its extent, because never drawn out in full meas- 
 ure before. When she became a child of God, these 
 powers, which before had slumbered, rushed forth 
 into their appropriate field of action, rejoicing like 
 the strong man to run a race, exulting like the wan- 
 derers, who, after long and distant wayfaring, have 
 reached their own, their native land. 
 
 It was in the last hour of her life that I conversed 
 with her of the things which belonged to her peace. 
 She had some fear of the death-struggle ; but the 
 words, " Let not your heart be troubled," seemed as 
 if addressed to her, and she dismissed every shadow 
 of dread. And how needless those fears would have 
 been ! — for in the closing moments there was neither 
 a struggle nor a sigh. And then she lay with her 
 cheek gently pillowed on her right hand, and the left 
 as if unconsciously playing with the ribbon on her 
 breast, — the very image of sweet and sacred repose. 
 " He giveth his beloved sleep," was the thought 
 which it suggested to the heart. But that expres- 
 sion, — that mysterious, that almost divine expres- 
 7* 
 
78 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 sion of wonder and delight, which lingers like a 
 glory on the face in the first hours of death, — who 
 can explain its unsearchable depth of meaning ? It is 
 no living expression ; it was not there before ; and it 
 is as far removed as possible from the cold, stern look 
 of death. I have seen it more than once in those 
 who died in peace ; but whence it comes, and what 
 is its meaning, no human power can tell. It is said, 
 that, when the arm is severed, the sensation in it is 
 felt after the separation ; and so it may be, that, when 
 the parting soul flies, and the glories of heaven are 
 bursting on its transported view, it is the lingering 
 sympathy of the frame with its lost associate which 
 lights up the features, — making the face, as it were, 
 the face of an angel, and giving the clearest revela- 
 tion of heaven we can have in the world below. 
 But conjecture is vain. We know not what it is. 
 But it is kind, it is happy, 
 
 " And I do ponder with most strange delight 
 On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night." 
 
 I have dwelt at unusual length on this example 
 of conversion, because it seemed to me so genuine, 
 thorough, and true. How unlike the repentance of 
 many, which needs to be repented of! After they 
 have professed their self-consecration to God, they 
 are not at peace with themselves ; they go restlessly 
 round, to have their religious character confirmed to 
 themselves by the authority of others, because they 
 have not the witnessing spirit within. Nor are they 
 at peace with others ; they have simply baptized 
 
THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 79 
 
 their own passions with a sacred name, and hence 
 are emboldened to indulge them more freely than 
 ever, — having nothing and manifesting nothing of 
 the Saviour's spirit of love. Nor are they recon- 
 ciled to the dispensations nor the will of their heav- 
 enly Father. They are looking forward to a world 
 which has no existence, — where they shall be able 
 to look down and trample on those whom they con- 
 sider their enemies now, and where they shall see 
 those who have enjoyed their good things deprived 
 of them all, that they may possess an unworthy tri- 
 umph. Such is not the conversion of the Chris- 
 tian ; such was not the effect of religion in her. 
 Serene composure in herself, affectionate earnestness 
 for the religious improvement of others, calm re- 
 liance upon God, were the elements of her religious 
 life, and they were also the testimony that the 
 change was true. 
 
 There will be those who will say, that it is com- 
 paratively easy to maintain the Christian spirit in 
 the retirement of the sick-chamber, where the cares 
 and passions of the world do not enter, where affec- 
 tionate attention, patient and forbearing kindness, 
 and the light step that moves unheard about the bed, 
 are influences all favorable to peace within. And 
 there is a measure of truth in this. But we ascribe 
 to outward circumstances more than is in them. Are 
 not these advantages more than balanced by other 
 things within ? Must not the exhaustion of disease, 
 the weariness of unchanging rest, the irritability of 
 the nerves, and the sympathy of the spirit with the 
 
80 THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 failing strength, — must not all these be unfavorable 
 in the extreme to patient self-possession ? The rem- 
 edies which are necessary to give relief and rest, as 
 every one knows who has tried them, though they 
 may favor strong excitement of feeling, have no 
 tendency to produce a calm and settled peace. 
 When I see an exulting and triumphant state of 
 mind in the consumptive, I do not wonder ; it is 
 comparatively easy to create and to sustain ; but a 
 serene and collected peace of mind is less usual. It 
 is as seldom found as these spring-like days in the 
 midst of the wintry chill. 
 
 Some will say that they envy her such a depart- 
 ure. Why should they envy that which is within 
 their reach ? God has given the same blessing to 
 them ; — indeed, they may enjoy it longer, for surely 
 the living are better able than the dying to serve 
 God and prepare for heaven, if they will. Yes, if 
 they will. And if the heart and the will are want- 
 ing now, do not trust that death, when it comes, will 
 supply them; it is more apt to destroy than to awak- 
 en the energy and strength ; the warmth of the 
 heart is often quenched by the cold death-shade 
 which falls upon the dying. Now is the accepted 
 time. Then let not this day's sun go down upon 
 your impenitent heart. From this moment " pre- 
 pare to meet your God," that, whether to live or to 
 die, you may be at peace. " Thou wilt keep him 
 in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee ; 
 because he trusteth in thee." 
 
SERMON VIII. 
 
 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY NOT LIKELY TO GIVE 
 OFFENCE. 
 
 THAT YE MAY BE SINCERE, AND WITHOUT OFFENCE, TILL THE DAY 
 
 of christ. — Philippians i. 10. 
 
 It is possible, then, to be sincere, and at the same 
 time inoffensive ; or, to speak more in the spirit of 
 our religion, it is our duty to be open-hearted in our 
 intercourse with others, and at the same time to for- 
 bear giving them offence and provocation. There is 
 a common impression, that these two things are in- 
 consistent with each other. Those who undertake 
 to be sincere know no other way to go about it than 
 to say or do something impudent to others, and those 
 who are desirous to keep the peace with others 
 sometimes feel as if, in order to do it, they must sup- 
 press their own sentiments and convictions. Now 
 in this there must be some radical mistake. Inspi- 
 ration connects sincerity with inoffensiveness, not as 
 if it were a forced and unnatural union, but as if 
 they were sister virtues. So indeed they are ; and 
 what God hath joined together let no man put asun- 
 der, — neither in his conduct nor in his heart. 
 
82 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 
 
 The statutes of God have their limitations; "hith- 
 erto shalt thou come, and no farther," is written upon 
 each duty : not that a duty can be carried too far, — 
 but there is such a thing as excess ; and when one 
 runs into excess in any thing, he runs out of the 
 duty. He is not, as he fondly believes, more virtu- 
 ous than others ; on the contrary, the moment he 
 ran into excess, he stepped over and out of the lim- 
 its of his duty. Suppose you speak freely to anoth- 
 er or of another : keep within the bounds of exact 
 truth, and you are performing a duty ; but every 
 word beyond the truth is a lie. Thus it is that 
 many, in their earnest and excessive statement of the 
 truth, run over it into falsehood ; as he who runs 
 furiously up to the river's brink is forced over it into 
 the waters by the violence with which he moves. 
 In this way many of the best Christian virtues, by 
 excess, are made ridiculous and contemptible in the 
 sight of men. Prudence becomes avaricious mean- 
 ness ; tenderness degenerates into pitiful weakness ; 
 charity sinks into carelessness of truth and the right ; 
 justice hardens into cold-hearted and selfish exaction. 
 And by the same process, sincerity becomes coarse 
 impertinence, and, like swine in flower-gardens, tram- 
 ples with happy indifference upon the feelings of 
 others. It is curious, and at the same time fearful, 
 to see how easy it is to be offensive by way of being 
 sincere, and to applaud ourselves for our virtues when 
 we are far gone in the opposite sins. 
 
 This whole subject is apt to be confused in the 
 general mind. There are some who wholly misun- 
 
CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 83 
 
 derstand it, — some who cannot conceive of being 
 "sincere and without offence," as their Master was 
 and requires his followers to be. "What," say they, 
 " must we suppress our feelings towards others ? If 
 we think hardly, even harshly, of them, must we not 
 let them know it ? Would it not be meanness and 
 deception to leave them under the impression that 
 we care for them when we do not ? It is true our 
 sincerity will give offence and cause alienation ; but 
 is it not more honorable, is it not more Christian, to 
 be true than to be inoffensive ? " 
 
 Now I say there is confusion of thought on this 
 subject. Of course these questions must be affirma- 
 tively answered. It is right, it is a duty, to be open- 
 hearted and true. But this view does not cover the 
 whole ground ; some other considerations of great 
 importance are left out of sight ; and what I wish 
 to do is to disentangle the subject, and to show 
 what is the true statement of the duty, and where 
 the self-delusion lies. 
 
 And in the beginning let me say, that, before we 
 can understand any subject of this kind aright, there 
 are some indispensable conditions ; the foremost of 
 which is, we must have a Christianized conscience, 
 
 — not a mere hap-hazard knowledge of right from 
 wrong, obtained or found we know not when nor 
 how. Such is what most men call their conscience, 
 
 — mere skin-deep notions, which came to them by 
 chance, and which have never been found wanting 
 simply because they have never been tried. As the 
 early converts were commanded to be baptized in 
 
84 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 
 
 the clear-flowing streams, so every man's conscience 
 needs to be washed, purified from its errors and de- 
 lusions, before it can answer the purpose of a con- 
 science. Till that is done, it misleads, it blinds, it 
 mistakes, and perverts ; it will not serve much bet- 
 ter for the guidance of the life and the regulation of 
 the heart, than Julius Cassar's almanac would answer 
 for the present year. 
 
 And the change thus essential in the conscience is 
 to put it in a Christian state. Very much depends 
 on the position from which we take our views ; — 
 looking on any landscape, we see that th'ere are points 
 of vision where, if we were to paint the scene, no- 
 body would know it ; all things would be out of 
 their places ; the impression given would not be 
 true. So it is in morals and religion ; and we never 
 see things aright till we put ourselves in the Chris- 
 tian relation of children to a Father, and regard all 
 mankind as our brethren. Then we understand 
 what our obligations are ; we comprehend their bear- 
 ings and proportions ; and duty, thus viewed and 
 defined in the light of a Christian conscience, is a 
 different thing from duty as it is described and rec- 
 ognized by the natural heart, as objects just seen in 
 the dim twilight of the morning are entirely altered 
 when we behold them in the all -revealing light 
 of day. 
 
 Now I say, that to put ourselves in this relation of 
 children to God, and of brethren to those around us, 
 and to recognize the duties which grow out of these 
 relations, is the indispensable condition of Christian 
 
CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 85 
 
 judgment, the beginning of Christian duty. Who- 
 ever has not done this must not talk of acting from 
 a sense of duty, any more than he who does not 
 know the alphabet, of reading. He may act from 
 what he calls a sense of duty, but it will generally 
 appear to be some passion baptized with a name 
 which it little deserves. His sincerity, like his other 
 virtues, will not have the stamp of Christianity up- 
 on it. That is, it will not be true ; for only Chris- 
 tian virtues are genuine virtues. Other affections 
 may wear the form and be called by the name ; but 
 if not counterfeit, they are mistaken ; — they will 
 not pass with the Judge of quick and dead. 
 
 Having thus mentioned the outfit, without which 
 the voyage of the Christian life cannot be safely nor 
 successfully made, I would next proceed to say that 
 a Christian — I mean a Christian in spirit — can be 
 sincere, and at the same time without offence ; he 
 can keep his heart open to God and open to man ; 
 he can make known his sentiments and opinions 
 without reserve, and he can do it without injuring 
 any one's feelings or calling enmity down upon his 
 head. I readily allow, that one who has not the 
 Christian spirit cannot do this thing ; and why ? 
 Not because it cannot be done, but because he does 
 not take the right way to do it. There are many 
 things which are perfectly practicable if properly 
 undertaken, which become impossible when we set 
 about them with wrong feeling and a bitter heart. 
 Look sharply at those who complain most of the 
 resistance and contrary-minded ness of men, observe 
 8 
 
86 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 
 
 their ways of proceeding, and you understand at 
 once why their sincerity is offensive and their be- 
 nevolent efforts do more hurt than good. They 
 warn the sinner of the error of his way, but they 
 contrive to convey an insult together with their 
 warning ; they would fain save endangered souls 
 like brands from the burning, and they would draw 
 them out with the tongs ; they scold, and threaten, 
 and call up all manner of passions in opposition to 
 their attempted reforms, and then complain that men 
 dislike sincere dealing, when the truth is only that 
 men do not like to be abused. 
 
 It is the fact, doubt it or deny it who will, that 
 Christian sincerity — that is, kind sincerity — seldom 
 offends ; or if it does, it is but for a moment ; the 
 irritation is over at once, and always gives place to a 
 feeling of gratitude to the friend who has manifested 
 this interest in his brother's welfare. When you let 
 your neighbour know your poor opinion of him, if 
 he thinks that it gives you pleasure to say it, he will 
 be angry, no doubt ; but why ? Not because of your 
 sincerity, but because of the unkindness which at- 
 tended it. Tell him the truth of your opinion and 
 disposition toward him as a gratification of your own 
 feeling, and he may hate you ; but if you spoke 
 with an evident interest in his welfare, such as a 
 brother should feel, you might say ten times more 
 without awakening a single resentful feeling ; or 
 rather, you might give him a sense of gratitude to 
 you that would last as long as he lives. While they 
 who speak the truth in wantonness or impudence, 
 
CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 87 
 
 or malice, make enemies by the score, you will not 
 find many examples, in the ordinary walks of life, of 
 those who have provoked revenge and resistance by 
 speaking the truth in love. If you would feed the 
 hungry, there is a great difference between setting 
 food kindly before them and throwing it into their 
 faces. Yet many make no distinctions ; they think 
 the duty of sincerity equally meritorious in them- 
 selves, in whatever manner they perform it, not see- 
 ing that the want of Christian feeling vitiates every 
 duty, changing blessing into cursing, and virtues 
 into sins. 
 
 Since it is quite possible, then, or rather, since it 
 is our duty, to be sincere and without offence, we 
 ought next to consider how it may be done. 
 
 First, we must put ourselves in a right state of 
 feeling to be sincere, — that is, to discharge this duty 
 of sincerity. Considered merely as a native trait of 
 character, it is worth much to its possessor. In the 
 kind and conscientious it is eminently beautiful, — it 
 has the same sort of attraction with the easy and 
 unstudied grace of childhood ; but when connected 
 with a less generous disposition, it becomes a snare, 
 — leading one to the hasty utterance of feelings 
 which he had better silence and suppress ; and when 
 found in a person of bitter, unsocial, and overbear- 
 ing spirit, it has all the ugliness of sin. If order, 
 neatness, and peace are found within the dwelling, 
 it is well to have clean windows ; but if riot, filth, 
 and discord are there, the more the glass is darkened 
 with dust, the better. In like manner, sincerity may 
 
88 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 
 
 lose all the loveliness, the blessing, and even the 
 reality of virtue, should it be found, as it sometimes 
 is found, in a hot or a cold, a malicious or a venge- 
 ful heart. No words are too strong to impress the 
 necessity of making the tree good in order that the 
 fruit shall be good, — of starting with the right prin- 
 ciple and the right spirit, remembering that a defect 
 or perversion in these first elements of the Christian 
 life may send a depraving influence through all the 
 character and all time. It is the same thing which 
 is condensed in the broad and luminous expression, 
 that we are nothing without love. Our virtues, or 
 rather, what might be virtues, are nothing, unless a 
 kind spirit is in them, and sincerity without it will 
 be unloving and unlovely, unblessed of heaven, un- 
 welcome and unprofitable to men. 
 
 In the second place, we must examine ourselves 
 strictly in reference to this point ; because we are 
 too easily contented with general impressions that 
 all is right within us. If a man asks himself wheth- 
 er his heart is right, he is easily satisfied with a 
 careless feeling that it is. It is only by watching 
 its manifestations, by observing how he is affected 
 by particular circumstances or particular persons, that 
 one can find out what spirit he is of. He says that 
 he has no unkindness to any body ; but observe if 
 there are any whom he treats coldly, — of whom he 
 speaks severely ; then you may find that he is unac- 
 quainted with himself ; and it is only by unsparing 
 self-scrutiny that he can detect the plague of his 
 own heart. Let him say whether he endeavours to 
 
CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 89 
 
 love those who hate him, whether he prays for those 
 who use him contemptuously, whether he can give 
 his hand to every man cordially, as to a brother ; 
 for all this Jesus did, — all this he said that his fol- 
 lowers must do, or they are none of his. Do you 
 openly say that you have not these feelings, — that 
 you do not try to have them, that you do not wish 
 to have them ? The sincerity with which you de- 
 clare it will not supply what is wanting ; you can 
 never make yourself a Christian by simply acknowl- 
 edging that you are not one now. 
 
 In the third place, let us remember, that, if we 
 would be sincere and without offence, we must pre- 
 pare for true sincerity with others by being sincere 
 with ourselves. The virtue ceases to be a virtue 
 unless we carry it through ; and yet there are those 
 who pride themselves on their open dealing with 
 others, while they use no sincerity with themselves, 
 — never studying out their own dangers and defi- 
 ciencies, never wishing to know them, — apparently 
 thinking, that, if a man is without concealment where 
 others are concerned, he may lie to himself as much 
 and as fast as he will. If to deceive others is a sin, 
 to practise a fraud on one's self is not without its 
 dangers ; in one respect the danger is greater than 
 that of other transgressions. Whoever deceives oth- 
 ers knows it; he cannot hide it from himself; he 
 cannot hold up his head or his heart as if he was 
 not guilty. Not so with him who deceives himself. 
 He destroys the sensibility of conscience ; he pre- 
 vents the possibility of shame ; he may live and die, 
 
90 CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 
 
 applauding himself for sincerity to others, when a 
 little openness to himself would show that no Chris- 
 tian — that is, no conscientious — virtues have ever 
 had place in his soul. 
 
 Let it be remembered, then, that sincerity is a 
 Christian grace only when it is found in a Chris- 
 tian's heart. If it is bitter, and unkind, and offen- 
 sive, it may be sincerity, but it is not the sincerity 
 of a Christian. It is not inspired by a sense of duty ; 
 it is nothing more than self-indulgence ; it has no 
 praise of men ; it is not accepted and blessed of God. 
 Let us resolve to cherish the virtues, hot as we find 
 them in ourselves, but as they are displayed in the 
 life and example of our Master. There are vegeta- 
 bles in the garden which in their wild state are little 
 -better than poisonous, but by being cultivated have 
 become good for food ; so there are virtues which in 
 the natural heart are of no value, while in the Chris- 
 tian heart they are rich and glorious elements of 
 character. Let us not mistake the imperfect for the 
 finished, the partial for the whole ; let us endeavour 
 to secure the Christian virtues in their completeness, 
 and to be entire, wanting nothing. Thus we " may 
 be sincere and without offence till the day of Christ ; 
 being filled with the fruits of righteousness, which 
 are by Jesus Christ, unto the glory and praise of 
 God." 
 
SERMON IX. 
 
 THE TRINITY. 
 
 I AND MY FATHER ARE ONE. John X. 30. 
 
 I have refrained for years from treating of doctri- 
 nal discussions in this place, except as they were in- 
 cidentally suggested ; not because I did not think it 
 important to form right opinions, but because I 
 thought men were much more likely to form their 
 opinions aright without such discussions than with 
 them, — by resorting solely to the word of God. Such 
 examinations may not bring men to your opinions nor 
 mine, but they will bring them to the truth ; — for 
 whatever a man receives after conscientious exam- 
 ination of the subject is truth to him. Why can we 
 not make the distinction between views of truth, 
 and truth itself? They are different things. Thus, 
 here stands a mountain : a man who lives on one 
 side represents it as a pyramid, piercing the heaven 
 as with a wedge ; another in another quarter paints 
 it as resembling a high-breaking wave ; another yet 
 in his drawing makes it like a wall with battlements 
 and towers. So various are their views of the same 
 object in nature ; but there stands the mountain un- 
 
92 THE TRINITY. 
 
 changing and unchanged. And so truth remains un- 
 changing and unchanged, while the views which 
 men take of it vary with their position, with their 
 natural spirit, and the influences which have power 
 in their souls. 
 
 But the words of our text require some interpreta- 
 tion. " I and my Father are one." And that you 
 may not suspect me of being influenced by party 
 spirit, should I attempt to explain them, I will give 
 you other authority for what I say. Dr. Campbell, 
 an interpreter of the Scriptures who was orthodox 
 enough and to spare, says, — " The word is not ef?, 
 one person, but ev, one thing, or the same thing. It 
 might have been so rendered here ; but the expres- 
 sion is too homely, in the opinion of some excellent 
 critics, to suit the dignity of the subject." But, he 
 adds, " what is distinguished in the original, we 
 ought, if possible, to distinguish." In almost all 
 translations of the Scriptures except the English, in 
 the Latin, in the French, in the Italian, you will find 
 this distinction ; in the English it does not appear, 
 so that this fails to give the Saviour's meaning. But 
 let that meaning be restored, — " I and my Father are 
 the same thing." Let us no longer follow those 
 " excellent critics," who care more for the dignity of 
 language than the dignity of truth. 
 
 It is not because I have any objection to the state- 
 ment that the Father and Son are the same person, 
 that I correct this mistaken reading ; for such has 
 been, and is now, the opinion of a great portion of 
 the best Christians. They believe, and have be- 
 
THE TRINITY. 93 
 
 lieved for ages, that God exists, or at least manifests 
 himself, in three persons. Now I believe that no 
 opinion can obtain large and long acceptance, can 
 be believed by many and for ages, without having 
 in it, or under it, a basis and substance of truth. 
 The truth is the life of every opinion ; — unless 
 there is truth in it, it will soon and surely die. And 
 if this doctrine, that God manifests himself in three 
 persons, has been for many generations accepted and 
 kept near the hearts of true Christians, it is not to 
 be lightly rejected ; it is perhaps not to be rejected 
 at all. We must rather search into it diligently, to 
 see why it is that they prize it, — to see, indeed, what 
 it is ; for it is one of the effects of controversy, not 
 only to make men ignorant of the opinions of oth- 
 ers, but also to blind them to their own. 
 
 Bat you ask, " How can it be true that God man- 
 ifests himself in three persons ? " To answer this 
 question, we must first ascertain what a person is, 
 and what was probably meant by those who first 
 used the word. Going back to the language from 
 which the word " person " came, we find it was 
 taken from representations on the stage. The per- 
 sona was the mask which an actor wore, through 
 which he spoke to the audience ; and it was shaped 
 in its features to be expressive of the character which 
 the actor sustained. It process of time, the original 
 meaning of the word persona was forgotten ; it 
 came to stand for a character. So it was often used 
 in ancient times, and so, without doubt, it was used 
 by those who represented God as manifesting him- 
 
94 THE TRINITY. 
 
 self in three " persons " ; — not meaning that three 
 different beings were united in one being, which is 
 impossible, but only that God sustains three different 
 characters in his intercourse with men ; — meaning 
 that in Christianity he is represented in the character 
 of a Father, when considered as creating or preserv- 
 ing the universe, in the character of a Redeemer, 
 when he saves the world through Jesus Christ, and 
 in the character of a Comforter and Sanctifier, when 
 he holds direct communication with the souls of 
 men. This I believe was the original doctrine of 
 one God in three persons ; it meant three " charac- 
 ters," not three " beings " ; and, for my part, I see 
 nothing to object to it. If it did not give the im- 
 pression that God represents himself in three char- 
 acters only, I should readily receive it as true. It is 
 not a simple nor happy statement of truth, and yet 
 it is substantially true. 
 
 Now it is in this sense of the word " person," — 
 person being used for character, — that it is said that 
 Jesus Christ and his Father are one, — one "person," 
 if you will. No one can believe that two beings are 
 one being ; nothing is more certain than that two 
 beings are not one being : and yet they may be 
 spoken of as one person, because it is understood to 
 mean one character, and this is eminently true of 
 the Father and the Son. It is the character of God 
 which is manifested through the Saviour ; it was to 
 give us an idea of the Divine character that he came ; 
 when I look at his character, I see in it a living rep- 
 resentation of the character of God. I make no 
 
THE TRINITY. 95 
 
 separation in my own mind between his character 
 and that of the Almighty. When I look into a re- 
 flecting telescope, I see an image of the planet 
 toward which the tube is turned. I say I am look- 
 ing at the planet itself, and yet it is the reflection 
 which comes to me ; still I think and speak of the 
 planet and its image as one. In the same sense are 
 the Saviour and his Father one ; and if we have 
 reference to character when we speak of them as 
 one, there is no contradiction ; it is no mistake. 
 Though they are separate beings, and as beings can- 
 not be the same with each other, still, in character, 
 in purpose, in love for mankind, they are one. He 
 or his Father, it is the same thing, — inspiring the 
 same affections, breathing the same spirit of love. 
 
 This I take to be the doctrine of the Trinity as 
 it originally found faith and favor in men's hearts. 
 It did not maintain the impossibility that three be- 
 ings are one, but only that God manifests himself in 
 three different aspects to men, which is true ; — not 
 only in three, but in many others ; still, in all these 
 characters it is the same God who appears to us, for 
 there is but one. In this form it is neither unrea- 
 sonable nor untrue ; and it is in this form, I am per- 
 suaded, that the doctrine is now generally received 
 by the thinking part of the Christian world. If it 
 did not admit of being received in this form, I be- 
 lieve it would have been rejected long ago. 
 
 But I pass to another part of the same doctrine ; 
 I mean, the union of God and man in the person of 
 Jesus Christ. Had it originally meant that two be- 
 
96 THE TRINITY. 
 
 ings were united in one, it would soon have per- 
 ished and passed away. But taking the word " per- 
 son " in its original meaning, the doctrine would be, 
 — indeed, the doctrine was, — that Divine attributes 
 and human virtues were united in the character of 
 Jesus Christ. And this, so far from being mysteri- 
 ous, inconsistent, or impossible, is the result which 
 our Saviour endeavours to produce in all his follow- 
 ers. He wishes to make them like himself, — unit- 
 ing the Divine and human in character ; he speaks as 
 if man might be made in some humble measure a 
 resemblance of himself, — a character where the Di- 
 vine is blended with the human, and the human rises 
 and towers into the Divine. Not that man can ever 
 be invested with miraculous gifts and powers, like 
 his own, — not that man should be commissioned to 
 govern the elements of nature, to heal the dying, 
 and raise the dead. It is character of which we are 
 speaking, and, however inferior in nature or station 
 to himself, he addresses men as if their character 
 might be formed under the influences of Heaven, 
 after the likeness and fashion of his own. 
 
 Some, however, will ask, how I can speak of the 
 union of Divine excellence with human virtue in the 
 Saviour, when human and Divine excellence only 
 differ in degree. If it were so, there would not be 
 two different characters to be united in one. But it 
 is a mistake to suppose that Divine excellence in- 
 cludes human excellence within it, as the greater in- 
 cludes the less. On the contrary, they are different 
 in kind ; they consist of different elements ; they 
 
THE TRINIT\ r . 97 
 
 exist independently of each other, and it was by far 
 the grandest disclosure that ever was made to men, 
 when it was manifested in the Saviour that the hu- 
 man could be united with the Divine. If an airy 
 bridge were formed, by which man could reach the 
 stars, it would not open such a field for the ambition 
 of man, nor so much exalt his glory. 
 
 If you ask what excellence there is in human 
 character which does not belong to the Divine, I 
 answer in one word, — religion. That sort of ven- 
 eration with which we contemplate surpassing excel- 
 lence and greatness, that confiding spirit with which 
 man clings to the rock that is higher than he, is one 
 of the most exalting traits in human character. Man 
 must respect in order to be respectable himself; his 
 veneration, his self-humiliation in presence of supe- 
 rior moral claims, so far from lowering his real stand- 
 ing, elevates him in the sight of God and man. But 
 evidently the Highest of all beings cannot venerate, 
 because there is nothing higher nor greater than him- 
 self. All those beautiful and refining emotions, 
 which grow out of a sense of dependence on a heav- 
 enly Father, belong not to the God of heaven ; so 
 that religion, which is the crowning grace of human 
 character, makes no part of the Divine. 
 
 So, too, it is plain that improvement, which is the 
 life of human virtue, can make no part of the excel- 
 lence of the Most High. Man sets out from small 
 beginnings, — his powers are like the small blade 
 springing in the early year, which gradually and 
 slowly rises, and spreads and unfolds its treasury of 
 9 
 
98 THE TRINITY. 
 
 flowers. And all this process is a work of life ; the 
 whole development is living and healthy action; and 
 never is man acting in so exact consistency with his 
 nature, as when he rises in the ascending scale of 
 improvement, where every climbing step lifts him 
 into a purer air, enlarges his field of vision, and 
 brings him nearer to that clear, bright summit which 
 it is his heart's desire to reach. 
 
 Here we see that there are some of the best traits 
 of human excellence which make no part of the Di- 
 vine. Religion and religious improvement are ex- 
 clusively human traits of character, and to these and 
 other human virtues our Saviour united traits of 
 Divine excellence in such a union as never existed 
 before him, and such as we could not have compre- 
 hended had we not seen it manifested in living ac- 
 tion in his history while he was in this world. Thus 
 we see that to godliness he added humanity, which 
 inspiration says is better, — godliness being the hu- 
 man virtue and humanity the Divine. Never was 
 any thing like universal benevolence, never was any 
 all-embracing good-will, seen, or known, or dreamed 
 of, till it shone out in the Saviour's life of love. 
 And then that self-sustaining energy which grows 
 out of conscience, which more than any thing else 
 reminds us of self-existence, and that steady and 
 unchanging perseverance in well-doing which gives 
 a sort of eternity to the creature of to-day, in re- 
 semblance of Jesus who was " the same yesterday, 
 to-day, and for ever," — these, and many other Di- 
 vine traits, did he bring into connection with human 
 
THE TRINITY. 99 
 
 excellence, thus presenting a union of God and 
 man such as the world never before saw. 
 
 I dwell on this union longer, perhaps, than is ne- 
 cessary, for I wish that my meaning and my view of 
 the subject may be thoroughly understood. I am 
 not fond of believing that my brother-Christians pro- 
 fess absurdities and contradictions. I care much 
 more for my own feeling toward them, than I do for 
 their feeling toward me. I would fain respect their 
 understandings as well as their hearts. Hence I re- 
 joice to see, that, when they first used the word "per- 
 son " in this connection, they meant character, and 
 the doctrine of the Trinity originally was, that God 
 manifests himself in three different characters, — in 
 creating and preserving, in redeeming and saving, 
 and in comforting and sanctifying, the sons of men. 
 Who will deny it ? Who stands ready to contro- 
 vert a truth which is so little at war with the Gos- 
 pel ? The union of God and man, — which, when 
 first thought of as a union of person, seems im- 
 possible to believe or understand, — if we remem- 
 ber that person originally meant character, and that 
 a union of character is all that is intended, ceases 
 to be a mystery or contradiction, and becomes an 
 inspiring truth. And thus it is that every doctrine 
 which has ever gained large acceptance was orig- 
 inally founded on a basis of truth, and if we dig 
 through the fragments which have crumbled and 
 fallen round it, we shall come down to the living 
 stone, — to the rock of ages on which it stands. 
 
 Here you see the reason why I have never pressed 
 
100 THE TRINITY. 
 
 this subject ; it is because I believe that the great 
 proportion of Christians hold opinions in relation to 
 it substantially the same with ours. When Profes- 
 sor Stuart came forward as the authorized expound- 
 er of the Trinitarian faith, he said they did not be- 
 lieve in three persons as we use the word ; they did 
 not believe in three beings united in one God : all 
 they maintained was, that the Scriptures recognized 
 a threefold distinction in the Deity, — meaning, as 
 it would seem, a distinction of character, such as I 
 have admitted ; for the Scriptures speak of God the 
 Father, they speak of the Saviour as" God with us, 
 and the term Holy Spirit is often applied to God. 
 And thus, I have no doubt, you will find that those 
 who really have opinions on these subjects agree 
 -very nearly with each other. The great difficulty 
 is, that so many take up with words, and never are 
 at the pains of forming an opinion. Looking at the 
 words which Christians use, you would suppose 
 them to be fearfully disunited ; but words are 
 not much, — words are the daughters of earth, and 
 therefore perishable, while things are the sons of 
 heaven, and do not pass away. Words cannot keep 
 men apart for ever, any more than air-lines can form 
 permanent inclosures. There are some animals, 
 which, if you draw a line round them, will feel as 
 if it could not be passed over ; but the greater pro- 
 portion of those which have wings and feet are 
 always ready to use them. No one needs be trou- 
 bled about party feelings ; they are of those things 
 which perish with the using. Now they are like 
 
THE TRINITY. 101 
 
 ice upon the living waters, binding up their chan- 
 nels and suppressing the music of their flow ; but 
 when the Sun of righteousness rises higher, — and 
 rise it will, — all these chilling restraints on the free 
 action of the mind and heart shall feel its influence, 
 and for ever melt aM*ay. 
 
 I see the Divine mercy in this provision, that in 
 all matters of profound importance men cannot think 
 very unlike each other. They may talk very dif- 
 ferently ; they may feel some alienation ; but these 
 things are written so plainly on the front of the 
 sacred page that he who runs may read, and read 
 the same practical meaning. As Christians grow 
 more spiritual, they take less note of things out- 
 ward, and give more heed to those that are within. 
 When they look under the distinctions of party, they 
 see that one Christian is like another Christian ; his 
 real character is not affected by the name which he 
 happens to bear. And thus narrowness and exclu- 
 sion are wearing away : — things are leading to that 
 consummation when there shall be one fold and 
 one shepherd, — one faith, one baptism, — one God 
 and Father of all. 
 
SERMON X. 
 
 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 YOUR HEART SHALL LIVE FOR EVER. Psalm XXli. 26. 
 
 Of the many striking things in the Old Testa- 
 ment, there are none which impress me more than 
 these transient and occasional bursts of inspiration, 
 which anticipate what Christianity was afterwards 
 ~to teach, and intimate to that dark, ancient world 
 what its rich disclosures of truth were to be. They 
 seem like lightning-flashes illuminating the deep 
 obscurity for a moment ; — not long enough to give 
 any clear and connected impressions of truth to those 
 who knew it not ; but still they are sufficient to 
 show to those who might otherwise doubt it, that 
 the inspiration of God is in those ancient volumes, 
 and gleams of the same light shone through it which 
 afterwards broke in full glory upon the world when 
 the Saviour came from on high. 
 
 Observe, then, how much is implied in these 
 words, — " Your heart shall live for ever." They 
 mean that the body shall not; in its present elements 
 it shall not ; it has nothing to do with the life im- 
 mortal. Now we lavish our pains and care upon 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 103 
 
 it ; earnest to provide for its wants, its dress, its 
 nourishment, and shelter; — still more solicitous Jo 
 provide it with those luxuries which sometimes bring 
 heaviness and disease, and never minister to its 
 strength and joy. Our anxiety and forecast for the 
 body extend into the future. We are unhappy if 
 we have not laid up means and resources to sustain 
 it in future years, not one of which, perhaps, we are 
 to see. So much does the worldly spirit act upon 
 the religious spirit, that if any one suggests that the 
 body shall not survive the grave, — that the spiritual 
 body, according to St. Paul's fine illustration, shall 
 be as different from it as the new plant is from the 
 seed from which it springs, — he is rejected as a teach- 
 er of falsehood and delusion. But certain it is, — 
 and this is the point of the truth conveyed in these 
 words, — certain it is that the happiness of the future 
 existence shall not come from the body, from the 
 gratification of its passions, nor the exercise of its 
 powers ; and just so far as a man depends for his 
 enjoyment on these earthly indulgences, he is unfit 
 for that spiritual state to which death will soon trans- 
 late us, and for which it is our wisdom now to pre- 
 pare. He will find himself in that world cursed 
 with desires for which there is no gratification : 
 while the enjoyments of the refined, heavenly spirit 
 are no better than tortures to his soul. 
 
 These words also imply that the mind, though it 
 shall endure, will not be the source of happiness in 
 another existence. We know too little of its nature 
 to say whether death will change it ; but certainly 
 
104 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 it will change our estimation of it ; for now, in this 
 world, talent, force of mind, genius, are set highest 
 among the gifts of God. This is an advance, indeed, 
 from that state of imperfect civilization in which 
 bodily strength and symmetry are in the highest 
 esteem ; in proportion as men make intellectual ad- 
 vances, the mind and its interests rise above the body 
 and its powers. But our religion would fain carry 
 on this course of improvement till men shall under- 
 stand that the affections, — or, as they are called in 
 Scripture, the heart, — the heart is as much above 
 the understanding as the mind is above the body 
 whose home is the dust. It is in the affections that 
 the elements of heavenly happiness are to be found ; 
 the improvement of the affections, rather than of 
 -the mind, is the preparation for the heavenly state. 
 And though we look with pleasure on physical 
 strength and beauty, which strike the eye, — though 
 we admire intellectual ability as it deserves, and 
 even more than it deserves, — still, in the sight of 
 angels and of God, he is the best, and happiest, and 
 greatest of mankind who has the largest and best 
 heart. "Your heart shall live for ever." 
 
 These words teach us what should be our constant 
 object, and lead us also to consider how abundantly 
 God has provided for it on every side. 
 
 Consider, in the first place, how all the arrange- 
 ments of this life favor the growth of those affec- 
 tions which are the elements of life immortal. Our 
 present existence is not much by itself; but it grows 
 into immense importance when we consider it as 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 105 
 
 part of another. Its joys and sorrows, however 
 deep, are comparatively transient, its opportunities 
 are fleeting, its best attainments few ; but when we 
 regard them as pointing forward to other things be- 
 yond themselves, — far greater and more enduring 
 than themselves, — they become solemn and momen- 
 tous. And we may see, if we look for the traces 
 of God's design, how all the arrangements of life 
 are framed with the view of calling out the affec- 
 tions in preparation for life immortal. The home, 
 where it is a home, is evidently ordained for this 
 purpose, requiring of each within it to suppress 
 those selfish passions which darken over every thing 
 which they touch, and making it manifest that all 
 the sunshine and comfort of the dwelling depend, 
 not on its magnificence, not on the luxuries within 
 it, but simply and entirely on the spirit of love with- 
 in. And the circle of friendship carries out those 
 same affections into wider range. If we can only 
 keep down those jealousies and passions in which 
 this cold world abounds, entering into the feelings of 
 others with hearty sympathy and good-will, we find 
 that the good we can do to them, important as that 
 may be, is less than the blessing which comes home 
 to ourselves. And that all these are Divine arrange- 
 ments may be seen from the moral and spiritual laws 
 which run through them, — which ordain that these 
 affections shall move in paths of duty, or as soon as 
 they wander from them shall lose their health and 
 joy, and bring returns of nothing but pain. Any 
 thing which approaches to guilty passion, any attach- 
 
106 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 ment which God and conscience forbid, any even of 
 those capricious and wandering regards which pass 
 over those to whom nature devotes them and fasten 
 on strangers or companions who have no right to 
 such a place in the heart, any even the least deser- 
 tion of those paths in which duty requires the affec- 
 tions to go, has a withering power upon them. Like 
 the palm-tree, they can only exist where God hath 
 planted them ; transplant them to another place, and 
 they die. In this moral condition of their existence, 
 we may evidently see the hand and the providence 
 of God. 
 
 But these arrangements of life for a certain pur- 
 pose are not meant to effect that purpose of them- 
 selves ; it rests with us to trace out, to follow, and 
 improve them. The first business of the Christian 
 life is to deny ourselves ; which means, not to deny 
 ourselves a blessing here or there, but to resist the 
 strong, selfish tendency of our nature, to train our 
 affections in the right way, to regard them as the 
 beginnings and indications of our future destiny, 
 and to keep our heart with all diligence, since out of 
 it are the fountains of immortal life. Once attach 
 this thought of immortality to the affections, and 
 how mighty and solemn all those interests become ! 
 Those with whom we are associated are no longer 
 like wayfarers met in a journey, parted from, and 
 seen no more. They are associated with us for life, 
 and life is for ever ; and it is a matter of profound 
 concern to cherish every right attachment, to open 
 the heart wide, and to embrace as many as possible 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 107 
 
 in the circle of its love. And this is easy to any- 
 one who takes counsel of his Master. If he follows 
 the guidance of his own deceitful heart, cold, limit- 
 ed, and exclusive the range of his affections will be, 
 and equally narrow will be the bounds of his future 
 heaven ; but if he endeavours to possess the univer- 
 sal kindness, the all-embracing love, of Jesus Christ, 
 he will see what others do not see, — that the exercise 
 of those unselfish and generous affections is the only 
 true happiness of this life, the only heaven of the 
 other ; and he will bless the order of Providence, 
 and those arrangements of social existence which 
 call out and favor the upspringing of love in the 
 heart. 
 
 Again : the arrangements of death, all of which 
 have a purpose and a meaning, are even more fitted 
 to form for immortality the heart which is to live 
 for ever. The world is changed by the presence of 
 death ; wherever it comes, we feel that a new influ- 
 ence is there ; a power is there which was not there 
 before. Each one who feels at all feels that some- 
 thing is meant by it, that it is a communication ad- 
 dressed to him. All the base passions are hushed 
 into unusual silence ; you may approach your worst 
 enemy then, he cannot lift his hand against you ; 
 even the grasping hand of worldliness is unclenched 
 for a little while. The friendship which in former 
 days you prized as one of the blessings of existence 
 now appears as it is, — an indispensable treasure; you 
 cannot do without its sympathy ; the cold-flowing 
 waters in a thirsty land are not so welcome as its 
 
108 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 words of feeling to you. Man feels that power, 
 gold, luxury, and the possessions most desired, have 
 no substantial value ; they cannot supply the wants 
 of his heart in those dark hours ; nothing will an- 
 swer his purpose of comfort but an influence com- 
 ing back to his own heart from other hearts which 
 are to live for ever. 
 
 But to see the wisdom of these arrangements is 
 of little avail, unless we feel them ; and surely never 
 do the affections come forth in purer or more disin- 
 terested action than in the presence of death. The 
 low whispers of the dying voice, the unutterable 
 expression of the dying eye, the faint pressure of 
 the hand that shall never be pressed again, the si- 
 lence of the death-chamber, and all the scene before 
 us, when a loved one passes away, have a power, not 
 so much to oppress the heart, as to wake it into in- 
 tensest action, and to make manifest all the warm 
 affections which have their dwelling within. And 
 it is for this reason, undoubtedly, that we are com- 
 pelled to pass through these fearful separations. We 
 shudder to think of them, we entreat that they may 
 never come to us again, and yet we know, that, if 
 we have not been insensible or unfaithful, they have 
 done for us a service which nothing else could do. 
 They have left our hearts better, and more like 
 hearts, than they found them ; they have brought 
 us into dearer communion than ever before, even 
 with those whom we were losing. The love which 
 began on earth rose into a heavenly affection, and 
 at the very moment when all faith and firmness 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 109 
 
 seemed breaking down within us, we were com- 
 ing nearer than ever to our friends, to our Saviour, 
 and our God. 
 
 These changes come not often; and when they do, 
 it is of great concern that we prepare to receive them 
 aright, and take from them the blessing which they 
 bear. It is God who is speaking, to us at such times, 
 and it is not well to turn away from his communi- 
 cations. We must listen with undivided attention ; 
 we must look steadily at what he has done, to make 
 sure that we understand it ; we must not hasten back 
 to the ordinary cares of life, when the very office of 
 the death-angel is to summon us away from those or- 
 dinary concerns to think of higher and better things. 
 Rare and precious, as well as fearful, are these mo- 
 ments ; great and irreparable is our loss if we lose 
 them ; but if we receive them as a Father's arrange- 
 ments for our welfare, we shall be surprised to find 
 a feeling of gratitude springing out of the ruins of. 
 our earthly happiness ; and still more so, to discover 
 that a new depth and tenderness of feeling come 
 from the blow which seemed stunning to the heart. 
 
 Once more. The arrangements of the future ex- 
 istence are also of a kind to favor the growth of the 
 affections. I do not mean in those who have entered 
 upon their immortal existence ; for we know not 
 what they are now, nor where is their home, and it 
 is only rash and presumptuous conjecture which un- 
 dertakes to speak of their condition and circumstan- 
 ces, and the influences which act upon their souls. 
 But the foresight of the future state, the vision of it 
 10 
 
110 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 which lies before us in the light of the Gospel, must 
 necessarily have a great effect on the efforts which 
 we make to reach it ; and if we see that the power 
 of the mind is little more than the vigor of the 
 frame in giving us our preparation, we shall turn our 
 attention as we ought to the full unfolding of the 
 energies and affections of the heart. Suppressed 
 and borne down as they are by the selfishness with- 
 in, nothing but the most determined endeavour and 
 patient care can cause them to spring and grow in 
 this world, in readiness to open like flowers in anoth- 
 er existence, where the Sun of righteousness shines 
 upon them with a nearer and brighter ray. 
 
 If you ask what we can foreknow of the arrange- 
 ments of another world, I reply, we see who are 
 passing into that world, and what they bear with 
 them. When I see who are entering the gates of a 
 city, I can form some judgment of what is passing 
 within its walls. I see the child going in early and 
 unconscious life, before, as it would seem to us, any 
 purpose of its coming here can be answered. But I 
 see, that, early and unconscious as its departure is, 
 it has had time and power to awaken strong interest 
 and attachment in a parent's heart. So, then, it had 
 its mission ; its work is done ; it carries high hopes 
 and beautiful affections with it, and it gives us the 
 assurance, that in what relates to the heart the future 
 life is not so unlike our own. There are young 
 children in the house of their Father ; their light 
 steps and glad voices are heard in the many man- 
 sions \ it is not in deep, deathlike silence that the 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. Ill 
 
 spirits of the blest spend their day ; there is the 
 same, or rather a far greater, variety of interest and 
 employment than this world affords. The holiest 
 of earthly loves, that of parents for their children, 
 cannot be wanting there where all holy things as- 
 semble, and He who on earth suffered little children 
 to come to him, without a doubt, is equally ready in 
 heaven to smile upon them and to bid them wel- 
 come to his arms. 
 
 On the same day and almost at the same hour that 
 the infant ascends, another is called, whose life was 
 in the strongest contrast to that of the unconscious 
 child ; — the one who had not entered upon life, and 
 the one who had passed through it, go together into 
 the eternal world. The mother of a large family, 
 wise, disinterested, true-hearted, of few words but 
 strong affections, feeling that her many cares within 
 the domestic circle did not allow her to wander often 
 nor far beyond it, and yet always earnest to do what 
 she was able in the cause of humanity, — always to 
 be relied on as a fast and faithful friend, — how dif- 
 ferent the space which such a departure opens ! 
 How wide, — how dreary, — how impossible to fill ! 
 And the feelings wounded in this departure, how un- 
 like they are to the disappointment and sorrow in 
 the other ! There is no room for imaginative sad- 
 ness. There is a cold, stern reality in the affliction, 
 when the mother of a family is suddenly called from 
 a place and a trust which require such thoughtful 
 concern and perfect disinterestedness as are only to 
 be found in a parent's heart. And where do we find 
 
112 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 the explanation of such inroads of death, of which 
 we have witnessed more than one ? Not surely in 
 the loss, — the separation, — nor in the grave. We 
 see the reason in the arrangements of the future life, 
 so far as Jesus Christ reveals them ; for though the 
 present relations of life shall not exist, being no 
 longer needed there, the love, which is the life of 
 those relations, shall endure, — not destroyed, not 
 suspended, but only strengthened and made purer by 
 separation ; and it is evidently the mission of these 
 dispensations, which seem so fatal to our happiness, 
 to prepare us to renew that love with truer and holier 
 affection than ever entered the heart before. Thus 
 the arrangements of a future existence, though they 
 sometimes are bitter and hard to bear in this world, 
 -are really full of immortal blessing; for as man him- 
 self is not quickened except he die, so man's affec- 
 tions can never come out in their best, most pow- 
 erful, and heavenly action, till they have been sad- 
 dened and darkened over by the awful presence 
 of death. 
 
 I would ask, then, if there is not deep meaning 
 in those ancient words, — " Your heart shall live for 
 ever." Awake, then, to a sense of the importance 
 of the heart. See how all your welfare for this 
 world and the other depends on the right unfolding 
 and care of its affections. Remember, also, that 
 there is deep responsibility connected with them, 
 and that self-indulgence of the feelings, like all 
 other self-indulgence, brings a heavy-laden harvest 
 of sorrow and shame to the soul. The time is 
 
IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 113 
 
 short. The death-angel's trumpet often rings in 
 the midst of us; as we listen to its shuddering blast, 
 we should feel that the next summons may be ours. 
 " Your heart shall live for ever." Is your heart 
 right with God ? 
 
 10* 
 
SERMON XI.* 
 
 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 AND NOW, I PRAY YOU, CONSIDER FROM THIS DAY AND DPWARD, 
 FROM BEFORE A STONE WAS LAID UPON A STONE IN THE TEMPLE 
 
 of the lord. — Haggai ii. 15. 
 
 There are many things, which, without any sug- 
 gestion on my part, will present themselves to your 
 minds, to give interest to this occasion. We return, 
 after a long and unpleasant suspension of our ser- 
 vices, to this our spiritual home, where enough of 
 the old remains to make it still seem familiar, and 
 where enough is changed to make us feel the impor- 
 tant advantages of the change. It is also the anni- 
 versary of the day when I made my first address as 
 the minister of this people. The society itself had 
 been recently formed. I came among you a young 
 man, without experience, without any adequate prep- 
 aration, with a heart bowed down at the thought of 
 standing apart from all professional sympathy, and 
 within the dreary influences of a controversial war. 
 
 * Preached, October 16, 1842, on reentering the church after it had 
 been repaired and materially altered. 
 
THE HOUSE OF GOD. 115 
 
 I had nearly sunk under the oppression of those early, 
 trying years. But I was sustained by generous con- 
 fidence and kindness ; there was full sympathy with 
 my professional solitude, and it is owing to this, and 
 the help of God, that now, at the end of twenty-two 
 years, I still address you, and am able to congrat- 
 ulate you on the possession of as much prosperity as 
 such associations can expect to enjoy. I speak not 
 of outward circumstances ; such prosperity is noth- 
 ing compared to that of internal harmony, of mutual 
 kindness and forbearance, and a faithful regard for 
 religious services, in all which this society — it is 
 but just to say it — never has been, and, I trust, 
 never will be, wanting. 
 
 It is with a solemn feeling that I look back on the 
 founders of this church. Venerable forms come up 
 before me, — men faithful almost to sternness in 
 their regard for these sacred duties, having no faith 
 in the devotion which loves not worship, and labor- 
 ing to impress the same veneration on the minds of 
 their children. I remember, too, others of my own 
 age, with whom I hoped to go down the vale of de- 
 clining years, — men, generous and true-hearted, — 
 women, affectionate and kind, the life and pride of 
 social circles, and ever faithful in their attendance 
 here. All left in this house a dear, and yet painful 
 remembrance, when they went to take their places 
 with the dead. 
 
 But recollections of this kind, — what can they 
 avail us now ? They can do this for us. Let 
 us reflect that the persons of whom we speak are 
 
116 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 now in the eternal world. Their present state — 
 what it is we are not permitted to know — was in 
 every respect determined by their religious faithful- 
 ness while they were with us on earth, — a religious 
 faithfulness depending in no small measure on the 
 estimation in which they held the service of this 
 house of God. The subject, then, to which we 
 naturally turn is the service of the house of God. 
 
 And, first, these places are strongholds of the 
 religious principle of the community. I say not 
 of the religious sentiment, because that expres- 
 sion is misunderstood ; it is applied to a mere 
 love of nature, a barren emotion of taste, which 
 has no more connection with religious faithfulness 
 than the admiration of a discovery of science or a 
 work of art. A great proportion of what passes for 
 religious sentiment only admits the fact of God's 
 existence, and that so faintly that it amounts in 
 practice almost to a denial ; for the language of the 
 life is, — " There is a God, and there is a certain 
 sublimity in the thought of such a majestic Power 
 and Presence ; but what am I to him ? and, except 
 as a subject of contemplation, what is he to me ? " 
 Now, beyond the satisfaction of feeling that we are 
 not the sport of chance or destiny, what good can 
 such a recognition of God's existence do ? What 
 good did it ever do ? You have found it in the 
 licentious and profane ; you have heard it breathed 
 in beautiful tones from the lips of men of genius, 
 whose lives were as base and contemptible as the 
 talents which God gave them were great and high : 
 
THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 117 
 
 you have seen enough to know that you may as soon 
 expect fire to kindle from wintry moonbeams as with 
 such religious sentiment to warm a human heart. 
 
 The only thing in the form of religious sentiment 
 which can do any good to the soul is that which 
 recognizes God, not as a mere existence, not, to use 
 the term of the day, as an abstraction, but which 
 confesses him as the Author of life and blessing to all 
 that live. Its language, I mean its practical language, 
 is, — "I stand in some relation to him ; it can- 
 not be one of indifference ; I must have something 
 to do with him and he must have some claim on 
 me. Hence arises the feeling of obligation. If he 
 has done so much for me, I ought — that is, I owe 
 it — to do something to express my gratitude. It 
 is not a matter of choice ; it is a debt that must and 
 shall be paid." Thus seen and thus followed, the re- 
 ligious sentiment becomes a religious principle. It 
 ceases to be a lifeless fancy; it lives, and moves, and 
 has a being, and acts with power on the heart in 
 which it dwells. Now I say, — and I ask you to 
 hear and remember, — it is because the house of God 
 destroys the hollow, poetical fancy of religious senti- 
 ment, and insists on religious principle — homely, 
 hard-working, unpretending religious principle — as 
 the essential thing, that it is so often rejected and 
 held in light esteem. 
 
 For the same reason it is that the Sabbath is 
 sometimes misunderstood ; — not by the sober com- 
 mon-sense of New England ; that I would not say. 
 The practical religious man knows that he has a 
 
118 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 work to do, and he wants a day to do it in. He 
 wants a time for thoughtfulness, and it is a time 
 which he knows how to enjoy. Go to such a man, 
 and offer him the Sabbath of other lands ; invite 
 him to fool away the consecrated hours in singing 
 and dancing, or such poor amusements as the vacant 
 mind can enjoy : he will quietly leave all that hap- 
 piness to children, and find his happiness in that 
 thoughtfulness which the day of rest inspires, and 
 which has given to that day its firm hold on the 
 affections of enlightened men, — so firm a hold, 
 that those who lately made an assault on the Sab- 
 bath found themselves like men scratching with 
 their fingers at the base of a rocky mountain in 
 hopes to overthrow it from its bed. The Sabbath 
 still exists ; — ay, and long will it exist, the only day 
 of the seven, indeed, which shall endure when time 
 shall be no more. 
 
 The religious sentiment, then, embracing the idea 
 of obligation, — in other words, religious principle, — 
 is that which the service of this house is meant to 
 inspire and cherish ; and I would next ask what sort 
 of an obligation it must be. If there is a God, he is 
 a living person, standing in a certain relation to us, 
 having certain claims which must be answered. 
 Does any one say it is an obligation to lead respect- 
 able and decent lives ? No doubt there is such an 
 obligation ; but is that high enough to reach up to 
 God ? One who leads a respectable and decent life 
 does well for himself and mankind unquestionably, 
 as he who leads a base life degrades himself and in- 
 
THE HOUSE OF GOD. 119 
 
 jures others ; but can any one say that this is full 
 discharge of our obligations to God, or that it goes 
 near to discharge them ? No ; there must be some- 
 thing more than this. To say that the religious sen- 
 timent is embraced and implied in this would be 
 saying what no one feels. The religious sentiment 
 cannot be rightly felt except in the Christian way, — 
 by looking up to God as our Father with childlike 
 confidence united with awful veneration. Nothing 
 else will lift up the heart from the depths of world- 
 liness ; nothing else will have power to touch the 
 springs of immortal life. When a man feels bound 
 to God to form himself for holiness and heaven, 
 then and not before is there any reason to hope that 
 the effort will be made and the work be done ; and 
 as the domestic affections can be best formed under 
 the roof of the family mansion, the religious spirit 
 is intimately, I had almost said inseparably, con- 
 nected with the sweet influences of the house of 
 God. 
 
 Some may think that I have carried this idea too 
 far. To those who reflect but little on these sub- 
 jects, and measure them by common standards, it 
 may seem like enthusiasm to say that every man 
 must have the feeling of a child of God. But to 
 all such objections I reply, that common, worldly 
 habits of thought, however just in their way, are no 
 fit guides on these subjects ; worldly sagacity does 
 not see through these things ; you might as well 
 depend on a foot-rule for measuring distances in 
 heaven. There is no force, there is no sense, in that 
 
120 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 presentment of the subject which leaves God out of 
 view. If any one points out to me an unexception- 
 able man, setting aside religious affections, and asks, 
 Is he not good enough? I answer, he may be good 
 enough for this world ; he may be good to me ; but 
 whether he is good enough for God is the great ques- 
 tion, and to find the answer to this question I urge 
 him to compare his heart and life with the Gospel, 
 and see if nothing is wanting. Let him look ear- 
 nestly to Jesus Christ and his early followers, and 
 mark the elements of which their character was 
 made up, and then ask himself whether the same 
 mind and spirit are in him. 
 
 The very object, then, of the service of this house 
 is, to keep before the eyes of men a standard of 
 character higher than they meet with in common 
 business and care. The very circumstance, that the 
 views presented in the church seem excessive, shows 
 to the candid mind, — not that those views are over- 
 wrought, — it shows rather how much the man of 
 business and pleasure needs them. And if those 
 views were bent down into conformity with the 
 wisdom of this world, the very men who now com- 
 plain of them as carried too far would be the first 
 to trample them into the dust. Let this house, then, 
 be kept sacred to religious feeling. There are good 
 feelings which are not religious ; let this house be 
 sacred to the filial feeling which dwells in a child 
 of God. May we come here to learn of Jesus what 
 that feeling is, — to learn also his independence of 
 this world and his familiarity with the other. 
 
THE HOUSE OF GOD. 121 
 
 And now I would go on to say, as the result of 
 my experience and observation, that every one who 
 cares to cherish the religious sentiment in himself 
 loves the service of the house of God. I do not say, 
 that men may not be found who desert these places 
 of worship, and yet are laboring to feel and act like 
 children of God ; — I only say, that I have never 
 seen them. If there are such, they are probably 
 those who are cultivating a barren religious senti- 
 ment, in place of that practical and living principle 
 which endeavours to bring itself into near union 
 with God and man, and to draw near to one while 
 drawing near the other. The man who is busy in 
 the work of religious preparation is sure to find 
 something in these places that aids him in that en- 
 deavour. If he loses his interest in the services of 
 God's house, it is not because the wants of his mind 
 are not met, but because these wants are not felt as 
 they ought to be. He knows that it is utterly im- 
 possible for the mind to be always excited ; original 
 views are the rarest of all human things ; eloquent 
 discourses like those of the great French preachers, 
 or the great divine who lately passed away, sup- 
 pose long seasons of leisure. But one really de- 
 sirous of improvement can find something to in- 
 terest where novelty or brilliancy is not the attrac- 
 tion. Is there nothing interesting in this fine sea- 
 son ? It is the same bright sun, there are the same 
 colors on the leaves, — the same elements which gave 
 beauty to the first autumn after the world began. 
 But who is weary of the monotony of nature ? Who 
 11 
 
122 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 would wish to exchange it for any thing new ? 
 Such is divine truth to the lovers of truth, — beau- 
 tiful in its unchangeable sameness, beautiful in the 
 variety of its applications, always many, and yet 
 always one. 
 
 I would take this opportunity to make one or two 
 remarks on the manner of conducting the services 
 of this place, for my experience has shown me that 
 some things here might be altered to advantage. 
 
 The principal error consists in requiring two ser- 
 mons every Sabbath from a single preacher. A ser- 
 mon should be a full discussion of some important 
 moral or religious subject, on which the writer should 
 put forth all his strength. Now no man living can 
 keep two such subjects upon his mind, during the 
 same week, with so much advantage to his hearers 
 as if he gave his whole attention to one. Accord- 
 ingly it would be a better way, as it seems to me, 
 to have the sermon in the morning, and in the after- 
 noon a service of a less elaborate and more popular 
 character, — perhaps an extemporaneous address, or 
 an exposition of Scripture, — which would be quite 
 as useful to the audience generally as a regular 
 discourse. 
 
 There is another subject which concerns the order 
 and propriety of our service in the house of God, 
 on which I again refer to experience for the course 
 which seems to me to be the most appropriate. It 
 has become common in some churches to remain seat- 
 ed during the prayer. In this service the posture 
 most favorable to strict attention is, in my. opinion, 
 
THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 123 
 
 the best. Standing is a constrained position ; kneel- 
 ing is still more so, and therefore likely to make one 
 think of the body when the soul should be intently 
 engaged with itself. For this reason, the new prac- 
 tice would seem to be an improvement when we 
 consider the uses of prayer to the suppliant. It may 
 appear to others less reverential ; but we do not pray 
 to keep up appearances ; neither is it supposed that 
 any one is looking round in prayer to consider ap- 
 pearances. Let every one be busy with his own 
 heart, as every one should be, and all will appear 
 well in the sight of Him with whom we have to do. 
 Still, in so long a service something is gained by 
 change of position ; in fact this is necessary, to pre- 
 vent a heavy and languid feeling. Therefore I can- 
 not help thinking that to stand when God's praise is 
 sung, and to remain seated when prayer is offered, 
 is the course which will finally prevail. 
 
 But I am taking too much of your time with re- 
 marks of this kind. Let us return to the occasion. 
 We take possession of a house which, though not 
 new, is renewed in almost every part, having this 
 advantage over a new one, that some associations 
 have become connected with it which the changes 
 will not sweep away. Let them remain, and may 
 other and holier associations come to deepen the im- 
 pression with which this place should be regarded ! 
 Consider not the fitness of its proportions, or the 
 exactness of its arrangements, or any of the circum- 
 stances which impress the eye ; for these are things 
 of minor importance. Our great care should be, that 
 
124 THE HOUSE OF GOD. 
 
 it answers the purpose for which it is set apart, — 
 that of awakening and confirming religious principle 
 in those who worship within its walls. Without 
 this, the building will cumber the ground ; with it, 
 it will become in very deed the house of God and 
 the gate of heaven. 
 
SERMON XII. 
 
 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 FOR I AM FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE. — Psalm CXXXix. 14. 
 
 It may have happened to you, in younger days, 
 to go into some building where complicated and ex- 
 tensive machinery was in busy motion. There were 
 bands and wheels rolling in intense activity all 
 around you, but you could not trace the object of 
 their action, nor see how they moved in harmony 
 with each other. It was with a perplexed and be- 
 wildered feeling that you looked into the dark depths 
 of the enginery, for you felt that the principle of its' 
 construction, and the manner in which it wrought 
 out its results, were far beyond your reach. And 
 while this mystery filled you with wonder, at times 
 a heavy crash within the mass of rolling circles, 
 or a clang as if axles and chains were breaking, 
 or a dash of waters as if barriers were giving way, 
 filled you for a moment with startling dread. 
 
 It was with somewhat such a feeling that the 
 
 writer of this Psalm thought of the complicated 
 
 structure of man. He was a thoughtful observer. 
 
 Careless spectators are seldom surprised ; they take 
 
 11* 
 
126 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 too little notice of what is before them to distinguish 
 the unusual from the familiar, the strange from the 
 common. But when one fixes an eye of intelligent 
 discernment upon the things which God has made, 
 the feeling of wonder begins to be excited. And 
 when he considers his own organization, — how 
 wisely it is formed for activity and strength, how 
 marvellous are its powers and adaptations for accom- 
 plishing the purposes of its existence, with what 
 beautiful harmony its movements go on when dis- 
 ease and irregularity have not enfeebled their power, 
 — there is something graceful, fine, and inspiring in 
 the contemplation which fills his heart with admir- 
 ing praise. But when he sees how easily this ma- 
 chine is disordered, its energy destroyed, its happy 
 activity broken up, and its power subdued into help- 
 lessness and woe, — how soon, without even suspect- 
 ing his danger, man can be a total wreck and a help- 
 less ruin, — he feels that we are fearfully, as well as 
 wonderfully, made, and that no man can look 
 thoughtfully into his own frame without strong emo- 
 tions of astonishment and dread. 
 
 Whoever reflects must be powerfully impressed 
 with the mechanical construction of the eye for pur- 
 poses of vision, — of the ear for catching the most 
 delicate sounds, — of the limbs for that activity and 
 strength which self-preservation and subsistence re- 
 quire. He must also be struck with that graceful- 
 ness which attends all the movements of the sys- 
 tem, which is always to be seen in childhood, and 
 would be found in later years, if nature were not 
 
THE DISORDERED MIND. 127 
 
 distorted and resisted. One of the most eminent 
 members of the medical profession, in ancient times, 
 declared that his tendency to atheism was corrected 
 by observing the structure of the human hand. The 
 infinite variety of its motions — for example, in mu- 
 sic or in writing, the delicacy and precision of its 
 touch, the firmness with which it holds, the force 
 with which it applies, in any direction, just the power 
 which is wanted — is the result of a mechanical con- 
 struction which man can hardly understand, which 
 he cannot by any means imitate, with his most per- 
 fect ingenuity ; and it convinced this great man 
 that an intelligent Being must have designed it, for 
 to the thoughtful it will always be a miracle of 
 power and love. 
 
 We all know how it is with us when all the parts 
 of that mysterious organism, our body, are exercised 
 in harmony and order. The world seems bright ; 
 there is sunshine in the breast ; there is a freedom 
 and airy lightness of feeling, which we call the sen- 
 sation of health, and which is certainly the most 
 delightful that man ever knows. While, on the con- 
 trary, if there is any want of action, any loss of 
 proportion, any jarring discord among the elements 
 of our material nature, it brings pain, depression, and 
 wretchedness with it. The head is sick ; the heart 
 is faint ; the strong man bows himself ; the shiver- 
 ing chill makes the frame bend and tremble, or the 
 fever flows like melted lead through the veins, and 
 the sufferer feels within himself that it will take but 
 little of those powerful influences to reduce him to 
 
128 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 the dust. And one of the most fearful things con- 
 nected with disease is the thought of our own in- 
 strumentality in bringing it on. We cannot always 
 tell what to ascribe to our own agency, and what is 
 the act of God ; but we know that we have neg- 
 lected the laws of life, that we have recklessly in- 
 dulged our appetites and passions, that we have lived 
 in luxurious repose, or overtaxed our energies in self- 
 ish and worldly pursuits, and we are therefore 
 haunted with the thought, for which there may be 
 good reason, that we have been ourselves the in- 
 excusable and unpitied authors of our own suffering. 
 I place the physical system foremost, because it is 
 more open to the eye ; but I hasten to observe, in 
 the second place, that the mind is still more fearfully 
 and wonderfully made. While there is something 
 quite as striking in its energies, there is something 
 yet darker in its sorrows and retributions. It re- 
 quires thought to comprehend the greatness and 
 glory of the power of thought. Consider, for ex- 
 ample, the act of extemporaneous speaking, which 
 is the most exciting and animated way in which 
 the mind can be exerted. What flexibility, strength, 
 and quickness there must be, to enable the mind to 
 hold the subject in all its various bearings and rela- 
 tions in full view, while at the same time it is em- 
 ployed in working out single thoughts into fulness 
 and finish, and not only making them perfect by 
 themselves, but arranging their place and adjusting 
 their proportion in reference to the whole ! At the 
 moment that the speaker is uttering a sentence, he 
 
THE DISORDERED MIND. 129 
 
 has the outline of the subject and the memory of 
 what he has said before him ; and while he puts the 
 present thought into words, he must anticipate and 
 prepare what is to follow immediately after, — keep- 
 ing the various powers of attention and judgment, of 
 memory and imagination, in vigorous action, and all 
 in perfect order, combining to produce conviction 
 in the hearer's understanding or to make an impres- 
 sion on his heart. 
 
 But inspiring as it is to witness the triumph of in- 
 tellectual action, there is here also a dark side of the 
 picture which we cannot contemplate without con- 
 cern and dread. How little it takes to destroy these 
 powers, to deaden these sensibilities ! Even where 
 there is no conscious transgression of the laws of 
 life on the part of the sufferer, should there be but 
 a slight derangement of the physical system, a dark- 
 ness like that of the thundercloud may spread over 
 the mind, so that it can see nothing as it is. The 
 springs of happiness become bitter waters ; the best 
 affections are changed into jealous passions ; the 
 lightest touch seems to scrape over the naked nerves 
 of the soul ; what was formerly the best enjoyment 
 becomes the severest torture, and life is a burden 
 which the poor wayfarer of life cannot bear. He is 
 no longer himself; the power of choice and judg- 
 ment passes from him. He is in that state which 
 the ancients contemplated with fear and reverence, 
 because, having ceased to order his way for himself, 
 he is not responsible for what he does. His acts are 
 not his own, but in some awful and mysterious man- 
 
130 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 ner, which human wisdom cannot look into, he is 
 working out the purposes of God. And who can 
 look on man in that distressing state without a ten- 
 der solemnity of feeling, — without the deepest sym- 
 pathy for that dreadful suffering, in which that life 
 for which a man will give all that he hath becomes 
 so weary a load that he turns with fond longing 
 to the grave ? The clods of the valley are sweet 
 unto him where he trusts to lay it down. 
 
 But the most fearful thing about this disordered 
 state of the mind is the light which it throws, and 
 which perhaps it was meant to throw", upon our fu- 
 ture existence. The irregular action of the mind is 
 its strongest action ; as the body at such times is 
 capable of mighty convulsive efforts, so the mind 
 puts forth fierce and stormy energies, which are un- 
 known in its calmer hours. And among these we 
 find the memory quickened into wondrous life. 
 Events which took place years ago, and seemed to 
 leave no trace at all upon the mind, — words which 
 were spoken in former days, and which seemed to 
 die away in the breath that gave them being, — 
 thoughts even, and emotions, which left no more 
 traces than the last year's clouds have left in the sky, 
 — are remembered at such times, with perfect dis- 
 tinctness and reality in all their parts, and come up, 
 too, with a strength and vividness of impression like 
 things of the present day ; or rather, they come like 
 ghosts from bloody graves, surrounded with terrors 
 which the living did not possess. This shows that 
 the book of remembrance is in each one's memory ; 
 
THE DISORDERED MIND. 131 
 
 it is not now opened, but every thing is deeply re- 
 corded there. The history of every sin is written 
 where neither time nor tears can ever efface it. For- 
 getfulness is only for a time ; the day shall come 
 when every thing which we would fain forget shall 
 stand out in livid light, — seen as it is, with no self- 
 delusion to blind us to its guilt. Conscience, no 
 longer blinded by earthly influences and fully awake 
 to its duty, shall read the full record of our former 
 lives, and if these have been unfaithful to Him who 
 made us, go on to pronounce and execute our doom. 
 Thus we can imagine how the memory, quickened 
 into intenser life, shall make the mind itself a hell, 
 more terrible than eye hath seen, or ear heard, or 
 than ever entered the dismayed and shuddering 
 heart. 
 
 So, too, the manner in which the mind in its irreg- 
 ular action clings to one painful thought — though 
 in this world it is the portion of the innocent who 
 are thus tried, for what reason we do not know — 
 may be a foreshadowing of the manner in which 
 remorse in a future world shall distress the guilty 
 soul. One single dark and dismal thought before 
 the mind, from which it cannot turn away, — always 
 confronting it as if with a living eye of stern and 
 gloomy upbraiding, — how it bends and breaks down 
 the spirit into more than midnight gloom! No other 
 thoughts can call the attention from that one. It 
 binds up all within into one concentrated agony. 
 In the day it cries, — " Would to God it were night ! " 
 in the darkness, " Would to God it were morning!" 
 
132 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 but the day cometh, and also the night, bringing no 
 change nor relief. That single thought seems an- 
 chored like a heavy cloud over the soul ; no winds 
 have power to sweep it from the sky. Though we 
 know not what we shall be, we do at times have 
 glimpses of the fearful powers which lie folded and 
 sleeping in the soul, and which may hereafter come 
 out, with a power which not even this form of men- 
 tal suffering, dire as it is, will enable us to imag- 
 ine now. 
 
 In the third place, we are wonderfully and fear- 
 fully made in what respects our spiritual nature. 
 Wonderful it is what peace and satisfaction come, 
 even in the most disastrous circumstances of life, to 
 those whose consciences are living, whose affections 
 are kept in action, and who turn with cheerful con- 
 fidence to their heavenly Father. It is not pleasure, 
 it is not what men call joy, I know ; but it is some- 
 thing higher, surer, and better. It is a peace which 
 passeth the understanding of those who have never 
 known it ; no words can represent to them this 
 beauty of holiness in such a manner as it deserves. 
 On the other hand, fearful it is to see into what utter 
 and hopeless insensibility and self-delusion the soul 
 may fall. As the poor, superannuated ruin of a man 
 believes himself more able and eloquent than in any 
 former day, so may the person whose spirit is dead 
 within him talk much of God and eternity, and 
 wonder at the thoughtlessness of others, when his 
 own religion is nothing but a dream, which the eter- 
 nal morning will dispel. In all this wide world, 
 
THE DISORDERED MIND. 133 
 
 abounding as it does with things that sadden the 
 heart, there is really nothing so fearful as the self- 
 delusion of those who think themselves something 
 when they are nothing ; for there is no suggestion 
 nor warning that can reach them. They fold round 
 their hearts the Sabbath garments of their mistaken 
 and untrue devotion, and keep themselves in a slum- 
 ber which nothing will break but the trump of the 
 archangel at the judgment day. 
 
 The question now arises, Why are we thus fear- 
 fully made ? In a general view of the subject it is 
 enough to reply, that a fine and delicate organization, 
 such as God has given to man, must be easily dis- 
 ordered. An organization of this kind is an advan- 
 tage which necessarily brings evils along with it, and 
 if we enjoy the one, we must also have the other. 
 But why these evils should fall where they do, why 
 such a weight of misery should fall on one more 
 than another, why one should go through life com- 
 paratively exempt from this sorrow, while another 
 is bowed down with it to the grave, is what we 
 know not. It is not revealed, because it does not 
 concern ourselves and our duty. It is enough for 
 us to know that the sight of these sufferings in 
 others, and the patient and forbearing kindness 
 which they require, give us the opportunity of form- 
 ing virtues of the highest order. When sympathy 
 answers to sympathy, and love replies to love, it is 
 comparatively easy to be tender and true. But in 
 those dark hours of unaccountable gloom, of im- 
 patient displeasure, of zealous and causeless suspi- 
 12 
 
134 THE DISORDERED MIND. 
 
 cion, which sometimes cloud the soul, it is hard 
 for affection to sustain itself unbroken to the last. 
 And this is the great triumph of our religion, that 
 it kindles those never-setting stars of encouragement 
 and guidance in life's most disastrous hours. It em- 
 ploys the instrumentality of suffering, as the artisan 
 uses the furnace-fire, to form in us those affection^ 
 which brighten the dreary path of life, and, )&*• 
 the pillar of fire resting on the mercy-seat \\n a g- 
 the long march was over, shall be our light ana 
 glory in that heaven to which the faithful go. 
 
 We see, then, that all in this world, however 
 painful it may be, and all within ourselves, though 
 our nature so often suffers, may help forward the 
 great work of preparation. For this purpose all is 
 wonderfully made. As our minds dwell upon it, 
 we dismiss the fear ; but the wonder grows. So it 
 will ever be ; our knowledge of ourselves and our 
 experience of life will perpetually increase our ad- 
 miration of the works and ways of God. We may 
 submit ourselves to him, then, as a faithful Creator, 
 whether he tries us with suffering of the frame, with 
 anguish of mind, or heavy desolation of soul. He 
 orders all things well ; the end is not yet. " Wait 
 on the Lord ; be of good courage, and he shall 
 strengthen thy heart : wait, I say, on the Lord." 
 
SERMON XIII. 
 
 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD. — AmOS iv. 12. 
 
 Every one knows that this life is but the child- 
 hood of existence. If the young will not look for- 
 ward and prepare for the manly duties of life, it is 
 altogether absurd to expect that they shall be re- 
 spectable, useful, and happy ; it is next to certainty 
 that they will be just the reverse of all this. And 
 if we who are here to be educated for another exist- 
 ence, — we who are so severe upon the carelessness 
 of the young, — if we should have it pressed home 
 on ourselves in return, — " You say this is a prepara- 
 tory state ; where is your preparation ? " — we might 
 find it somewhat hard to reply. 
 
 The truth is, that a great many, and not such as 
 pass for bad men either, are making no sort of prep- 
 aration for another life. In all that respects this 
 world's gain, the eye of the lightning is not sharper 
 than theirs. Perhaps in respect to intellectual im- 
 provement they tax heavily the present moment to 
 secure knowledge in time to come, and nothing can 
 exceed the thoughtfulness and attention they bestow 
 
136 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 in preparing the comfort of their declining years. 
 But take one of these deliberate and sagacious men, 
 ask him what duty he is doing because Christianity 
 requires it ; ask what he can truly say he is doing 
 or has ever done from a sacred sense of duty ; ask 
 him if he is in the habit of cross-examining his con- 
 science when it tells a flattering tale ; ask him if he 
 makes a point of doing, not what pleases himself, 
 but what will please God. If he answers as he 
 would reply to his own heart, if he tells the truth, 
 he will confess to you that he thinks of no such 
 things. He is contented if he preserves a good 
 moral character ; if he does not materially injure 
 others, — or, in homely phrase, if he minds his own 
 business and lets others alone, — he is quite easy as 
 to his last account with God. 
 
 All this is very well. Even though he is not 
 tempted to do otherwise, though character, interest, 
 and all inducements whatever lead him to observe, 
 and never break, this line of conduct, we allow that, 
 as far as it goes, it is duty, though it implies a no- 
 tion of the importance and extent of duty which is 
 extremely weak and low. But after giving all the 
 praise due to this conduct, and perhaps a little more, 
 the great question returns, What is there in all this 
 that you call preparation for another existence ? All 
 this begins and ends in the present world. In all 
 this there is nothing serious, nothing devoted, noth- 
 ing high, nothing which could not be done as well 
 without Jesus Christ as with him. In fact, it all is 
 done without him, and if this is preparation, such 
 
PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 137 
 
 persons expect to be saved without having the least 
 regard for a Saviour, — they expect religion to save 
 them without their paying any respect to its laws. 
 And this is as wise as to expect to be restored to 
 health by a medicine which they never have taken, 
 or enlightened by a book which they have never 
 read. 
 
 There is no kind of doubt that many, and those 
 not by any means foolish men, are in error here. 
 They are moving on in the voyage of life as if they 
 were sure of drifting to the right harbour. They 
 feel no uneasiness because they see no land, and take 
 no observations ; — the very thing that ought to 
 alarm them natters them into confidence, and they 
 are not startled till they dash upon the rock, or 
 founder in the heart of the sea. 
 
 What is the preparation required ? One would 
 suppose that there could be no mistake here ; but 
 there are great and various errors, and they all re- 
 sult from that passion in man to make the terms of 
 acceptance with God as easy to himself as he can. 
 Devotion and benevolence constitute this prepara- 
 tion ; — in better words, the preparation is to love 
 God with all the heart, and our neighbour as our- 
 selves. 
 
 Devotion, my friends, does not consist in solem- 
 nity. There is a solemnity which passes for devo- 
 tion, which men approve in themselves as devotion. 
 Just as they take it for granted, that all who wear 
 black are mourners, do they believe, that all whose 
 manner is gloomy are profoundly religious at heart. 
 12* 
 
138 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 I dread this solemnity. It is too often artificial, un- 
 consciously made up ; in its very best estate it is 
 nothing more than a feeling, and a feeling which 
 leads to no usefulness or improvement, and there- 
 fore to no good. I dread this solemnity ; it makes 
 those who have it feel so saint -like, while there is 
 nothing of the Christian character under its broad 
 sable folds. The solemnity Christianity wants is 
 that of a heart deeply engaged, interested, busy, in 
 its duty. This deep interest in the work to be done 
 will give an air of solemnity to the brow. Still, 
 there is something beside the solemnity, — some- 
 thing more and better than the solemnity ; and as 
 habit makes the labor of duty lighter, the eye re- 
 gains its cheerfulness, and the shadow clears from 
 the brow. Away with all solemnity except that 
 produced by an awful sense of duty, — by the 
 weight of the obligations of which the heart and 
 hands are full. 
 
 I call that man devout who feels and tries to feel 
 the presence of God ; who is not afraid nor unwil- 
 ling to have the eye of God upon him, — who rather 
 rejoices in it, knowing that it makes him more faith- 
 ful ; who endeavours to conciliate God, not with 
 flattery in long and unmeaning prayers, not by run- 
 ning down himself and human nature, but by doing 
 his will. Such a man prays, to make his requests 
 unto God ; such a man praises, because praise is the 
 feeling of his heart ; but his greatest endeavour is to 
 bring his thoughts and deeds into subjection to the 
 Christian law ; and for this purpose he asks himself 
 
PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 139 
 
 often whether he is doing right, — whether his course 
 of life is what it should be, — whether, if the angel 
 of death came this hour, he is prepared to meet 
 his God. 
 
 Devotion means devotedness, readiness to do and 
 suffer every thing that pleases God. Devotion means 
 something more than prayer. There is many a 
 prayer fervent in its utterance which has no devo- 
 tion in it, because there is in the breast of him who 
 makes it no devotedness to his heavenly Father's 
 will. This devotion is of our own forming, — it is 
 not inspired ; the man who is really devout becomes 
 so by long meditation on the works and character of 
 God. True, there is devotion which attracts the 
 gaze of men far more than this ; there is devotion 
 which makes a show in the path of life, like the 
 glass fragment you see by the way-side sparkling in 
 the sun. You would take it for a diamond if you 
 had not been deceived by it before. This is not. the 
 devotion which I wish for you ; I would have de- 
 vout lips, but not without devout lives. I would 
 judge of the devotion by the life, and not of the life 
 by the devotion. 
 
 Again, the benevolence that makes part of this 
 preparation, — it is an active desire to do good to 
 men. Mark those words " active desire " ; for the 
 mere desire is nothing. Every one wishes well 
 enough for the happiness of others ; every one would 
 help the happiness of others if he could do it with- 
 out inconvenience to himself. Even those who in- 
 jure others, were it not for the temptation to injure 
 
140 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 them, would be ready enough to wish, and perhaps 
 to do, them good. Far am I from believing that 
 good-will to others is an uncommon thing. No ; if 
 wishing would make men what they should be, 
 the whole world would be Christians. The mere 
 desire is nothing ; you can place no dependence 
 upon it ; the active desire is a very different thing, — 
 as different from the mere wish as the spirit of 
 the selfish epicurean from that of the self-denying 
 martyr. 
 
 But very often there is a selfishness in the midst 
 of benevolence. There are those who are willing 
 to do good, but will do it in their own way, — there- 
 by showing that they are thinking quite as much of 
 themselves as of others. Thus, in relieving the dis- 
 tressed, — for there are persons distressed, and that 
 with no fault of their own, — each one is apt to give 
 what he values least. Here we must be on our 
 guard. Let him who gives his money give what 
 he values more, his attentions or his time ; let him 
 who gives his services, if he values other things 
 more, give them, in order to be sure that his very 
 kindness is not selfish, or at least, that it has in it 
 no other selfishness than the manly and honora- 
 ble desire of securing one's interest in the future 
 world. 
 
 Even the benevolent must be on their guard ; they 
 are far too apt to take as much with one hand as 
 they give with the other. You will sometimes find 
 that those who are liberal of wealth to others wound 
 them with their neglect and scorn. You will find 
 
PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 141 
 
 those who, with a manner all kindness, encourage 
 hopes of friendship which they never intend to re- 
 deem. You will find those who will sit night after 
 night by the bedside of the sick, and at the same 
 time stab them with what the Scripture calls the 
 edge of the tongue. Therefore inspiration tells us 
 to "be perfect and entire, wanting nothing"; then 
 we may know whether we are innocent merely 
 because we are not tempted, whether we are kind 
 from principle, or only from feeling. Mere feeling 
 will not face the wind and tide ; mere feeling will 
 do good as long as. it is pleasant, and no longer ; — 
 principle is something worth having ; it is patient, 
 not easily discouraged, and enduring. 
 
 One thing we must guard against with all our 
 might, — not toilet revengeful feelings have place in 
 the heart. They come in disguise. How often you 
 hear those who complain with no little bitterness 
 that others have injured them say, that, for all that, 
 they would do them a kindness if they had the 
 power ! Still they cannot do them the kindness to 
 wait for explanations ; they cannot do them the 
 kindness to put a favorable construction on their 
 words and deeds ; that is, they flatter themselves 
 with thinking that they would do the greater kind- 
 ness, though they deny the less. And suppose that 
 they would do a kindness to their enemy ; — half 
 the world would do the same, and be glad that they 
 had the power. Christian benevolence means a great 
 deal more than this ! 
 
 I have thus attempted to suggest, in general terms, 
 
142 PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 
 
 what is included in the injunction, "Prepare to meet 
 thy God." You may now, perhaps, expect me to 
 describe the meeting itself. And possibly I might 
 paint the end of all things in such a way as to strike 
 the imagination. I might represent the archangel's 
 trumpet sending its far and stormy voice over land 
 and sea. I might paint the dead outbursting from 
 their tombs, — crowding by millions round the judg- 
 ment-seat, with a paleness deeper than that of death 
 on every brow. I might represent the Son of Man, 
 with raiment shining like the sun, speaking in low 
 and deep tones the sentence that makes every heart 
 cold with dismay. But if I could do it, if I could 
 make you hear the thunder crash with which the 
 pillars of the universe fall, or show you the fire 
 flashing out from the earth and every star till the 
 universe is in flame, what purpose would be an- 
 swered ? I would rather, if I must dwell upon that 
 tremendous vision, show you the sinner who stands 
 solitary and apart, unconscious of the gaze of mil- 
 lions, seeing not the fire, hearing not the earthquake 
 as it murmurs by, his whole soul frozen into a fear- 
 ful expectation of the judgment to come. But all 
 these are terrors which may impress the imagination 
 without mending the heart. I would have the good- 
 ness of God lead you to repentance ; I would have 
 you fear him now as much as you would fear him 
 in the judgment day. 
 
 I say, then, Prepare to meet thy God now ; pre- 
 pare to meet him in the intercourse of prayer ; make 
 
PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 143 
 
 your hearts such as you are willing to throw open 
 to him. He never can be nearer than he is now ; 
 this preparation, if ever it will be wanted, is wanted 
 now. I say again, then, In every hour of life " pre- 
 pare to meet thy God." 
 
SERMON XIV. 
 
 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 BEWARE LEST ANY MAN SPOIL YOU THROUGH PHILOSOPHY AND 
 
 vain deceit. — Colossians ii. 8. 
 
 More properly, " Beware lest any man spoil you 
 through a vain, deceitful philosophy," and this was 
 the character of most of the wisdom of that day. 
 Philosophy means the investigation of subjects with 
 a desire to know all that can be known about them. 
 But the wise men of that day, instead of studying 
 Christianity to learn the reasonableness, the nature, 
 and the application of its truths, employed them- 
 selves in the endeavour to make Christianity harmo- 
 nize with their own favorite systems ; and the result 
 was, that the religion, as it came mended from their 
 hands, retained very few of its original features. 
 
 But are we to understand that philosophical in- 
 vestigation should not be applied to the religion of 
 Jesus Christ ? Most certainly not. This would be 
 the same as to say that we must not reflect upon it, 
 we must not study it, we must content ourselves 
 with an unthinking submission to all its commands. 
 So far from this, Christianity seems rather to invite 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 145 
 
 man to consider it, to weigh its truths, to submit 
 them to the most searching investigation, trusting 
 that such investigation will result in a warmer ad- 
 oration of the love in which the religion began, and 
 a stronger desire to apply it to the great purpose for 
 which God sent it down. 
 
 It may be said, however, that philosophical in- 
 vestigation of the subject of religion has sometimes 
 led to infidelity. I do not believe it. There are 
 cases enough in which infidelity has led to a certain 
 sort of investigation, and there the result commonly 
 is, as might be expected, that the previous distaste 
 for Christian doctrine and duty is confirmed. But 
 the investigation, as it is called, amounts to nothing 
 more than a mere glance at the outside ; the infidel 
 reasons, not about Christianity, but about what he 
 takes to be Christianity, and these are two widely 
 different things. Without going to the Scriptures to 
 see what the subject is, he assumes that he is well 
 acquainted with it ; and then, knowing nothing 
 about its doctrines, knowing nothing about its pecu- 
 liar feelings, he pretends to reason concerning that 
 which he takes no pains to understand, and his in- 
 vestigation " cometh in vanity and departeth in 
 darkness " ; it ends in prejudice, as in prejudice it 
 began. If you think I do infidels injustice, I would 
 ask you to show me one who ever seems to have 
 comprehended that the elements of the religion are 
 love to God and love to man. These are the foun- 
 dation, these the leading principles, these run through 
 all Christianity, and yet not one unbeliever ever 
 13 
 
146 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 seems to have suspected it. Like the South Sea 
 Islanders when they first saw white men, unbeliev- 
 ers mistake the dress for part of the body and the 
 living form. Because they disapprove the fashion 
 of the drapery, which human hands have idly and 
 needlessly thrown round it, they condemn its pro- 
 portions, and say that it is not of God. 
 
 But while philosophical investigation may and 
 should be applied to the truths revealed by Chris- 
 tianity, there is a spirit in which such researches 
 should be conducted, — in fact must be conducted, 
 — in order to lead to truth. Nor is this peculiar to 
 Christianity. There is a right spirit in which the 
 search for knowledge on any subject must be con- 
 ducted, or it will lead to darkness rather than light. 
 And that is the spirit of humility. Humility is the 
 low-browed arch under which one must stoop in 
 passing, but under which he must pass before he 
 can reach any improvement, whether in science, 
 morals, or religion. When this humility is wanting, 
 philosophy — that is, the true-hearted love of im- 
 provement, united with the power of gaining it — 
 is wanting. Still, self-confidence and presumption 
 often usurp and are permitted to bear its name. 
 They formed the " vain, deceitful philosophy " 
 which prevailed in the Apostle's time, and which 
 probably will prevail, under one name or another, to 
 the last ages of the world. 
 
 Again : while it is allowed, then, that Christianity 
 is a proper subject for philosophical investigation, — 
 that is, a subject concerning which men may think, 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 147 
 
 and study, and inquire, — there is also another essen- 
 tial condition belonging to all such investigations, 
 namely, the acknowledgment of the supreme author- 
 ity of the word of God. Jesus Christ has brought 
 us a revelation of truths which man could never 
 have known without him. I say, could never have 
 known ; for surely four thousand years were enough 
 to make the experiment. Through all that long 
 tract of ages, there were powerful and active minds, 
 — prophets and sages earnestly desiring to look into 
 those subjects, and constantly finding, to their sorrow, 
 that man could never scale the heavens by strides of 
 human wisdom. And now that the word of God has 
 come, it requires but little humility to acknowledge 
 its authority to be final on subjects like this. In 
 fact, there is but one alternative ; it must be either 
 paramount, commanding authority on these subjects, 
 or no authority at all. Accordingly you find that 
 men who submit all their investigations to that in- 
 fallible test go on in swift and sure religious im- 
 provement, while those who begin without a proper 
 reverence for that divine authority unsettle every 
 thing in their own minds, remove the old landmarks 
 without setting up any other, and end at last in deep 
 hostility to the Saviour, who, as long experience 
 proves, must either be all or nothing in the minds 
 and hearts of men. 
 
 Since humility and reverence are things essential 
 to all who would study these subjects with profit 
 and success, let us consider how little reason there is 
 for self-reliance, and how much we need that author- 
 ity which the religion of Jesus Christ supplies. 
 
148 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 It is said that there was some light on these sub- 
 jects before Christianity, and that there might be 
 now, without Christianity. Yes, there is light at 
 midnight before the moon has risen, and when the 
 stars are clouded ; there was light in the beginning 
 of creation before the sun appeared in the sky ; but 
 it was faint and dim, it answered no purpose of 
 cheering nor guidance. And so it is with the spirit- 
 ual light which is found where Christianity has not 
 come. No doubt, the inspiration of God has com- 
 municated something to every human mind ; no 
 doubt, that, when the spiritual powers are brought 
 into action, the ideas of God and eternity begin to 
 present themselves, and a shadowy line between 
 right and wrong begins to be drawn ; but the whole 
 history of man in former ages shows that " man by 
 wisdom knew not God," — knew not any of those 
 things which it most concerns him to know. He 
 was able to discern that there was a God, but not to 
 discern, in any thing like its completeness and per- 
 fection, the character of God ; — that was left for 
 Christianity to reveal. He was able to look forward 
 to a future life, but he did not know that it was a 
 state of just and perfect retribution. Evidently, 
 however, to know this and no more, — to know that 
 there is a God without knowing the relation in 
 which we stand to him, and that eternity is before 
 us without knowing what qualifications we need to 
 make us happy for ever, — would only be that sad 
 light which makes darkness visible, — a knowledge 
 which would only make us more keenly alive to our 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 149 
 
 need of more knowledge. After the human mind 
 had reached forward, with intense longing and des- 
 perate energy, to look into these subjects, and all in 
 vain, God condescended to reveal them ; and now 
 shall man show his gratitude by saying or feeling 
 that he could have learned all this of himself? Be- 
 fore Christianity, there was na upward tendency in 
 human nature ; all was downward, — downward into 
 deeper corruption, — deepest at the moment when 
 the star of salvation rose. Surely whoever consid- 
 ers what man was, and always, without Christianity, 
 will see that philosophy might as well pretend to 
 kindle a sun at midnight, as undertake to enlighten 
 the darkness, relieve the spiritual wants, and console 
 the sorrows of a lost world. 
 
 But, in the second place, much is said of the light 
 within us, and some appear to feel as if it supersed- 
 ed the necessity of any illumination from on high. 
 But what is it ? Nothing but a power of vision like 
 that which resides in the bodily eye. It is com- 
 pared to the eye to explain to us what it is. Now 
 does any one suppose that light originates in the 
 eye, or that the power of sight would help us unless 
 there were light by which we may see. It is the 
 same to the body that a window is to a house, — 
 the avenue through which the light passes in. And 
 this light within is nothing but a power of moral 
 sight, by which we may discern the moral and re- 
 ligious truths presented, and therefore, so far from 
 rendering light unnecessary, would itself be useless 
 to us if there were not light by which it is enabled 
 13* 
 
150 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 to see. Jesus Christ is the light of the moral world. 
 He is the source and fountain of that light by which 
 our spiritual sight is able to discern the truths which 
 it is so much concerned to know. Without him, the 
 spiritual sight would be as helpless as the eyes in 
 utter darkness ; so that the light within us, of 
 which so much is said, only increases our depend- 
 ence on him. 
 
 This being the case, it is evident, that, except we 
 possess and enjoy the light without, we can have no 
 benefit from the light within, and nothing can be 
 vainer than to speak of being guided by this inner 
 light, to the exclusion of the other. Guided by the 
 eyesight without any light from the sun ? While 
 he shines, we may feel as if we could do without 
 him, but not so when the horror of deep darkness 
 falls. Those who have depended on the inner light, 
 without regard to the other, have gone fearfully 
 astray. It would not be easy to number the crimes, 
 the unnatural and revolting crimes, committed by 
 some who thought they were obeying the dictation 
 of God within them, and at the same time refused 
 to consult his revealed and written law. And now, 
 when we hear men speak as if this inner light alone 
 were sufficient for our guidance, it is as if they 
 should say, — " Break down the lighthouse which 
 for ages has shone through the storms, conducting 
 thousands of voyagers safe into the harbour ; there 
 is no need of it, for each vessel can carry a rush- 
 light at its own masthead, and thus find her way 
 through the entrance channel, winding, and rough, 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 151 
 
 and rockbound though it is." She would probably 
 find her way to the bottom, and he who trusts to 
 the inner light alone for guidance will also be in 
 danger of shipwreck of the soul. 
 
 But the question arises, What is the province of 
 philosophical investigation in respect to Christianity? 
 Certainly it is to look into the nature of the truths 
 which it reveals, that we may learn their adaptation 
 to our nature. As soon as they were first revealed, 
 they were known ; but the wonderful manner in 
 which they were suited to our wants and feelings, — 
 to every man's wants and feelings, — the manner in 
 which they were suited to the benefit and improve- 
 ment of the human race, — could not be at once un- 
 derstood. This was a thing to be studied. Expe- 
 rience threw light upon it ; observation threw light 
 upon it ; philosophical investigation may throw yet 
 more light upon it, because mankind are constantly 
 passing into new circumstances and conditions, and 
 the beauty and power of holiness are displayed with 
 new glory. Many a direction there is which is con- 
 stantly unfolding itself more and more to human 
 eyes. " Overcome evil with good," for example, — 
 who could have foreseen, even a century ago, what 
 wonders it would work in prisons, — how it would 
 reform the whole process of education, — how wide- 
 ly and successfully it would be applied ? This is 
 what is meant by the light which is continually 
 breaking from the word of God. Its truths do not 
 unfold themselves to unobservant eyes ; the more 
 they are studied and pondered, the more do they dis- 
 
152 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 close for the improvement and blessing of man. 
 Here is the province for philosophy, — not to sit in 
 judgment on the doings of the Most High, but its 
 field is the spiritual world ; all its researches there 
 will result in some new discoveries of Divine power 
 and love. Exhausted it never can be. Science has 
 not yet travelled over a thousandth part of the won- 
 ders of the visible world, and the moral and spiritual 
 world — so much higher and more extended — can- 
 not be entirely explored so long as eternity endures. 
 
 Why is it, then, that philosophy has so often be- 
 come vain and deceitful when applied to subjects 
 like this ? It is because a heathen philosophy is ap- 
 plied to Christian truth, which is like using a foot- 
 rule to measure distances in the sky. It is because 
 men undertake to investigate without Christ what 
 they never could have known any thing of without 
 him. Under these circumstances, it can go but little 
 way ; it stops at the outside. It can see nothing 
 more than a personification of the laws of nature in 
 Him who is above all, and through all, and in all. 
 It can see nothing more than an ordinary man in 
 Him who spake as never man spake, and who was 
 what never man was. It can see nothing more than 
 a continued mortal life in the existence beyond the 
 grave. And how is it possible to understand, or 
 hope to understand, the truths which our Saviour 
 has revealed, if we try to search out, with our inch 
 of candle, what it takes all the blaze of the Sun of 
 righteousness to make clear to human eyes ? 
 
 The truth is, that Christ is the Master and the 
 
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 153 
 
 end of all true philosophy ; the highest and happiest 
 object it can propose to itself is to lead men to him 
 for instruction, to confirm his authority, and to es- 
 tablish his empire in the hearts of men. If in the 
 unhappy confusion of controversy he has lost any 
 thing of our reverence, — if he whose right it is to 
 reign, and whose kingdom is within, has been de- 
 throned from his true place in our veneration and 
 love, — we are not the persons by whom the light 
 of God's word is to be drawn forth and set before 
 the eyes of men. Whoever sincerely desires to 
 know the truth will look for it as it is in Jesus 
 Christ, will hang on his lips, will treasure his every 
 word. His authority in the balance will weigh all 
 other down. As for human authority, let it be re- 
 garded according to its claims to reverence ; as for 
 human claims, man may sift them as he will, for 
 these are in his reach ; among these he may hope 
 to discern the false from the true. But if he treats 
 Him whom God has sanctified and sent into the 
 world merely as a human being, and deals with his 
 disclosures as freely as if they were human things, 
 he does not see things as they are, — he is not in 
 the way to understand them ; the very principle 
 with which he begins, the first steps in his in- 
 quiry, show that they will be for ever hidden from 
 his eyes. 
 
 We often hear the present spoken of as the age 
 of philosophy. It is an age of restlessness, an age 
 of change, an age of action ; but to call it an age of 
 philosophy — that is, of calm, deliberate inquiry 
 
154 RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 after truth — is doing it an honor which it does not 
 yet deserve. An age when innovation is regarded 
 as the same with reform, — an age when zeal often 
 becomes mad passion, and indifference often passes 
 for liberality, — an age when philanthropy is so apt 
 to grow savage, and benevolence proves its love for 
 some of the human race by the intenseness of its 
 hatred to others, — an age in which the things of 
 God are no more respected than the things of Caesar, 
 — is not an age of philosophy, of calm, sound, and 
 healthy investigation, whatever else it may be. No 
 doubt, its result will be good. The wafers may give 
 out their virtues when they are troubled, but it is 
 not the time to analyze them to discover the sources 
 of their healing virtue. It is an age which signi- 
 fies "the removing of those things that are shaken"; 
 the time is come for perishable things to perish, and 
 the world must let them go. But " those things 
 that cannot be shaken " will remain, and of all 
 things the firmest and most unshaken is the Rock of 
 Ages. The floods may come and the storms beat 
 against it, but the Rock and all that is built thereon 
 shall endure. 
 
SERMON XV. 
 
 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 ? 
 
 WHO KNOWETH WHAT IS GOOD FOR MAN IN THIS LIFE f 
 
 Ecclesiastes vi. 12. 
 
 Few persons ever had so much reason to ask this 
 question as the writer to whom this book is ascribed. 
 A sovereign, powerful and magnificent, richly gift- 
 ed with all outward advantages that Heaven could 
 bestow, — eminent above all others for his wisdom, 
 but in the application of that wisdom to his life 
 irregular and unfaithful, and therefore a restless and 
 unhappy man, — he had made some great mistake 
 in life, and he felt that it was too late to repair it. 
 He could only lament that life was not to him what 
 God meant it should be, and what it might easily 
 have been. 
 
 But this error, and the consequences of it, are 
 shared by numberless others. Any observer must 
 be struck, painfully struck, with the sight of man- 
 kind, — each having an existence which God regards 
 as a blessing and a treasure, but not many really re- 
 joicing in it, not many finding true happiness in it, 
 — all conscious that something is wrong and some- 
 
156 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 thing wanting, but not knowing where the difficulty 
 lies, — and therefore pressing on, in the vain hope 
 that new accessions of those things which have 
 brought no satisfaction with them, that some fortu- 
 nate accident, or perhaps that the lapse of time, will 
 bring them that enjoyment of existence, that full 
 and deep enjoyment of existence, which as yet they 
 have never found. There is not one in ten thou- 
 sand who understands the value and blessing of life, 
 a great proportion of mankind considering it only as 
 something better than the grave or the dark future. 
 Having thus no comprehension of its use and worth, 
 they suffer it to run to waste ; they wait through 
 the days of their appointed time ; when death comes, 
 they shut their eyes, take the leap in the dark, and 
 die at last without wisdom, as they have lived, — 
 clinging to life only from their dread of that which 
 lies beyond it. 
 
 You will observe, too, that it is not those who are 
 most severely tried in life who are most apt to re- 
 gard it thus. The heaviest laden are not those who 
 move most heavily ; the disparaging tone in which 
 life is spoken of is seldom heard from their lips. 
 They often seem to have some revelation of the 
 value and blessing of existence which is not made 
 to others. They place a higher estimate upon it ; 
 darkened and desolated as life is to them, they feel 
 more profoundly than ever before how great a gift 
 it is. Their misfortunes are like the earthquake, 
 which rent the veil of the temple and disclosed the 
 golden sanctuary, never opened to common eyes be- 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 157 
 
 fore ; they have learned " the power of an endless 
 life," — and all is changed to their view. 
 
 If it is thus true of thousands, that they do not 
 understand the worth of existence, if they know not 
 what can be made of it, or what it was meant to be, 
 there can hardly be an inquiry of more general in- 
 terest than the one proposed in the text, — " Who 
 knoweth what is good for man in this life ? " 
 
 And, first, in the domestic relations, who knoweth 
 what is good for man ? This condition of existence, 
 assembling in small circles those who are most nearly 
 connected with each other, undoubtedly was intend- 
 ed to afford a retreat, a resting-place, to which man, 
 when worn and weary with the conflicts of troubled 
 life abroad, might "flee away and be at rest." The 
 very name of home sounds, like a benediction ; not 
 a word ever passes from human lips that goes so 
 directly to every heart. And yet in how many 
 dwellings some element of unhappiness finds its 
 way, and changes all its light and blessing into cold 
 and dreary gloom ! How many a cottage looks 
 sweetly under the green arch of foliage that hangs 
 over it, inspiring the thought in the wayfarer that 
 there he should rejoice to spend his days ! How 
 many a stately mansion in the city awakens the 
 feeling in those who pass by, that the inmates must 
 surely be happy ! And yet a nearer acquaintance 
 with such places shows us pale anxiety, sullen alien- 
 ation, fiery discord, or perhaps sins more deadly, if 
 any such there are, dwelling in the humble and the 
 splendid mansion, and changing that which we im- 
 14 
 
158 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 agined almost a heaven into so near a resemblance 
 of hell, that any one who had ever tasted its bitter- 
 ness would be relieved to escape from it into a dun- 
 geon or a grave. 
 
 Yes, many examples there are of those who have 
 pledged their affections to each other, yet still have 
 separate interests, unsympathizing feelings, so that 
 the relation, which might have been a source of the 
 purest happiness, becomes a flowing fountain of woe. 
 Many examples there are of parents suffering more 
 from the selfish coldness of living children, than 
 others who mourn for the dead. What is worse, 
 there are parents who have repelled the young affec- 
 tions of their children by their sternness or severity, 
 and thus have done them an injury which they 
 never can repair. Many examples there are of 
 brothers or sisters indulging bitter passions, either 
 selfishly indifferent to each other, or selfishly exact- 
 ing, till they spread a winter of discontent and sor- 
 row in the places where they dwell. And who will 
 show what is good for those in whom life is thus 
 depraved and perverted ? 
 
 The common resort is one which does not reach 
 the disorder to which it is applied. It is, in the 
 young, successive plans of transient pleasure, which, 
 however, they cannot truly enjoy, because they 
 must carry themselves, that is, their discordant pas- 
 sions, along with them wherever they go. Per- 
 sons farther advanced in life think to find relief by 
 extending their accommodations, — by making im- 
 provements in the grounds about the mansion, or 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 159 
 
 more tasteful arrangements within ; as if whiting the 
 outside of a sepulchre would remove its dreariness 
 and gloom. The sorrow remains heavy and cold as 
 ever, and nothing can be done to relieve it till the 
 heart awakes to the profound significance of the 
 word which inspiration most delights to speak, — till 
 love, that word of power, is learned by heart ; and 
 then no miracle ascribed of old to charm or spell 
 ever approached, in the greatness and suddenness 
 of its changes, to the wonders love can do. He 
 finds that, in the only true sense of the expression, 
 his love must begin at home. Every kind and 
 amiable feeling cherished in his own heart is felt 
 in the hearts of others ; he is not obliged to exert 
 an influence upon them ; it is not he, but the love 
 which inspires him, which subdues their passions, 
 softens their unkindness, and brings their feelings 
 into sympathy with his own. Having the spirit 
 of love within, he may trust to it to make them 
 feel its power ; as the keeper of the light-house has 
 only to kindle the lamp, and it will cause itself to 
 shine, guiding the course and rejoicing the hearts of 
 travellers on the dark sea. 
 
 If we turn next to active life, whether busy or 
 social, we see there also the same evidence that 
 some great mistake has been make. The world, 
 that is, the community of men whom we call the 
 world, has a prevailing expression, like a single hu- 
 man face ; and that expression is restless, careworn, 
 discontented. The lines of peace and repose are 
 never to be traced there, any more than on the sur- 
 
160 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 face of the ocean. There is something which tells, 
 as plainly as words could say it, that mankind have 
 not found what they are seeking for ; and there is 
 no encouragement, even to themselves, that they ever 
 will find it in the wayward paths which they tread. 
 They are sensible of the difficulty ; they are deeply 
 conscious of the want ; but the remedy for this pre- 
 vailing uneasiness they do not see. Some make ex- 
 periment of recreations, in which they carry about 
 the burden of their cares, not knowing how to lay 
 them down : others try change of circumstances, as 
 if outward arrangements could of themselves effect 
 a change within ; while by far the greater number, 
 seeing no other resort, plunge more deeply into 
 worldly cares, thus increasing the pain which was 
 heavy enough before. 
 
 Will no one stand still and hear Christianity when 
 it says, — " This is the way ; walk ye in it " ? Is 
 the strain, sweet as angels use, in which it speaks of 
 love, always to be unheard and unregarded ? Some- 
 times there are those who half awake to the com- 
 prehension of the truth, that they can serve them- 
 selves best by serving others. Startled with the 
 discovery, they tremble at their former selfishness ; 
 they dash hastily into any plan of benevolence that 
 stands nearest. Their zeal arises from fear and self- 
 upbraiding, not from love in the heart ; and it is 
 manifested, not by their devotion to humanity, but 
 their fierce reproaches against those who do not go 
 with them. Hence proceed the savage philanthro- 
 pists, the unregenerate reformers, the unsanctifled 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 161 
 
 Christians, who say so much and accomplish so lit- 
 tle ; — accomplish little because they carry their 
 worldly passions with them into their new course of 
 life, and are awakened only to the sin and danger 
 of selfish indifference to prevailing evils, without 
 having learned the spirit of their Master, — with- 
 out entering into sympathy with love, the only pow- 
 er by which evil in ourselves or others is ever to be 
 done away. 
 
 There is nothing in which our want of faith in 
 Jesus Christ appears more plainly and sadly than in 
 this unbelief in the power of love. He tells us that 
 it is the only secret of happiness, the only element 
 of power ; it is the mystery of heaven, which, 
 though revealed and open, is left a mystery still. 
 He assures us that the only way to satisfy the wants 
 of our immortal nature, and to remove the uneasi- 
 ness and distaste of life, — the only possible way to 
 reach that contented peace and serene repose which 
 are God's divinest blessings, — is to cherish the spirit 
 of love ; not as it is abridged and misinterpreted by 
 our own selfish passions, but as it was set forth in 
 the words, and shone unclouded in the life, of our 
 heavenly Master. But how few there are who be- 
 lieve him ! While thousands are sadly and earnest- 
 ly asking, — " What is good for man in this life ? " 
 there is not one in a thousand who receives, or un- 
 derstands, or acts upon his reply. And this world 
 never will be radiant, as it was meant to be, with 
 happiness and praise, till his favorite word, " love," 
 14* 
 
162 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 in its fulness, and depth, and power of meaning, 
 gains a welcome in the hearts of men. 
 
 Again: the religious life, — how widely its true 
 character is often misunderstood ! The great pro- 
 portion of those who live in Christian lands take 
 shelter from the remonstrances of their conscience 
 behind certain sacred forms. To these observances 
 they point as the signs that they are faithful, when 
 these may be only easy substitutes for faithfulness 
 and devotion, fatally misleading the soul. What is 
 it to attend the service of devotion, if only the form 
 is present, while the mind and heart — while the man 
 — is away ? Even those who come to the Lord's 
 table, and openly profess to be his followers, often 
 find comfort in the thought of making this profes- 
 sion, when, all the while, it is not a true expression 
 of their feeling, — it is a sign of that which is not 
 within ; they make no effort to become what they 
 declare it is the desire of their hearts to be. These 
 outward manifestations, these solemn forms, may be 
 the means of cherishing religious principle ; but 
 when they are made the substitutes for it, the whole 
 becomes a delusion ; it is believing a lie. 
 
 There are those, too, who, in asking what is good 
 in the religious life, turn to the past, not concerning 
 themselves with their present character, but rejoic- 
 ing to think of some former transitions of feeling 
 which they have passed through. But in most 
 cases, these changes, like the passage of the Red 
 Sea, only bring men to the edge of their field of 
 duty and trial ; they have still to struggle painfully 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 163 
 
 through the wilderness, in order to reach the prom- 
 ised land. Besides, whence this reliance on past 
 states of character ? The question is, What are we 
 now ? Our former emotions no more describe us as 
 we are now in the sight of God, than the weather- 
 signs of the last year's almanac apply to the present 
 spring. I have known those, who, after going 
 through a sudden change, suddenly changed back 
 again without knowing it. Nay, it is not an uncom- 
 mon thing for a sudden relapse to follow a sudden 
 restoration. Appearances are kept up, the forms are 
 regarded, the words are solemn, but the heart is 
 where it was before. No, not where it was be- 
 fore ; for it will never be so easy to be impressed 
 again. 
 
 In truth, nothing is to be depended upon as a sign 
 of the religious life but love ; without it, you are 
 nothing. Indulge any jealousy, any suspicion, any 
 unkind feeling to any being whatsoever, and you 
 have not the Saviour's spirit. You must also have 
 a strong, filial feeling of love to your heavenly Fa- 
 ther ; for unless you can receive gratefully what he 
 sends you, and rejoice in him under all circumstan- 
 ces and changes, you have not that trust and con- 
 fidence which are the beauty of holiness, — the joy 
 and glory of a faithful son. Alas that the great 
 change which turns the heart towards its Father 
 should have been presented in a manner so mechan- 
 ical, so formal, so much more full of profession than 
 of feeling, that the voice which calls us to repen- 
 tance finds no answering emotions, no right under- 
 
164 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 standing of its summons, no glad and grateful up- 
 rising of all within to do reverence to its God ! 
 
 O, when shall we understand the deep and serious 
 meaning of life ? When will it dawn upon us what 
 life may be made, and what God intended it should 
 be ? When we see the spring coming forth in glory 
 and love, when we feel its breathing incense, and 
 hear the rich music of its voice in the morning sky, 
 are we not impressed with the difference — the fear- 
 ful difference — between the rich loveliness of awak- 
 ening nature, and the barren, heavy chillness which 
 prevails in so many hearts ? This is not life ; many, 
 many there are who have not begun to live. They 
 move and have a being ; but the treasures of feel- 
 ing, the glorious endeavours, the warm-hearted affec- 
 tions, which form the true charm of existence, they 
 do not in the least understand. How many will 
 die without ever having lived ! How many will see 
 with surprise and sorrow, when they reach another 
 existence, how much they might have done, how 
 much they might have enjoyed, how much they 
 have lost, in those days of mortal existence which 
 can return no more ! 
 
 Here we must feel how much depends on our- 
 selves. If we turn to God with filial confidence, 
 we shall find happiness flowing into our hearts like 
 sunbeams, waking all within into glorious joy, dis- 
 solving the ice of our selfishness, and calling new 
 and beautiful affections into life within, like the ver- 
 dure and flowers of spring. And if we can only 
 turn affectionately to the beings that surround us, 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 165 
 
 we shall be struck with astonishment how the world 
 of humanity, that now looks desert-like and dreary, 
 opens its treasures of glory and love to our souls. 
 Do not treat it as a fancy. The words are true, for 
 they are God's. Whoever will make the experi- 
 ment, in good faith and with the heart, will confess 
 that he finds happiness beyond his youthful dreams. 
 If any would know what is good for him in life, it 
 is this, — to love God as his Father, and the beings 
 around him as his brethren. Let him do what is 
 here required, and he soon will wonder at his long 
 insensibility ; he will ask where all these treasures 
 of feeling have been hidden ; he will be lost in 
 shame for his hewing out so many cisterns, when 
 the waters of life were all the while flowing un- 
 tasted at his feet. 
 
SERMON XVI. 
 
 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 IF ANY MAN OFFEND NOT IN WORD, THE SAME IS A PERFECT MAN, 
 AND ABLE ALSO TO BRIDLE THE WHOLE BODY. — James iii. 2. 
 
 Any one who reads the Scriptures for his own 
 personal improvement is often struck with this, that 
 the sacred writers attach the most serious importance 
 to duties of which men make but little account. 
 So here ; one who knows how lightly Christians 
 regard the duty of not offending in word is im- 
 pressed with the solemnity with which the Apostle 
 treats the obligation, — looking upon the whole char- 
 acter as concerned in it ; for he says, whoever is 
 faithful in this respect is a thorough man, strong in 
 self-mastery, — equal to all the duties of life. 
 
 He considers faithfulness or unfaithfulness in this 
 respect as a sure indication of the presence or want 
 of Christian principle ; — yes, the surest, for it is 
 only in unguarded hours that his character appears 
 precisely as it is. In most actions there is some de- 
 liberation ; — not much, but far more than in our 
 words. The latter flow carelessly and unthought of 
 from the tongue ; they come, as is said, from the 
 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 167 
 
 overflowing of the heart. If we could see the 
 thought, we should see the character in its exact 
 form, color, and bearing ; but this is for the eye of 
 God alone. We are compelled to look at the out- 
 ward appearance, and there is nothing in the out- 
 ward appearance which gives us a truer revelation of 
 what is within than the words. ( 
 
 This Apostle also calls our attention to the effect 
 which the management of the tongue has upon the 
 life. It is, he says, as the bit to the horse or the 
 rudder to the vessel ; it determines which way we 
 shall go. Thus he thinks that a man's course is not 
 only indicated, but also shaped, by his conduct in 
 this respect. And really, when we consider how 
 men talk themselves into any thing, — how, by say- 
 ing a thing often, they come to believe it, however 
 false it may be, — how easily they become insensible 
 to the shame and danger of any thing which they 
 constantly defend, — and how many intrench them- 
 selves behind a cloud of words, when hard pressed 
 by their conscience or the charges of other men, — 
 we can see how it should be so ; we can see a man's 
 words may be a determining power, not only show- 
 ing what he is, but making him what he is to be for 
 this world and the other. 
 
 There is another view which he takes of the sub- 
 ject, which is new and strange to many. He says 
 that harsh and bitter language cannot come from a 
 good heart. Men sometimes appear to think other- 
 wise ; — they think the heart may be good and kind 
 when the words are harsh and severe. But not so 
 
168 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 the Apostle ; he says, the same fountain does not 
 send forth salt and fresh water ; however full and 
 flowing the fresh fountain may be, if a brackish 
 spring flows into it, it takes but little to spoil the 
 whole for the use of man. The wayfarer perishing 
 with thirst comes to it with hope and pleasure, but 
 turns away with a heavy heart. 
 
 But let us look a little more nearly at some of 
 those offences of the tongue which the Apostle con- 
 siders so dangerous to the souls of men. 
 
 First, there are those sharp and angry words of 
 which we hear so many in the world. ' " Thou shalt 
 love thy neighbour as thyself," is the Christian com- 
 mand, which all profess to obey ; — but what a com- 
 mentary on it may be found in the intercourse of 
 Christians with each other? How often do we see 
 the flashing eye and the cheek flushed with passion, 
 and hear the most savage and bitter retorts and replies 
 from lips which are also opened in prayer to God, — 
 how sincerely, how acceptably, we must leave it for 
 eternity to tell ! Men think very little of these 
 things ; the passion subsides, and they feel as if all 
 was the same as before. But no. It is not the 
 same as before. There is mischief done more than 
 meets the eye. As each one of these autumnal 
 storms affects the foliage and hurries on the wintry 
 desolation, does each and every storm of passion 
 leave much unseen injury, though perhaps few vis- 
 ible traces in the heart. How easily men delude 
 themselves on this subject ! After one of these ex- 
 plosions they become reconciled, and think that 
 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 169 
 
 those whom they have injured forgive and forget. 
 But no ; to forgive is one thing, to forget is another ; 
 perhaps they do forgive, but they do not forget. 
 Other injuries may be forgotten, new acts of friend- 
 ship efface the memory of former wrongs, but the 
 wound given by the sharp edge of the tongue does 
 not heal over. If you have ever spoken contempt- 
 uously of any one, and think that he has forgotten 
 it, you will find, that, although he may treat you 
 kindly, he remembers such things longer than you. 
 
 It is impossible to overestimate the injury which 
 is done by these hasty excesses. Human beings are 
 connected with each other by many fine and del- 
 icate ties ; and this flame of hasty anger burns them 
 like tow. At every flash, some of them snap asun- 
 der, and there is no power that can replace them. 
 Thus it is with parents and children, with husbands 
 and wives, with brothers and sisters, with friends 
 and neighbours ; — the bands of love which should 
 unite them are gone, — burned away by these quick 
 fires of passion. What matters it if the fire is out ? 
 what has been consumed cannot be restored from its 
 ashes. 
 
 Again : there is a sort of violent language where 
 there is not much anger, but rather malice and bit- 
 terness strongly felt and strongly expressed, and, 
 strange as it may seem considering what an open 
 and presumptuous offence it is, indulged in without 
 the least consciousness of sin. There is a tendency 
 to extravagance and excess of every kind at the 
 present day. You see it in men's movements ; you 
 15 
 
170 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 hear it in their words ; every epithet which they 
 use, in the most trifling matters, is always in the 
 superlative degree. If they have not met a friend 
 for some time, they call it an age ; if they praise 
 another, they exalt him to the skies ; if they would 
 censure, they degrade him in the same proportion. 
 And when they come to discussions on subjects in 
 which they are interested, they not only have the 
 same excess in the statement of their opinions; their 
 partialities and aversions are also expressed in the 
 same high-colored language, which always oversteps 
 the strict line of truth, and does outrageous injustice 
 to those who oppose them, representing them as lost 
 to every virtue and deep in every sin. How little 
 moral sensibility there is in relation to this subject 
 appears from the manner of some who think it a 
 crime to " smite with the fist of wickedness," but 
 indemnify themselves for this forbearance by using 
 the hardest terms of reproach which the language 
 affords ; — as if the bands of love bound nothing but 
 the hands ; as if, not striking with the sword, they 
 might strike the harder with the edge of the tongue. 
 And while they indulge to the utmost in this way 
 their resentment and revenge, they conceive that 
 they are following Him, who, when he was reviled, 
 answered not again. 
 
 The most painful exhibition we ever see of this 
 kind of violent language is witnessed in the excit- 
 ing times of party. To this the Apostle's strong 
 terms, " earthly, sensual, devilish," would most fitly 
 apply. If the things which come out of the mouth 
 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 171 
 
 defile a man, surely our land is defiled beyond the 
 power of the elements to cleanse it by this flood of 
 slander and abuse which pours out from the thou- 
 sand and ten thousand mouths of party. There is 
 something appalling in this cannibal spirit, perfectly 
 unscrupulous, perfectly hateful, in which so many 
 indulge with perfect unconsciousness of their guilt 
 and danger, though to a superior being who listened 
 to their voice it would seem as if the world had 
 broken entirely loose from the moral government 
 of God. 
 
 In the intercourse of social life there are many 
 things which show how difficult, and yet how ne- 
 cessary, it is to apply religious principle to the words ; 
 — difficult, because we do not think what we are 
 doing. But we ought to think, it is our duty to 
 think, what we are doing, and the neglect of this 
 duty is the last thing that we can plead in excuse 
 for injurious language, or any other sin. Stern lan- 
 guage that of our Saviour, — " For every idle word 
 that men shall speak, they shall give an account in 
 the day of judgment." Whatever we may now 
 think of it, we shall find that his warning is true. 
 Any observer of social life must know that " idle " 
 words are almost always injurious words ; such con- 
 versation is very apt to turn upon the follies, infirm- 
 ities, and sins of others. There are many who en- 
 joy ridicule cast upon others, and many also who 
 are ready to cast it, showing off their penetrating 
 discernment and power of sarcasm, without reflect- 
 ing that they are guilty of inhumanity, — that 
 
172 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 every indulgence of the kind is a sin against God 
 and his law of love ; without reflecting, too, that 
 every indulgence of the kind is exerting a petrifying 
 power upon their own hearts. The Apostle main- 
 tains that such indulgence is evidence and cause of 
 a bad heart. Is he not right ? You may make 
 yourself acceptable to your associates by entertain- 
 ing them in such a manner ; you may be pleasant 
 when you are pleased, — pleasant to those with 
 whom you are pleased ; for even the publicans can 
 go as far as this. But the heart from which such 
 things proceed is a bad heart to carry into eternity, 
 — a bad one to throw open at the judgment-seat of 
 Christ. 
 
 There are many ways in which the law of love is 
 broken in the social intercourse of life, broken by 
 that thoughtless malice which is so common, but 
 which, however thoughtless, is malice still. Strange 
 that men should consider it an excuse, to say they 
 did not think what harm they were doing ! Intox- 
 ication is no excuse for transgression. It rather adds 
 the guilt of drunkenness to that of the other sin. 
 So thoughtlessness itself is an offence, where the 
 rights and claims of others are concerned, and there 
 is no principle of morals which can possibly make it 
 a palliation for any other sin. Whoever retails the 
 floating reproach, whoever puts a bad construction 
 on the conduct of another, whoever deals bitterly 
 and harshly with the character of others, may do it 
 thoughtlessly, but still he is responsible, perhaps the 
 more so ; for if he was conscientious, he would re- 
 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 173 
 
 fleet, and never, except in cases of necessity, say that 
 which may injure another's feelings, reputation, or 
 peace. It is true that unmerited slander dies away ; 
 but no thanks to him who originates, nor to him 
 who repeats it. Inspiration compares him to one who 
 scatters firebrands in sport. The rain of heaven 
 may extinguish the fire which the incendiary kin- 
 dles, but he is as guilty as if the building were 
 burned down. He who spreads or fans the flame 
 is as guilty as he who kindles it ; he who assists to 
 circulate the injurious word must bear, as well as 
 its author, the penalty of the sin. 
 
 There is one way in which unmeasured evil is 
 brought into social life. It is by repeating to a 
 friend the evil that has been said of him by anoth- 
 er. Any one who has had much experience of life 
 knows that such reports are never to be trusted. It 
 is very seldom you hear what was said ; you never 
 hear it as it was said. The person who is unprin- 
 cipled enough to bring you the report which can oc- 
 casion nothing but ill-feeling is unprincipled enough 
 to be a liar ; — not deliberate, perhaps, but we must 
 remember that whoever is careless of the truth is 
 already a liar. I have known those who felt deeply 
 wronged in consequence of reports of what a neigh- 
 bour had said against them ; when, all the while, 
 instead of being wronged themselves, they were 
 wronging him who had said no such thing. Tell 
 another the good that is said of him, if you will; for 
 this is one of those things which make for peace. 
 But never, except in cases of necessity, tell your 
 15* 
 
174 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 friend the evil that has been said of him ; for no 
 good feeling would ever lead you to do it. If you 
 produce any alienation or unkindness, you do it at 
 your peril ; and however you may say you did 
 not think of it, the day will come when you will 
 be obliged to think of it with a heavy heart. 
 
 We may see in the conversation of social life 
 many other things which show the wisdom and 
 necessity of the charge to be swift to hear, but slow 
 to speak. How many there are who talk themselves 
 into what they call their opinions ! When any sub- 
 ject is presented, they speak without reflection, ac- 
 cording to their impressions, or party associations, or 
 perhaps guided by chance alone, and what they have 
 once happened to say becomes their opinion. They 
 maintain it not seriously and earnestly, as they 
 would if they had really formed it ; but when they 
 hear it questioned, they become angry and ferocious 
 with those who differ from them, because they have 
 thought upon the subject and deliberately made up 
 their minds. When we consider how much our 
 judgment of moral questions, our views of what is 
 passing round us, our feelings toward others, — in- 
 deed, how much all the interests of the mind and 
 heart are involved in this thoughtless way of speak- 
 ing, we see how important it becomes to set a guard 
 at the door of our lips, suffering nothing to pass till 
 we at least know what it is, — till we consider 
 whether it will go forth for good or for evil, whether 
 it will be a blessing or a curse to mankind. 
 
 I have presented this subject because the view 
 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 175 
 
 which the Apostle gives of it is very impressive to 
 my mind. He considers a man's words as express- 
 sive of his character, — not of a part of it, but of 
 the whole, — and he does not admit the possibility 
 of our being amiable, kind-hearted, or faithful, if our 
 words are passionate, censorious, or unkind. This 
 is not the common impression ; but you can judge 
 whether the world or inspiration, whether God or 
 man, is most likely to err. What he says, too, of 
 the effect of our way of speaking upon our own char- 
 acter and our future condition, is equally solemn ; it 
 answers to what our Saviour had said before, — " By 
 thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words 
 thou shalt be condemned." 
 
SERMON XVII. 
 
 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 FOR GOD SPEAKETH ONCE, YEA, TWICE, YET MAN PERCEIVETH IT 
 
 not. — Job xxxiii. 14. 
 
 The sacred writers often complain that the Divine 
 communications are disregarded when they are 
 known to be Divine communications ; while fully 
 acknowledging the authority with which they come, 
 men pay them no regard. But here it is said that 
 God sometimes addresses men without their perceiv- 
 ing it, — not certainly from any want of clearness 
 in the communication, but because they are wanting 
 in reverence. They do not take heed to these 
 things. It is only in the silence of the soul that 
 man can listen to the Divine communications, and 
 in the whole history of some men there is no such 
 time of silence; there is no cool evening at the close 
 of life's busy day. 
 
 " God speaketh once, yea, twice, but man perceiv- 
 eth it not." There are three ways in which we 
 may believe the Deity to hold communication with 
 his children. One is through the visible world 
 around us ; another, by direct communion with the 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 177 
 
 human spirit ; and yet another, by commissioned in- 
 terpreters of his mind and will. 
 
 In the first place, let us consider the manifestation 
 of God which is made to us in the works of nature, 
 in which more information is conveyed to us than is 
 commonly supposed. It is said that the visible 
 world reminds us of its Maker. So it does. But it 
 does more than recall to us what we knew before ; it 
 conveys instruction which has not yet been searched 
 out, and which gradually opens to an interested and 
 attentive mind. 
 
 When we inquire into the history of language, 
 used in its broadest sense as the medium of commu- 
 nication with other men, we very soon ascertain that 
 there can be no direct intercourse of mind with 
 mind. The only way that I can intimate to another 
 what is passing in my mind is by pointing to some 
 visible object, which shall represent to him the un- 
 seen thought. The image suggests to him the idea 
 which I wish to convey ; and in this way, doubtless, 
 language was originally formed. Thus, when we 
 would describe a man of justice united with firm- 
 ness, we call him " upright," — referring to the out- 
 ward appearance, which naturally affords a figurative 
 expression of those traits of character. The word 
 " holy " is formed in the same way ; the meaning of 
 it is healthy, — and the word health is naturally de- 
 scriptive of that full, happy, and harmonious action 
 of all within us, which religious holiness implies. 
 In all cases of communication of thought and feel- 
 ing between two human beings, there is a necessary 
 
178 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 reference to something which is manifest to the out- 
 ward sense ; and it would be found on investigation 
 that language consists of images either naturally 
 suggestive of certain thoughts and emotions, or ap- 
 propriated to that purpose, which are brought up be- 
 fore us by letters or sounds differing according to 
 the dialect of the country. To those who have not 
 the power of speech or hearing, these images are 
 presented through the eye ; to those who have the 
 additional infirmity of blindness, these images are 
 suggested by the sense of feeling and varieties of 
 touch. Language does not require voice nor sound ; 
 when the Lord turned and looked on Peter, the 
 Apostle could read clearly in that calm, sad, search- 
 ing eye all that words could have told him of what 
 was passing in the Saviour's breast. 
 
 Since this is the language of nature, we might 
 suppose that God would communicate with his chil- 
 dren in this way ; and most certainly he does, to a 
 far greater extent than is generally understood. We 
 are cold and careless observers. We take notice of 
 natural beauty and grandeur, indeed, but it is as one 
 admires the beauty of a manuscript which he is not 
 able to read, and does not care to read. If we would 
 substitute religious feeling in place of mere taste and 
 sentiment, that feeling 
 
 " Which lifts to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
 
 And, smiling, says, — ' My Father made them all,' " 
 
 we should enter at once into the rich and glorious 
 fulness of the expression, — " The heavens declare 
 the glory of God ; the firmament showeth forth the 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 179 
 
 work of his hands. Day unto day uttereth speech, 
 and night unto night shovveth knowledge. There 
 is no speech, nor language, and their voice is not 
 heard ; yet their sound is gone out into all the earth, 
 and their words to the end of the world." 
 
 There must be very few, who, in looking on the 
 natural world, have not been conscious of strong im- 
 pressions made upon them at times. We call them 
 accidental, because they are made at one time and 
 not at another. But not so ; there is no such thing 
 as chance ; every thing must have a cause, and mere 
 lifeless matter has no power of itself to inspire or 
 awaken. Whence, then, do these influences come ? 
 Whence can they come, but from the great Source 
 of inspiration, who is at once over all, through all, 
 and in all that he has made. When the breath of 
 spring comes over the heart, as we see it steal over 
 a bed of flowers lifting their golden censers and 
 bearing their incense upward, we feel as if an in- 
 fluence came to us from the world of nature, when 
 in truth it must have come from Him who made it. 
 When we look on a red sunset cloud, floating like an 
 island in the golden west, we are conscious of a 
 feeling of religious repose ; we forget the cares of 
 the world ; our hearts are softened into a tender so- 
 lemnity which is not always there. So, too, in the 
 deep night, when we look far into the dark, still 
 heavens, and seem to come nearer to the mysteries of 
 God and eternity through the unearthly silence of 
 the hour, it is the Infinite Spirit who thus brings on 
 that state of mind, in which preparation for heaven 
 
180 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 may be made. If we could only be sensible of 
 these truths, if, instead of merely looking at the 
 grand and beautiful of nature, we could look through 
 them, they would be letters on the illuminated page 
 of the universe ; they would have a sweet voice for 
 us when the world does not hear them ; they would 
 teach us much that we cannot otherwise learn of 
 that great Being whom we most need, and should 
 most desire, to know. 
 
 We ought, then, to regard the natural world as a 
 medium of communication, through which the Au- 
 thor of nature communicates those thoughts and 
 feelings which are most essential to our improve- 
 ment, and best suited to refine and exalt the soul. 
 Whenever our spirits are in harmony with nature, 
 whenever they welcome the impression made by 
 the stern mountain, the boundless ocean, the calm 
 heavens, or any of those great or lovely objects that 
 meet the eye, then we may know that they are in 
 the right state for moral effort, for religious devotion, 
 for any of the higher purposes of existence ; for as 
 surely as guilt darkens over the face of nature, and 
 makes it impossible to enjoy it, do innocence and 
 holiness still more awaken the heart to its influences 
 of peace and love. And why does guilt darken it 
 over, and why does holiness enable us to enjoy it 
 best ? For all these things there is a reason. It is 
 because the visible world has language which speaks 
 to the guilty of God and eternity, which they dread, 
 though they confess it not even to themselves ; 
 while to the faithful it says, that He who cares for 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 181 
 
 the lily and the sparrow takes a deeper interest 
 in them and theirs, and is constantly exerting an 
 influence upon them to lead them to all that is 
 good. 
 
 A second method of Divine communication is by 
 direct action upon the spirit of man. That there 
 should be such a communication is easy to conceive, 
 though the manner may be difficult to understand. 
 It cannot be proved to the satisfaction of any one 
 who doubts it, for the same reason that we cannot 
 demonstrate any of our sentiments and emotions. 
 Still, this unseen communication of the spirit of God 
 with our spirits is believed by every religious mind, 
 with a faith as undoubting as that which any re- 
 ligious truth inspires. It is true, the measure of such 
 communications cannot be ascertained, neither can 
 they, as a general rule, be distinguished from the 
 operations of our own minds ; still, we can tell that 
 such have been made, — as the widow of Sarepta 
 knew that her meal and oil had been miraculously 
 increased, though she could not distinguish that 
 which was added from that which was there before. 
 In fact, no religious person denies it ; but we often 
 forget the reality, or at least the importance, of 
 truths which no one thinks of denying, so that 
 they are to us as though we believed them not. 
 
 So far from denying this fact of communication 
 between the Infinite Spirit and our own, we should 
 rather extend our faith, and believe it to be com- 
 mon and in the usual order of Providence, and not 
 a mysterious and unusual thing. There can be no 
 16 
 
182 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 doubt that God is constantly exerting an influence 
 upon his children, as the sun affects our atmosphere 
 even when hidden behind clouds. As the sun is 
 gently and silently exerting a mighty and resistless 
 influence wherever his rays fall, is the Father of our 
 spirits acting unseen, and often unfelt, on the world 
 of men, to save them from guilt and danger, and to 
 lead them to all that is good. The conscience 
 speaks not of itself ; it is He who speaks through it 
 to the soul. When he who is rushing down the 
 steep of sin is suddenly alarmed into thoughtfulness 
 by no external warning, by no agency that he can 
 trace, but by some internal impulse, not likely to 
 have sprung up of itself in his depraved and passion- 
 worn breast, he naturally believes that it was God 
 Who breathed the warning to his guilty souL And 
 is he not right ? Nothing exists without a cause ; 
 and why should not He, who regards even the fall of 
 the sparrow in the world without, equally interest 
 himself in ordaining whatever passes in the world 
 within ? Should we not trace home our better sen- 
 timents and purposes to that high Source, as the 
 fountain whence they are most likely to flow ? I 
 have not a doubt, that, when we know ourselves 
 better, and are able to search out with deeper insight 
 the hidden movements of our souls, we shall be 
 aware that every friendly warning, every impulse of 
 generous feeling, every glow of repentance, every 
 thing which sends our thoughts upward, every aspi- 
 ration to that which is pure and high, every thing 
 which brings us into nearer communication with our 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 183 
 
 heavenly Father, is owing to his direct and constant 
 communication with us, — to the perpetual and im- 
 partial influence which he is ever exerting to save 
 us from this world's temptations, to make them in- 
 struments of blessing, and to make us in every re- 
 spect what he desires that his children should be. 
 It is not limited nor exclusive ;« it is not given to a 
 few ; but, like the rain and sunshine, it comes to all, 
 — to the just and the unjust, to the guilty as well 
 as the good. 
 
 To those who can have this faith, and see God in 
 all things where his agency is present, the moral 
 world becomes more deeply interesting, more sub- 
 lime and beautiful, than the visible, and inspires the 
 heart with even more eloquent praise. We can look 
 through human nature up to the God of nature, and 
 in all the aspects of humanity, so far as his will and 
 not our own choice ordains them, we can see the 
 light of his goodness and feel the inspiration of his 
 love. Do I rejoice in the coming of spring, when it 
 returns in beauty and strength over valley and hill ? 
 Much more does the spring of religious life in the 
 thoughtless and hardened speak to me of God ; for it 
 is he who unbinds Orion so that the winter departs, 
 and releases the sweet influences of Pleiades in the 
 soul, so that tears of repentance flow. Do I see his 
 power in the crimson sunset, when the day sinks 
 gently down into eternity, and the last light seems 
 to flow from the inner depths of heaven ? Much 
 more do I discern him in one of those death-scenes 
 which it is sometimes our privilege to see, — where 
 
1S4 DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 the departing are sustained and calmed till fear and 
 sorrow are lost in gratitude and love. In the warm, 
 living sympathy of every kind and generous heart, 
 in every work of kindness which man is blessed 
 with the power to do, in every weary trial meekly 
 and patiently borne, in every great effort of con- 
 scientious energy, — still more, in those movements 
 which spread from heart to heart till all burn alike 
 with the enthusiasm which fires every great endeav- 
 our, do I see, and, with heart bowed down, acknowl- 
 edge and adore, a very present God, who is nearest 
 to the human soul when it is most obedient to his 
 suggestions and most profoundly conscious of his 
 intimate presence and direct communication with 
 every humble and faithful heart. 
 
 The third way in which the Deity communicates 
 with men is through the Scriptures, written by com- 
 missioned interpreters of his mind and will, — par- 
 ticularly those who have recorded the life and char- 
 acter of Jesus Christ. In him the Divine was blend- 
 ed with the human, — the infinite with the finite, — 
 so as to present at once the perfection of Divine and 
 human character, giving us a living image of that 
 union which we could not otherwise understand. 
 For there are many things which cannot be con- 
 veyed by any language of description. Try, for 
 example, to paint in words the features and expres- 
 sion of a stranger, to one who has never seen him. 
 You can set no definite image before his mind, 
 while the rudest portrait will convey at once what 
 the happiest forms of language would be utterly un- 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 185 
 
 able to tell. Thus it is that the living image of 
 perfection set before us in the Gospel at once con- 
 veys to men what God is, and what man must en- 
 deavour to be. 
 
 But it may be asked, — " Why, if God is always 
 speaking to men through his works and the influ- 
 ences of his spirit, was it necessary to address them 
 yet again ? Is not the voice o'f nature clear enough, 
 when it tells the glory of its God ? " The defect is 
 not there. St. Paul says distinctly, that from the 
 things that are made, — that is, from the wonders 
 and glories of nature, — men might have known the 
 power and divinity of God, might have known them 
 if they had kept their minds open and their hearts 
 undefiled by those passions which darken the clear 
 vision of the soul. Doubtless it is also true, as our 
 Saviour says, that the pure in heart can see God as 
 he is not seen by the common eye. It was not the 
 defect of God's previous communications, but the 
 faithlessness of men to their destiny, their worldli- 
 ness and corruption, which darkened their spiritual 
 vision, and made it necessary to give new light from 
 on high. That such light was really needed, who 
 can doubt, if he considers what the world was when 
 the Saviour came, and what men without him are 
 now ? It is true there were good men in the world 
 before he came ; but what then ? Does a light 
 shining here and there from a solitary window re- 
 move the darkness of the night ? Praise the attain- 
 ments of the world before the Saviour came as much 
 as you will, — and high attainments in arts, in phi- 
 16* 
 
186 DIVIDE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 losophy, and even in freedom, they certainly did 
 reach, — the single fact, that there was no steady im- 
 pulse of improvement, that, however men might be 
 lifted up for a moment, they soon sank heavily down, 
 proves their need of the support of a higher princi- 
 ple. The fact, that there was no force acting upon 
 men or within them to produce moral reforms, to 
 save them from prevailing sins, to make them better 
 and bring them nearer heaven, — this single fact of 
 the utter absence of any steady impulse of improve- 
 ment in all the ancient world shows incontestably 
 that the world could never have accomplished the 
 purpose for which God made it, if the dayspring of 
 Christianity had not come. 
 
 It was, as the Bible itself teaches, in concession 
 to human sin, not on account of the want of other 
 original means of light, that the Christian revelation 
 was made. How well it supplies the hunger and 
 thirst of the soul may be seen in the value which is 
 attached to it by the spiritually disposed. Observe, 
 it is of real wants, and not of tastes and fancies, 
 that I speak. Those dreamy and imaginative minds, 
 which have had little as yet to trouble and distress 
 them, may find something more exciting elsewhere. 
 To them it is as a lamp, unvalued in the thoughts of 
 him that is at ease, though so welcome to the be- 
 nighted stranger. To the sorrowful, to the heavy- 
 laden, to those who are fighting a life-long battle 
 with human woe, to those who are stripped of other 
 blessings and whose earthly crown is fallen from 
 their head, to those whose minds are made intensely 
 
DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 187 
 
 earnest by fear, anguish, and the presence of death, 
 the Bible is a priceless treasure. They would not 
 for worlds surrender it, for it speaks to them in tones 
 of deep sympathy of that God who is the only de- 
 pendence they have, and brings the glories of heaven 
 in living brightness before their eyes. Thus the 
 Bible, so often rejected by the vain and happy, is 
 sure of a warm welcome wherever a suffering heart 
 is found. When sorrow comes to the lordly man- 
 sion or the straw-built shed, when death is raging on 
 the bleeding deck or the trampled field, when the 
 light of life is sinking low in the chamber of the 
 dying or the prisoner's dreary cell, — wherever man 
 is called to deal with the stern realities of life, — he 
 clasps the Bible with both hands to his heart till its 
 beating is still for ever. 
 
 But it is not every one who understands how God 
 communicates with us through the Scriptures. It is 
 not by the letter alone. To this must be added the 
 suggestions which they give, the trains of thought 
 which they awaken, the active energy which they 
 inspire, in the thoughtful mind. Reflect on some of 
 our Saviour's words, and you are struck with their 
 depth of wisdom ; but you see not all at once. As 
 you ponder, their meaning seems to spread itself out 
 before you ; it continually unfolds itself in new as- 
 pects and relations, showing how truly it was likened 
 to a small seed containing all the parts and propor- 
 tions of the tree which is to lift itself to the skies 
 and give shade to many generations. It is by ap- 
 pealing to that which is within, by quickening the 
 
1SS DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 
 
 spiritual powers into life and action, by drawing out 
 all the resources of the soul, and making it earnestly 
 attentive to the teaching of nature and God's spirit, 
 that the Bible fulfils its highest function in the up- 
 right and trusting heart. The direct information 
 which the words convey to us, vast as it is, seems 
 of little worth compared to this quickening and life- 
 giving power. This is their highest virtue and 
 praise, — which our Saviour himself alluded to when 
 he said, — " The words which I speak unto you, 
 they are spirit and they are life." 
 
SERMON XVIII 
 
 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 YE WHICH HAVE FOLLOWED ME, IN THE REGENERATION, WHEN THE 
 SON OF MAN SHALL SIT IN THE THRONE OF HIS GLORY, YE ALSO 
 SHALL SIT UPON TWELVE THRONES, JUDGING THE TWELVE TRIBES 
 
 of Israel. — Matthew xix. 28. 
 
 By " the regeneration " is undoubtedly meant the 
 time when the religion of Jesus shall have produced 
 its effect in the world, making all things new, and 
 in many respects reversing the moral judgments and 
 feelings of men. When a single heart is regen- 
 erated, it sees all things, and particularly character, 
 the most important of all things, differently from 
 what it ever saw them before. And so the world, 
 when it becomes Christian, shall despise much that 
 it now admires, and venerate some things which it 
 now holds in light esteem. 
 
 The word "judging" is used in a peculiar He- 
 brew sense. It was applied by the Hebrews, not 
 only to the administration of justice, but to all who 
 held high civil station. Sometimes it was also used 
 to describe that sort of preeminence which powerful 
 character sjives. Thus we find a time in their an- 
 
190 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 cient history when a woman "judged" Israel, — noth- 
 ing more being meant by it, we may presume, than 
 that her talent and energy inspired such confidence 
 that all looked up to her for direction. Such I take 
 to be the meaning here ; when the world becomes 
 Christian, as we know from the prophets that it will, 
 the names of the Apostles shall stand highest among 
 the sons of light, and be spoken with deeper rever- 
 ence than any other names inspire. 
 
 It is quite too common among Christians of all 
 sects, particularly in their comments on Scripture, 
 to speak of the Apostles in a tone very different from 
 this, — to speak of them in an apologizing way, as 
 if they were originally narrow-minded men, rather 
 inferior men, who were nothing without their in- 
 spiration ; as if they were chosen on account of their 
 unfitness, that the power of God might be exalted 
 through the weakness of the instruments it em- 
 ployed. But this is not the correct view of the sub- 
 ject. They were undoubtedly chosen because they 
 were eminently suited to their great office ; not by 
 reason of graces and accomplishments, but because 
 they possessed such minds and hearts as are always 
 called to the front when there is any great work to 
 be done. Jesus Christ knew what was in man, 
 and it was because he saw that there was much in 
 them, because he saw in them the solid rock of 
 character, on which, so far as the world was con- 
 cerned, his religion might be built, that he made 
 them the associates of his pilgrimage, and, when 
 he himself ascended, intrusted the Gospel to their 
 hands. 
 
THE APOSTLES. 191 
 
 The Apostles were, it is true, iminstructed men ; 
 not because knowledge is not a good thing, but be- 
 cause the learning of that day was not of a sort that 
 enlightened and enlarged the mind. Take its re- 
 searches in physical science : its astronomy placed 
 the earth in the centre of the solar system. What 
 practical benefit in the way of i navigation, what cor- 
 rectness in measures of time, could there be, when 
 there was such a foundation of error on which to 
 build ? Or look into the opinions of learned men 
 on the subject of morals : when one set of sages 
 recommended stoical insensibility, and another epi- 
 curean selfishness, as the basis of character, what 
 good could it have done to a Christian apostle to 
 have had those doctrines at his tongue's end ? To 
 state the question more strongly, how was it possi- 
 ble for a man to be a Christian apostle without first 
 divesting his mind of such prejudices. If the Apos- 
 tles were ignorant of such learning, it was because 
 ignorance was an advantage and a blessing. Such 
 ignorance implied, not that they were narrow-minded, 
 but only that their minds were exempt from the de- 
 lusions by which many others were bound. 
 
 All that has been said of the prejudice and nar- 
 row-mindedness of the Apostles has been founded 
 on their supposed expectation that their Master 
 would establish a temporal kingdom. Perhaps they 
 had this impression ; it was very natural that they 
 should have it. They had been used to think of 
 power over men, and it would have been strange if, 
 never having seen or heard any thing of the kind, 
 
192 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 they should have understood at once how the word 
 " kingdom " could be applied to power within the 
 hearts of men. It is very possible that they did not 
 fully comprehend all that he meant to teach on this 
 subject, and it is very doubtful if Christians fully 
 comprehend it now. 
 
 Is it certain, however, that they did expect a tem- 
 poral kingdom, in the sense that is commonly sup- 
 posed ? Their language implied an expectation that 
 their Master would live and reign in the world. But 
 do we not too much restrict the meaning of these 
 words ? The thief who was dying upon the cross 
 said, — " Remember me when thou comest into thy 
 kingdom." Now if he had said this while living, 
 you would take it for granted that it referred to a 
 temporal kingdom, such as that of ordinary kings. 
 But as he said it when dying, — when just about to 
 breathe his last, — what could he hope for from or- 
 dinary kings ? Suppose that an ordinary kingdom 
 should be established after he was dead, what good 
 would it do to him ? You see at once that he could 
 have no such meaning. He evidently thought of 
 something spiritual ; he was journeying to the land 
 of souls, and he thought and spoke of a sovereign 
 who could serve and bless the soul. And so I be- 
 lieve that the Apostles, when they used such lan- 
 guage, though they may not have comprehended all 
 the times and circumstances of our Saviour's king- 
 dom, did comprehend, nevertheless, what was of in- 
 finitely greater importance, — its nature and spirit. 
 
 Having touched on some of the chief reasons for 
 
THE APOSTLES. 193 
 
 misapprehending the Apostles, I will now set before 
 you their claims upon our reverence. 
 
 In the first place, I would ask you to consider the 
 manner in which they followed Jesus Christ, and see 
 if it was not evidence of great energy and decision 
 of mind, as well as great generosity of feeling. The 
 world has long admired the promptness of a cele- 
 brated traveller. When called upon for the first 
 time to undertake a distant and dangerous adventure, 
 and asked when he would set out, he replied, — 
 " To-morrow morning." But the disciples of Jesus 
 did not even wait for the rising of another sun. 
 They had heard of him as the Messiah ; he utters 
 those memorable words, "Follow me," upon which 
 the historian records no doubt, no hesitation ; he sim- 
 ply says, — "And they left all, rose up, and followed 
 him." Now when we consider that the homes of 
 these men, however humble, were homes to them, 
 that their labor in the fishing-boats was their only re- 
 source for subsistence, that their inexperience of the 
 world must have made it a formidable thing to ex- 
 pose themselves to its frowns and terrors, and that 
 there was nothing in our Saviour's appearance or cir- 
 cumstances from which they could possibly have 
 hoped earthly gain, — if we keep these things before 
 us, we shall see that no ordinary men could have done 
 as they did. If Abraham has been called the "father 
 of the faithful " because he went forth into the wil- 
 derness at the call of God, not knowing whither he 
 went, a greater honor belongs to them. I can ex- 
 plain their conduct in no other way than by ascrib- 
 17 
 
194 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 ing it to a sense of duty. It was not till long after 
 that one of them said to Jesus, — "Lo! we have left 
 all and followed thee. What, therefore, shall we 
 have ? " Had they been led out by considerations of 
 this kind, they would have asked the question be- 
 fore ; but it must be remembered that they left all 
 and followed him without asking this or any other 
 question. They were evidently determined by mor- 
 al principle ; or, at any rate, by faith, — faith in the 
 unseen and future, leading them to forget and for- 
 sake the visible and present, which has always been 
 accounted one of the most infallible marks of a large 
 and generous mind. 
 
 The second proof of greatness and .far-discern- 
 ment which the Apostles gave was in their compre- 
 hension of the spirit of their Master, — the very 
 thing which some men will not allow that they un- 
 derstood. In its full extent and in all its excellen- 
 ces they possibly did not understand it; — possibly 
 men never will embrace its full glory in their dim 
 conceptions, till they reach a more advanced state of 
 existence. But that they comprehended it well, and 
 better than other men, it seems to me impossible to 
 deny. The image of Jesus, as presented to us in the 
 Scriptures, — it is lifelike, animated, more divine 
 than human, so that even infidels acknowledge its 
 power and loveliness, and say that it touches their 
 hearts. Now by whose hands was it drawn ? By 
 the hands of these very men. But is it possible 
 that, without entering into the spirit of the original, 
 they could thus have caught its expression, since its 
 like was nowhere to be found on earth ? 
 
THE APOSTLES. 
 
 195 
 
 But the manner in which they have presented the 
 character of Jesus Christ is not the only, nor the 
 best, proof that they understood it. If I wish for 
 evidence to show whether a man understands our 
 Saviour's life or not, I look at his own. I do not 
 pay much regard to his words, because there is a 
 more expressive language, — I look at his life, and if 
 I find it unlike that model which he professes to ad- 
 mire, I do not believe he understands the principles 
 and elements, I am sure he does not understand the 
 value, of that great image of goodness and of God. 
 I look to the Apostles, and I find them in full sym- 
 pathy with their Master ; I find them walking in 
 the same path which he trod with such a glorious 
 march ; I find them resembling him in their self- 
 denial, their hopeful exertion, their labor of love for 
 man. They have caught his spirit of benevolence ; 
 they have kindled from the same fire their own 
 bright flames of devotion ; they sound the trumpet 
 of glad tidings with a power which wakes the dead 
 in sin. Seeing all this, I ask, Where are those who 
 ever understood the Saviour so well as the men who 
 followed directly in his steps, and were changed 
 into the same image by the daily effort and sacrifice 
 of their lives ? 
 
 This leads me, in the third place, to speak of the 
 personal character of the Apostles. And here let 
 me say, that it is not every one who is able to esti- 
 mate character. There are those, who, when a great 
 character stands out before them, are much more 
 struck with its peculiarities and blemishes than with 
 
196 
 
 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 the strength and majesty of the whole. Our Pilgrim 
 Fathers, for example, were men of the very first 
 order ; but if any of them were to come back to 
 life and dwell among us, small minds would be 
 struck with the small things about them. The 
 young would laugh at their unfashionable dress ; 
 men of the world would ridicule their antique and 
 peculiar manners ; cultivated persons would despise 
 their bigotry and superstition ; it would be only one 
 in a hundred, — only those few who had sympathy 
 with noble thoughts, energies, and feelings, — who 
 would understand their lofty cast of sentiment, their 
 sublime and generous daring, and that inflexible re- 
 gard for conscience which amply entitled them to 
 the name of great and good. And so in the Apos- 
 tles there were some things, which, because little 
 things are great to little men, prevent many from 
 giving them the reverence which is their due. Thus 
 in Peter and John, the two foremost of their num- 
 ber, there were small veins of infirmity running 
 through their characters, like wood-work in a fire- 
 proof building ; after these were burnt out by the 
 fiery trials through which they passed, they became 
 firm and strong as the living rock. But these in- 
 firmities, though no essential parts of the character 
 of either, so attract the attention of shallow observ- 
 ers, as to make them insensible to the grand and sol- 
 emn display of energy, courage, and intense devo- 
 tion, which was seen in all their history, shining 
 brighter and brighter to the last. 
 
 The day for the right estimate of these, or any 
 
THE APOSTLES. 197 
 
 other exalted characters, is not yet fully come. It 
 is true, our Saviour revealed that usefulness is the 
 measure of greatness, and when his religion pre- 
 vails, the world's reverence will be paid to the use- 
 ful, benevolent, and conscientious alone, and denied 
 to many to whom it is rendered now. The time 
 for exclusive admiration of military glory — that de- 
 lusion which possessed the world for ages — is pass- 
 ing by. A like enthusiasm is now inspired by the 
 orator, poet, or statesman, by those who stand fore- 
 most in intellectual power. Hereafter it will be 
 understood that the understanding can never be 
 truly enlightened for the practical and most impor- 
 tant ends of existence, without cultivating at the 
 same time the moral, social, and religious affections, 
 each in its place and order, keeping each in appro- 
 priate and efficient action, and blending all into a 
 beautiful and consistent whole. And when this day 
 arrives, when the kingdom of Christianity has come, 
 when character is seen to be the one thing needful 
 to the greatness, elevation, and happiness of man, 
 then shall the first heralds of Christianity sit on 
 thrones and judge the world. 
 
 Again, therefore, would I object to that tone in 
 sacred criticism common to all sects, which gives 
 the impression, that, because the Apostles were unin- 
 structed, they were unenlightened and narrow-mind- 
 ed. Scholars, wholly taken up with their want of 
 human learning, though an advantage in the service 
 to which they were called, are almost blind to their 
 frequent manifestation of real and native greatness 
 17* 
 
198 THE APOSTLES. 
 
 of soul. They forget that a man may be entirely 
 ignorant of letters, and yet have his mind enlarged 
 and liberalized by familiarity with noble thoughts 
 and actions. No ; the men whom Jesus loved, 
 who lived and acted with him while he was upon 
 earth, and to whom he intrusted that faith which 
 was the world's last hope, were not ordinary men. 
 They had their infirmities, no doubt, and none so 
 ready to acknowledge them as they ; but till we 
 can find those who in the face of danger are as 
 ready to arise and follow their Master, till we can 
 find those who enter with sympathy as deep as 
 theirs into his divine spirit, till we can find those 
 who have done a thousandth part of what they did 
 in the cause of humanity, let us reverence their 
 names, and so prove that we are capable of appre- 
 ciating what is truly great. 
 
SERMON XIX.* 
 
 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOOD-WILL 
 
 towards men. — Luke ii. 14. 
 
 It is not long since we were deeply excited with 
 the fate of a vessel, which left her harbour at mid- 
 night, freighted with those who were hastening to 
 their friends, to spend with them the annual festival 
 of gratitude and joy. She was soon struck and dis- 
 abled by the storm, — and while we were under our 
 sheltering roofs, with luxurious tables spread before 
 us, they passed their Day of Thanksgiving without 
 food or fire, — fasting and in prayer ; for they 
 knew that no human help could reach them, and 
 they were only waiting to die. Behold at eventide 
 trouble, and before the morning she was no more. 
 The next day's dawning showed a wreck, — broken 
 and weltering on the shore, with no sign of life near 
 
 * His last Christmas discourse, 1846, soon after the wreck of the 
 steamer Atlantic in the Sound. The substance of it was published as 
 a review in the Christian Examiner for March, 1847. As it is there 
 mixed up with personal allusions, which take from the gravity of the 
 argument, we have thought best to give it in its original form. 
 
200 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 it save the sound of a bell which rose above the 
 shattered ruin, and which the winds and waves were 
 sadly tolling, as if in penitence for what they had 
 done. Our hearts were heavy and our eyes were 
 dim when we thought of the friends of those way- 
 farers listening for their returning steps, and when 
 they did return, cold, pale, and borne by the hands 
 of others, compelled to welcome, not the living, but 
 the dead. 
 
 Compare with this the feeling with which we 
 hear of battles fought and many brave men fallen, — 
 fallen, not like the sufferers of the Atlantic, by the 
 act of God, which is always mercy, but their lives 
 gushing out in blood, shed by the unmerciful pas- 
 sions of men. The tidings of the former awakened 
 d"eep sadness, even in hearts which were not wound- 
 ed by the blow ; the news of the latter are re- 
 ceived with transport, with the sound of bells and 
 the roar of cannon, — not minute guns and funeral 
 knells, but with every demonstration of rapturous 
 joy, our cities blazing with illuminations, the wine- 
 cup sparkling on festive tables, thanks offered up in 
 churches ; — and all for what ? Because, with great 
 loss of life on our own side, we have sent a larger 
 measure of agony to the nation with which we are 
 at war. 
 
 When I consider what anniversary has brought us 
 here this night, and when I see these graceful dec- 
 orations, — fit emblem of that religion which keeps 
 its freshness and verdure when all is desolate around, 
 — I cannot but remember that its purpose was to es- 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 201 
 
 tablish " peace on earth." And yet how little has 
 been accomplished ! How much of the earth is yet 
 trodden down by armies, shaken with artillery, and 
 drenched with human blood ! 
 
 Whence is it that men are so blind to their own 
 welfare, and so insensible to the counsels and warn- 
 ings of the great Teacher ? It is owing to the in- 
 fluences which the practice of war has exerted on 
 the common-sense and moral judgments of mankind. 
 
 Let us now analyze these influences. Let us see 
 what they are, and how it is that they have the 
 effect to mislead and harden the heart. I shall take 
 no extreme ground on the subject, though I confess 
 I do not see how followers of the Prince of Peace 
 can have much to do with arms. I shall not deal in 
 political allusions. What I say has reference to all 
 wars, — even to just ones, if any such wars can be. 
 I would simply trace out and set before you those 
 traditional influences which the practice of war has 
 made so general and so mighty in what is called, 
 one would think by way of derision, the Christian 
 world. 
 
 The first evidence of the power of these influen- 
 ces which war has been exerting is seen in the man- 
 ner in which it reverses all human relations. The 
 ancient prophet asked, — " Have we not all one Fa- 
 ther ? hath not one God created us ? " It was a 
 chief object of all God's revelations to teach us that 
 we are all brethren, — bound together by ties of ob- 
 ligation which can never be undone. But the hu- 
 man heart is ingenious in its evasions of duty, and 
 
202 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 when the founder of the Hebrew law had pro- 
 claimed the glorious precept, " Thou shalt love thy 
 neighbour," the bloody hand of war wrote over 
 against it, " Thou shalt hate thine enemy," on the 
 same sacred page. The two charges went forth like 
 twins, though one was from above, the other from 
 below, — a sunbeam from heaven side by side with 
 a red gleam from hell ; and when the Saviour came, 
 the Jews did not know, till he told them, that the 
 commands had not both proceeded from the same 
 Source of light. The same thing has been done 
 over again. Our Saviour, in order to prevent it, 
 gave the earnest and repeated charge, " Love your 
 enemies," and over against this the bloody hand of 
 war has written, — not indeed in the Bible, but in the 
 hearts of those who read it, — " Kill your enemies" ; 
 and they think they can practise upon both, — they 
 do not see any inconsistency between the two. 
 They think they can love them and kill them at 
 the same time ; or at any rate, they will kill them 
 whenever they are so disposed, and all the while 
 they see no reason why they should not use the 
 prayer, — " Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
 those who trespass against us." Well it is for them 
 that God does not take them at their word. For 
 my part, I shall not suffer war to expound the Scrip- 
 tures for me. I deny that any human power can re- 
 verse the relations which God ordains. If he says 
 that every man is my brother, no human government 
 shall make him otherwise to me. 
 
 But to illustrate the injurious effect of the influen- 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 203 
 
 ces in question, it may be well to look more closely 
 into the subject, and to consider what are called the 
 rights of war. Can there be one moral law for men 
 of peace, and another for those who take up arms ? 
 Is there one Gospel for the tent, and another for the 
 tabernacle ? Do men by enlisting in an army cease 
 to be under the authority of God ? So it should 
 seem, according to the martial theory of morals ; and 
 this, too, though it is admitted, at the same time, that 
 the relations of nations to each other are just like 
 those of individuals. One people are bound to 
 another people just as two men are bound to each 
 other. But if I declare war on my neighbour, will 
 that suspend all other obligations, and give me a 
 right to take his life ? It seems ridiculous to ask 
 such a question. Yet it is nothing on earth but a 
 simple declaration of war, of one nation against 
 another, which, in the analogous relation of states, 
 is supposed to give the men of each nation a right 
 to shed each other's blood ; and they do it with per- 
 fect unconcern. In peace, it is thought a serious 
 thing to take life ; but in war, every one feels per- 
 fectly free to do it, and never troubles himself to 
 know how he shall answer for it; never asks wheth- 
 er it is right or wrong. Whereas the Almighty 
 looks in every thing only at the right and the wrong. 
 No rich and splendid associations can mislead his 
 judgment or dim his all-seeing eye. To him the 
 meeting of armies in battle's magnificently stern 
 array is insignificant as the scuffle round a peddler's 
 wheel ; the advantage taken by the strong nation 
 
204 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 in the battle-field is no more respectable than the 
 cheating of the knave with his pack of cards, save 
 that he sets the seal of his deepest damnation on 
 those who are most insensible to the wrongs and 
 sorrows of their fellow-men. 
 
 It is edifying to see how these " rights of war," 
 as they are called, are made to vary with circum- 
 stances. A right is something fixed and unchangea- 
 ble ; but these martial rights are extended so as to 
 cover any thing and every thing which it pleases a 
 powerful nation to do. Does any man in private 
 life believe that his having declared war on a neigh- 
 bour and slain his children makes him heir at law 
 to that neighbour's estate ? But such is precisely 
 the ground taken by Christian nations. England, 
 having opened the market in China for her opium, 
 or, as they phrase it, having cleared the way for 
 Christianity to enter that empire, is now engaged in 
 digging a bloody grave for the poor New-Zealanders, 
 and pouring cannon-balls into living masses of the 
 brave and manly Sikhs, who cannot comprehend 
 how they have lost all right to their own country. 
 Then, too, we see his most Christian Majesty of 
 France asserting the same divine right to the little 
 island of Tahiti, which he happens to want for a 
 naval station, and making the same demand in 
 Northern Africa, expounding to the Arabs that they 
 lost all right to their native country when he de- 
 clared them enemies of France. We see Russia 
 and Austria, too, in defiance of the most positive 
 engagements, swallowing up the republic of Cracow, 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 205 
 
 the last remnant of Poland, whose fate had brought 
 lasting infamy upon them before. The statesmen 
 of these great nations, lest peradventure they should 
 be mistaken for ungodly picaroons, are careful to 
 adorn every public document with the Holy Name, 
 calling Him to bear witness to their conscientious- 
 ness, and showing how every step conforms to the 
 right; — not to the right as the moral sense expounds 
 it, but to the right as it is interpreted by the bra- 
 zen voice of war. And who can testify against 
 them ? Who can say, " Why do ye so ? " There is 
 not a land on the face of the earth which does not 
 maintain, in the face of common sense, common hu- 
 manity, and common honesty, that one nation ac- 
 quires a right to the possessions of another nation 
 by the cheap and easy process of declaring war. 
 
 This matter of right would be soon disposed of 
 if one nation had to judge in the case of another ; 
 it is only when its own imaginary interest is con- 
 cerned that it shuts the dark-lantern of its con- 
 science, and suffers no light to shine. Where any 
 nation exercises this right which they all claim 
 when they think proper, the rest set up a hue and 
 cry, and see that the right is wrong. Thus Eng- 
 land weeps aloud for American slavery, and flames 
 up at the thought of French aggressions, without 
 one misgiving as to any thing wrong in her own. 
 France, too, bears angry witness against what the 
 despotic sovereigns have just done in Poland, when, 
 in fact, they have but paid her the respect of follow- 
 ing her own example. Reflect also on one thing. 
 18 
 
206 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 To every right there is a corresponding duty. 
 Wherever one nation has a right to plunder another 
 people, it must be the duty of that people to submit 
 to it as an act of God. Instead of sending armies, 
 at least before sending armies, how much better it 
 would be to send missionaries to the victim people, 
 to endeavour to bring them to a sense of duty ! Let 
 them take the Scriptures with them ; let them show 
 the benighted race that might makes right. Let 
 them see how soon such doctrine would reach the 
 conscience and subdue the resisting heart. Perhaps 
 in the effort to establish such a mission, if they 
 could not persuade the foreign people, they might 
 get some information for themselves. It would not 
 be long before they would grievously suspect that 
 the Christian civilization, in which they pride them- 
 selves, is but a sanctified barbarism after all, which 
 kills, burns, and destroys on week-days, and on the 
 Sabbath talks of forbearance, righteousness, and 
 judgment to come, without being aware of any in- 
 consistency between the words and the deeds. 
 
 But enough of the rights of war ; it is sufficiently 
 evident that they are only so many wrongs, — griev- 
 ous, impudent, intolerable wrongs. Let us look 
 next at some of the duties of war, which are of the 
 same parentage and bear the marks of the same ill- 
 favored race. Can any being in his senses per- 
 suade himself that it is ever his duty to mangle, 
 plunder, and destroy his brother-man ? What duty 
 can require it ? There is no obligation in Chris- 
 tianity, nor in natural religion, which enjoins this 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 207 
 
 work upon him. What, then, is it which binds him 
 to do what all religion so expressly forbids ? The 
 only answer is, — his duty to his country. Well, 
 no doubt it is a duty to serve one's country. But is 
 this the way to do it ? Is there no better way of 
 doing it ? Is it a real service to his own country to 
 float another with blood ? The real interests of all 
 nations are precisely the same ; no nation ever pros- 
 pers by injury to another. No one would ever have 
 dreamed that such a thing is possible, were it not for 
 the hollow delusion of glory, falling, like a drop- 
 curtain, to cover the ghastly scenes of violence, dis- 
 tress, licentiousness, and all corruption, which even 
 a successful war sends home. Whoever really de- 
 sires to serve his country will find that the service 
 it needs most is that of educating the minds which 
 lie fallow, of cherishing the moral sentiment which 
 is ready to perish, of laying again the foundations of 
 religious principle, which is the only true strength 
 and safeguard of any country. Or if his view does 
 not rise quite so high, let him serve it by aiding its 
 industry, by taking part in its public works, by help- 
 ing to plan and execute those physical improvements 
 which minister to the comfort, the intelligence, and 
 general welfare of mankind. In the army of every 
 nation there is a vast amount of science, talent, and 
 energy, which, if the world could be at peace for 
 half a century, would all be wanted, and might all 
 be nobly and happily engaged in services like this. 
 In confirmation of this, let me add what was once 
 said to me by a manufacturer of gunpowder. I told 
 
208 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 him, that, if Christianity should succeed in bring- 
 ing peace on earth, it would spoil his business. 
 " Not at all," he replied ; " it would be the best thing 
 that could happen ; when industry prospers and pub- 
 lic improvements are made, the demand for powder 
 is far better than in times of war." 
 
 When men talk thus of their duty to their coun- 
 try, does it never occur to them that they have du- 
 ties to the men of other countries ? They say it is 
 only their enemies whom they kill. Their enemies? 
 why, those are the very persons whom Jesus says 
 they must love. When they call then! " enemies," 
 they bring the case under the strictest interpretation 
 of the Christian law. And can they think that 
 they are loving them when they destroy their lives, 
 plunder their property, violate their daughters, and 
 trample down their homes with the blood-shod 
 march of war ? Is this Christian affection ? Is this 
 Christian duty ? One thing is so clear that no one 
 can deny it. It is this. If it is a duty to do these 
 things, it is a sin to refuse to do them. But if any 
 man refuses to shoot others in such warfare, do we 
 call him a sinner ? do we exhort him to repent and 
 flee from the Avrath to come ? I have seen many 
 death-beds, but I never heard a dying man lamenting 
 that he had killed so few. If any have really per- 
 suaded themselves of the existence of this duty, I 
 think I may safely promise, that, if they should 
 be remiss in the discharge of it, no great remorse 
 for that neglect will embitter their closing hours. 
 Another of these perversions of the true idea of 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 209 
 
 duty is seen in the language of statesmen in Chris- 
 tian nations on the subject of war. They often 
 labor to show that a war is unjust and dishonorable ; 
 they charge the ministry who have plunged their 
 country into it with falsehood to their trust ; but as 
 soon as they take their places in the public councils, 
 where their influence and action can be felt, you 
 hear them say, — what ? Why, surely, — " Bring 
 this war to a close. Let not another sun go down 
 upon it." No such thing. You are amazed to hear 
 them say it must be maintained ! Maintained ? and 
 for what earthly reason ? Why, for this reason only, 
 because it is begun. Because it is begun we must 
 carry it through. It was wicked to begin it, but 
 now public virtue requires that we should carry it 
 through. So, then, if a king has told a lie, the 
 people must stand to it, and lie it through. If our 
 children have begun a shameful quarrel, we must 
 not let them be separated ; it is their duty to fight 
 it out. On the contrary, I confess I should have 
 thought, that, if one nation had injured another, it 
 could not stop too soon. If this doctrine of its be- 
 ing dishonorable to commence a work of sin, and 
 then because it is commenced dishonorable to put a 
 stop to it, is a Christian doctrine, it must be that I 
 have not read my Bible aright. 
 
 But more. According to these morals of war, a 
 Christian statesman, though as a man he deplores 
 and denounces the war in which his country is 
 engaged, may vote for it in council, or, what is the 
 same thing, for supplies to carry it on. Though 
 18* 
 
210 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 as a man he declares it to be a sorrow and shame 
 to his country, — though he speaks in reprobation of 
 the conduct of the ministry who have brought it on, 
 — still he furnishes the means to sustain it. This 
 is often done in Christian nations ; and when the 
 statesman stands thus, lifting up one hand in pious 
 horror, and lifting up the other to vote for supplies, 
 people are not struck with any inconsistency be- 
 tween the word and the deed. Now this may be all 
 right and proper ; but no light on the subject of 
 morals which I have ever attained can make it seem 
 right and proper to me. Certainly, no one should 
 offer physical resistance or factious opposition to his 
 government ; but without doing any thing of the 
 kind, he may and ought to use all his influence to 
 a right discernment of the subject. He should treat 
 the administration with respect, certainly, but not 
 submit his conscience to theirs. And as for being 
 instrumental in any capacity, in any way, to sustain 
 measures which he considers wrong, — it may be al- 
 lowed in the Hindoo Shaster, or the Scandinavian 
 Edda, but it is not so written in the Christian Scrip- 
 tures, if I have read them aright. 
 
 Another of the fantastic duties enjoined on men 
 by the ethics of the sword is, that under all circum- 
 stances they are to rejoice in the success of their 
 country's arms. Can it be so ? Is patriotism ever 
 at war with the moral sense ? Must conscience be 
 sacrificed to one's country ? If our children go into 
 a neighbour's premises, rifle his property, burn his 
 dwelling, and take possession of his estate, must we 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 211 
 
 congratulate ourselves on such doings because the 
 crime is committed in the family ? Is it unnatural 
 not to rejoice ? And yet when things substantially 
 the same are done by armies, if any one cannot re- 
 joice in what is called the success of his country's 
 arms, he loses his influence ; he ceases to be a pa- 
 triot ; he is suspected and denounced as a traitor. 
 This point of morals it is not so easy to understand. 
 Must not the true heart take sides with the right ? 
 Do not generous sympathies always lean to the in- 
 jured party ? Most certainly no one can rejoice in 
 any misfortune happening to the armies of his coun- 
 try. But if they are doing wrong, the greatest 
 blessing that can befall them is to return ; if the ser- 
 vice in which they are engaged is indefensible, the 
 sooner they abandon it the better. Those who 
 think the service right may rejoice when it pros- 
 pers ; but why it should be exacted of those who 
 think it wrong, it is not easy to tell. 
 
 Besides, when it is said that men must rejoice in 
 the victories of their country, it may be well to con- 
 sider what a victory is. The gain is, that our troops 
 have driven back the enemy from a barren and 
 worthless plain, sunk some of their ships with the 
 seamen in them, or taken some town which is of no 
 use to any but the owners. In these advantages 
 there is no great gain to any of us. Neither the na- 
 tion, nor any one in the nation, is better or happier 
 after them than he was before. There is no acces- 
 sion of comfort, improvement, or prosperity to re- 
 joice in. The cause of rejoicing is not to be esti- 
 
212 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 mated in any such way ; you must find how much 
 there is to delight in by counting the numbers of 
 the dead. But is it a pleasant thing that so many of 
 our brave countrymen have fallen ? O, no ! For 
 them we must sing dirges and funeral anthems, in all 
 the solemnity of woe. Well, then, while we are 
 mourning thus for our own dead, must we rejoice in 
 the destruction of our adversaries ? If it is a duty, 
 how is it to be done ? That they were cut off from 
 the living, that widows and orphans are weeping for 
 them in their desolate homes, that they were thus 
 hurried into an immortal state with but little or no 
 preparation, — all this does not fill my heart with 
 joy. I cannot rejoice in death and sorrow. I can- 
 not exult in violence and blood. Such rejoicing I 
 must leave to bells and cannon, which care not what 
 language they are made to speak. To me all vic- 
 tories must be mournful things ; I cannot look back 
 with triumph upon a single one in all human his- 
 tory, save the great victory which the Saviour 
 gained over death and the grave ; in which, be it 
 remembered, he shed no blood but his own. 
 
 A still more remarkable perversion of the true 
 idea of duty is seen in the military profession, which 
 certainly embraces an immense amount of ability 
 and science. The maxim is, and has been for ages, 
 that it is the duty of a soldier to obey his orders, 
 whatever they may be. In other words, it may be 
 his duty to engage in services which he condemns 
 and abhors in his heart. In plain English, his duty 
 requires of him what he cannot conscientiously do, 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 213 
 
 and he is bound in honor to take part in what he 
 thinks a dishonorable transaction ; so that conscience 
 stands in direct opposition to duty, and baseness be- 
 comes a point of honor. One would say that his 
 course in such circumstances is clear enough ; it is 
 to quit the service. Others see the matter different- 
 ly ; they have no scruples ; he must leave such 
 work to them. He has no right to make a machine 
 of himself ; he has a conscience of his own ; as a 
 man of spirit and independence, he ought to resent 
 the thought of being made a pliant tool in the hands 
 of others. But unfortunately he is not encouraged 
 by public opinion thus to consult his self-respect and 
 follow his own sense of right ; should he do so, he 
 will be called a poltroon ; should he throw up his 
 commission, he will be suspected and dishonored as 
 a coward. And it recmires more nerve, more deter- 
 mination of purpose, more of every thing which 
 makes a hero, to face this undeserved reproach, than 
 to march up to the heaviest battery that ever blazed 
 in the front of war. 
 
 I was never so much impressed with the sad effect 
 of substituting this ethical moonshine in the place 
 of duty, as in reading the account of the last hours 
 of a gallant officer of our army, — a man amiable in 
 character and greatly beloved by all. The friend 
 who was with him says that he talked with deep 
 interest, not of that eternity into which he was 
 sinking fast, — not of the Saviour who died for him, 
 and the judgment where he was soon to stand, — but 
 of the effect of his artillery, the numbers which it 
 
214 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 swept down, and of what he would do should he 
 ever join the battle again. In that awful hour when 
 the death-shadow was darkening round him, he was 
 sustained by the thought that he had done his duty 
 as a soldier, though in doing so he had trampled 
 down every other duty. Such was his preparation 
 to meet his God. On such a departure one can 
 think only with sorrowful concern. But that con- 
 cern deepens into disgust, when we think of a man 
 of another stamp ; — Nelson, for example, that mon- 
 arch of the bleeding deck, living for years in shame- 
 less adultery, making himself an assassin for the 
 sake of his vile paramour, and dying at last without 
 one feeling of penitence or kindness for the wife 
 and orphans whom he had deserted, but with a like 
 expression on his lips, — " Thank God ! I have done 
 my duty." Ay ! with a weight of guilt heavy 
 enough to sink all the fleets of England, he dies 
 in the persuasion that his duties are done. May 
 God have mercy on the souls of those who die in 
 such delusion ! There shall be a fearful waking 
 when the light of eternity flashes in upon the slum- 
 bering heart. 
 
 The name I have just mentioned reminds me of 
 another of the injurious influences of war. It cre- 
 ates a false standard of character, fixing admiration 
 on unworthy objects, and transferring to plunderers 
 and destroyers that enthusiasm which ought to be 
 reserved for benefactors of mankind. Among our 
 Saviour's wondrous disclosures was that memorable 
 truth, so little dreamed of in his time, so little com- 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 215 
 
 prehended now, that usefulness is the measure of 
 greatness ; that whoever renders the greatest amount 
 of beneficent service to others is the greatest man, 
 whether so regarded by the world or not. How 
 directly opposed to this the public sentiment gen- 
 erated by war ! Neither moral nor intellectual em- 
 inence, no high gift or accomplishment, is required 
 in those whom the multitude delight to honor. 
 They worship physical courage, — often mere tough- 
 ness and insensibility of nerve, — which is the mean- 
 est of all forms of courage. 
 
 Really, in this respect the world has been going 
 backward ; the shadow on the dial of history indi- 
 cates a descending sun. Why, even the chivalry of 
 the Dark Ages, wild and romantic as it was, is now 
 invested with a sort of Gothic grandeur, by reason 
 of the high and generous feelings which it inspired. 
 It demanded courage, indeed, but it demanded it as 
 a thing of course, — as a trait which it was disgrace- 
 ful not to have, but not an honor to have. At the 
 same time, it set high above it the duties of human- 
 ity, — requiring noble and kind affections, gentle and 
 graceful courtesy, an open and manly bearing to all, 
 and, more than this, a desire to raise the fallen, to 
 protect the helpless, and to redress all human wrongs. 
 In our days a man may pass for a hero, on the 
 strength of talent and energy only, without a single 
 virtue to redeem a thousand crimes. Christianity 
 does not see these things as men do, and Christianity 
 represents to us God's judgment on what is passing 
 in the world below. In the eye of our religion, that 
 
216 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 poor Mexican woman of Monterey, who went forth 
 when the battle was raging to give water and food 
 to the fallen of both armies and bind up their bleed- 
 ing wounds, and was there unmercifully shot down 
 as giving aid and comfort to the enemy, was a being 
 more exalted than any chief of the brave army who 
 covered themselves with glory there. Her glory is 
 also incorruptible, undefiled with blood, and shall 
 never fade away. 
 
 If we want an instance of this perversion of right 
 feeling on the subject of character, we find it in the 
 enthusiasm which the memory of Napoleon awak- 
 ens. When he came forward, his country was re- 
 sisting her invaders, and when he fought the battles 
 of the free, and rolled back the tide of war upon 
 those invaders, all hearts cheered him onward, ad- 
 miring his bold energy, and wishing success to his 
 arms. But afterwards, when it became clear that 
 he had not the heart to be a patriot, that he was 
 acting the part of a poor and selfish usurper, they 
 could hardly believe that he was no longer the 
 same, and he was still admired and followed by all 
 but the La Fayettes of France. His talent and 
 force of character were wonderful indeed ; the grasp 
 of mind which he showed in discussing the laws 
 of his empire give a most exalted impression of his 
 ability ; but his heart, if he had one, was as barren 
 of all generous affections as December is barren of 
 flowers. His mother said of him, that it was as 
 cold and hard as one of his own cannon-balls. In 
 his younger days of comparative obscurity, he mar- 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 217 
 
 ried a fine-spirited and queenly woman, who con- 
 sented to share his fortunes, which were then be- 
 neath her own. Afterwards, with the cold selfish- 
 ness of an evil spirit, in order to ally himself with a 
 royal house, he put her away and left her to die in 
 solitude of a broken heart. So unsympathizing was 
 his nature, that he required his brothers to do the 
 same ; but they happened to have human affections, 
 and chose rather to incur his deep displeasure by 
 resisting his will. Such was the man for whom the 
 world went mad with enthusiasm ; even now there 
 is no bound to the rapture of some of his admirers. 
 The glory of Washington seems to them cold and 
 formal beside this idol of stone. And yet the fame 
 of Washington shall increase, while that of Napo- 
 leon shall decrease ; it shall die out like the light of 
 a bonfire, sinking in darkness and ashes, while that 
 of our great countryman shall be, to use the beau- 
 tiful image of inspiration, as the rising light " that 
 shineth more and more unto the perfect day." 
 
 While the practice of war has thus injuriously 
 affected the moral feeling of individuals, it has done 
 still more to deprave and injure nations, by destroy- 
 ing their good understanding with each other, by 
 making them enemies, though the God of nature 
 had made them friends. As every jurist will tell 
 you, public law assumes as a maxim that nations are 
 enemies to each other. This is doubtless the fact, 
 but it seems strange that it should be the foundation 
 of public law. Our own United States, bound to- 
 gether under a federal government, are taken out 
 19 
 
218 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 of this vicious position ; but if ever madness and 
 folly should unloose the bands which hold them to- 
 gether, they would at once relapse into the old sys- 
 tem. They would become bitter enemies, and so 
 far from any portion of them gaining in prosperity 
 by the separation, there would follow a succession of 
 border wars, as cruel and deadly as the world ever 
 saw. Out of this state of things in Europe has 
 grown what is called " the balance of power." We 
 ask for the balance of common sense and common 
 humanity ; we hear of nothing but the balance of 
 power, — an imaginary restraint upon ambitious and 
 grasping nations, which has been talked about, and 
 written about, but never really existed. Thus Eng- 
 land in the last hundred years, and most of all in 
 the wars which followed the French Revolution, 
 has spent lives without number, and run into a debt 
 of a thousand millions, under the influence of this 
 unreal fiction, — maintaining the balance of power, 
 as she calls it ; and now her suffering multitudes, 
 her grinding taxation, and the depths of poverty and 
 distress which her outside magnificence but thinly 
 covers, show what she has gained by her gigantic 
 and exhausting labors. There is hardly a British 
 statesman now, except some lingering remnant of 
 the past, who does not lament this fatal policy of 
 Pitt, — "the pilot that weathered the storm." While 
 they admire his stern disinterestedness and iron 
 strength of heart, they see that, misled by this vis- 
 ion of the balance of power, he had wellnigh 
 ruined the nation. Sadly was he deceived in his 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 219 
 
 expectation of thus establishing the prosperity of 
 his country. Had he cherished her inward strength, 
 and unfolded her rich resources, the Ocean Queen 
 would have ruled a happier dominion and worn a 
 brighter crown. 
 
 Does not every one know how much more may 
 be done by quiet attention to one's own prosperity, 
 than by threatening or striving with others ? I do 
 not believe in thorough non-resistance. I believe 
 that there are circumstances in which we should not 
 submit to violent power ; but several things seem 
 to show that almost the only thing necessary to 
 national prosperity is peace. The king of France, 
 who is perhaps the ablest statesman of the day, has 
 held back his people from the wars into which they 
 would fain be plunging, in order to favor the indus- 
 try, bring out the resources, and in that way estab- 
 lish the strength and prosperity, of his country. And 
 mark the result. While in Tahiti a handful of na- 
 tives resist with success his mean attempt to rob 
 them of their little island, and while in Algiers, 
 where he is bent on the same warlike plunder, a 
 small Arab chieftain of the desert laughs his mar- 
 shals to scorn, in Europe, where peace is his watch- 
 word, he carries all before him; thus affording a mar- 
 vellous illustration of the truth, that war is weakness, 
 and peace is power. 
 
 What a lesson on this subject does history teach ! 
 What a comment on the divine wisdom of the 
 Saviour's saying, — " They that take the sword shall 
 perish by the sword." In the case of individuals 
 
220 THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 it is apt to be so ; it is always so with nations. If 
 they are built up by violence and oppression, the 
 foundations laid in blood sooner or later give way, 
 and their false glory is trodden into the dust. Re- 
 member the awful vision in which the prophet rep- 
 resents the Assyrian conqueror, then in the height 
 of his power, as going down to the regions of the 
 dead. The kings of the earth, who are lying there 
 in glory, every one with his sword under his head, 
 rise up from their slumber to meet him at his com- 
 ing ; they bend their sullen brows on him in tri- 
 umph, saying, — " Art thou also become as weak as 
 we ? " And well does the Christian poet represent 
 the oppressive nation as sinking in a similar doom, 
 as triumphed over by the nations which it op- 
 pressed. 
 
 " Art thou too fallen, oppressor? Do we see 
 The robber and the murderer weak as we 1 
 Thou that hast wasted earth, and dared despise 
 Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies, 
 Thy pomp is in the grave, — thy glory laid 
 Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
 Is this the god, the thunder of whose hand 
 Rolled over all our desolated land, 
 Shook principalities and kingdoms down, 
 And made the nations tremble at his frown 1 
 The sword shall light upon his boasted powers, 
 And waste them, as his sword has wasted ours." 
 
 But I am again reminded of the light and bless- 
 ing which this anniversary calls us to remember. 
 Lift up your eyes, and see, high above the joys and 
 sorrows of the passing day, high above the con- 
 
THE ETHICS OF WAR. 
 
 221 
 
 flicts of armies, and the uprising and fall of nations, 
 those words, — those prophetic words, — " Peace on 
 earth." The Saviour has said it, and he will make 
 it good. His influence is gaining in the world ; 
 though the tongues of a people may cry out for 
 war, the deep heart of a people laments it ; there is 
 no such interest in it as there was but a quarter of a 
 century ago ; men are beginning to feel that in war 
 there can be no real victory, — all is loss and sorrow 
 on every side. Though they may not disband their 
 armies nor give up all military preparation, they will 
 not rally cordially except to the trumpet which 
 gives the certain sound of defensive war. To fight 
 when they must, not when they will, is growing to 
 be their settled purpose ; and if they think they 
 must, they will go about the work with serious feel- 
 ing, with any thing but exulting joy. When war 
 is thus regarded, peace, sure and unbroken peace, 
 is not distant. The morning of the Saviour's day 
 is drawing nigh. Its light burns already on the 
 mountain, the spires of churches have caught the 
 early beams ; they soon will kindle with far-spread- 
 ing brightness, and illuminate the whole earth. 
 " The kingdoms of this world are become the king- 
 doms of our Lord and of his Christ ; and he shall 
 reign for ever and ever." 
 
 19 
 
SERMON XX. 
 
 WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 WE KNOW IN PART, AND WE PROPHESY IN PART. — 
 
 1 Corinthians xiii. 9. 
 
 To " prophesy " means, in this place, to make 
 known religious truth to men ; and the Apostles, it 
 seems, could do this but imperfectly, because they 
 knew but in part. Even their inspiration did not 
 give them a view of all the great subject which was 
 intrusted to their hands. They could teach all that 
 God thought proper to reveal, all that man needed 
 to know. But the full extent, the utmost bounds, 
 of Christian truth are not to be traced and meas- 
 ured by the human eye. It fills the mind of the re- 
 ligious child ; it fills the soul of the adoring angel. 
 All, save the Author and Finisher of our faith, know 
 but in part. 
 
 Indeed, our knowledge of every thing is imperfect, 
 — even of the things that stand nearest to the eye. 
 The illuminated page of nature, on which God has 
 written so many disclosures of his power and love, 
 how small a portion of its wonders is man yet able 
 to understand ! Look at the tree which rises before 
 
WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 223 
 
 your window, and shields you from the summer 
 sun. You are familiar with its form, its foliage, and 
 its flowers. But can you tell what is going on with- 
 in it ? Can you explain how it is, that, when the 
 winds of autumn are singing their vesper hymn, the 
 tree listens to their warning, — how it forms and 
 folds its leaves and blossoms, to have them ready 
 for another spring ? Can you tell by what prophetic 
 anticipation it casts off its yellow drapery, contracts 
 its fibres, collects its might, and stands like a gallant 
 vessel with its sails taken in and all made fast in 
 preparation for the storm ? Can you tell how it is 
 that the small bird that found shelter in it the mo- 
 ment the red leaf appeared took its flight to regions 
 where the flowers do not wither nor the verdure 
 fade ? No. In the history of the simplest things in 
 the vegetable and animal world, there is much that 
 man does not and cannot understand. 
 
 Come, then, to our knowledge of human nature 
 itself, — how imperfect it is ! how many new pages 
 are opened from time to time which fill us with 
 wonder and dismay ! Perhaps you are able to tell 
 how men will feel and act under the common cir- 
 cumstances of life ; but who can tell the measure of 
 the soul, or how deep and far man's powers and pas- 
 sions, in their wild energy, can go ? We see the evil 
 spark of anger kindling into a flame, and we won- 
 der that it is not trodden out before it rises and 
 spreads. But can we understand how it burns and 
 rages, till it makes man stab his brother to the heart, 
 though he knows that when he murders another he 
 
224 WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 is a suicide of his own soul ? We can understand 
 the passion of avarice in its common aspect, — the 
 gathering of treasure that death shall take away. 
 But can we understand how it grows and gains 
 upon the heart, till it turns it to stone, — till it makes 
 an Apostle, for a few pieces of silver, sell the blood 
 of his Master ? We can understand benevolence in 
 its common measure, when it gives what it does not 
 want to others ; but can we comprehend that love 
 which warms and fills the martyr's heart ? 
 
 Passing finally to the knowledge of the Most 
 High, — are not clouds and darkness round about 
 him as of old ? " Canst thou by searching find out 
 God ? " Let those who have tried reply. Let the 
 answer come from one who looked through the 
 mysterious enginery of the universe, and saw the 
 clear firmament and the glory of the heavens as it 
 were with an archangel's eye. A short time be- 
 fore his death, Newton said, — "I do not know what 
 I may appear to the world ; but to myself I seem 
 to have been only like a boy playing on the sea- 
 shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding 
 a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, 
 while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered 
 before me." And such has been the testimony of 
 all the sons of light. The more they were im- 
 pressed by the Divine majesty, the higher rose their 
 devotion ; as they grew sensible of their weakness, 
 their love grew as pure and their praise as eloquent 
 as ever flowed from a seraph's tongue. 
 
 Here, then, we shall be told to reflect on human 
 
WE KNOW IN PART. 225 
 
 imperfection and be humble ; for we see how little 
 way the sight of man extends, how little man is 
 able to know. But let us read our own nature 
 aright. There is enough to make us humble ; our 
 unworthiness, our insensibility, our sins, — these 
 should make us humble. That " we know in part " 
 is not humiliating ; it is the ground and necessary 
 condition of man's chief prerogative, and of the 
 only perfection of which he is capable. Consider 
 the difference between human and Divine perfec- 
 tion, and this will be plain to every eye. 
 
 Divine perfection consists in attributes, each and 
 all of them unbounded, except by the impossibility 
 of being greater. Divine power extends to all 
 things that power can do ; Divine wisdom embraces 
 every thing that exists, or will exist, or ever has 
 existed ; Divine holiness is holiness which cannot 
 be enlarged nor exceeded. The perfection of these 
 attributes is, that they can be no greater than they 
 are. To God nothing can be added. To him there 
 is no advance nor improvement. As he was in the 
 beginning he is now and evermore shall be. But 
 human perfection, by which I mean the greatest 
 height to which humanity can aspire, is as different 
 as possible from this. I know that human perfec- 
 tion seems like a strange association of words ; still, 
 there is a perfection to which God, by means of 
 Christianity, endeavours to raise his children. And 
 this perfection consists in continual progress, — in 
 continually advancing towards perfection. When all 
 the powers of mind and heart are fully and faith- 
 
226 WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 fully exerted, when man is making daily gains in 
 religious feeling and intellectual power, when he is 
 thus steadily and surely advancing, he is the per- 
 fect man of the Gospel. For human perfection 
 consists in for ever growing more and more like 
 God. 
 
 It is plain, then, that to " know in part " is not 
 humiliating ; it is not even an imperfection ; it is a 
 happy and honorable condition of our existence, for 
 which we should be grateful to Him who made us. 
 Had we been differently created, it must have been 
 like the animals. What they know, they know in 
 full; to them there is nothing "in part." What 
 they know, they know as well in the first years of 
 their existence as the last. And if man had not 
 been created as he is, to " know in part," it must 
 have been so with him ; he must have had the in- 
 stinct of an animal, the perfection of animals, for he 
 could not have the perfection of God. It is this 
 partial knowledge which gives him power to im- 
 prove, to make continual progress. Knowing in 
 part, he has the power to know more ; knowing in 
 part, he has the desire to know more ; and thus to 
 " know in part " is not a weight, but a spring, — the 
 ground at once of that capacity of improvement 
 and of that yearning after it which together con- 
 stitute man's highest glory. 
 
 Seeing, then, that improvement is the perfection 
 to which human nature must aspire, let us next 
 observe how this limited knowledge tends to induce 
 and encourage it in every field of thought. 
 
WE KNOW IN PART. 227 
 
 Look again at the world of nature. Its wonders 
 do not manifest themselves at once ; if they did, the 
 mind could not embrace them, or if it could, a 
 heavy satiety, a lethargic self-satisfaction, would take 
 the place of that restless energy which makes man 
 labor and suffer to extend his knowledge. Every 
 thing opens gradually, as the sun rises, not full- 
 orbed and fiery red, but gently heralded by the gray 
 light and the kindling clouds. When you first point 
 out to an intelligent child the wonders of nature, he 
 fixes upon you his soft, dark, earnest eyes. The 
 world seems enchanted. He asks where these 
 things were hidden, that he never saw them before. 
 He enjoys a deep delight, he finds a luxury in this 
 gradual illumination of mind, to which he would 
 have been a stranger had not God created him to 
 know but in part. And so in maturer years, if the 
 mind is kept from stagnation, into which it too 
 readily subsides. Let a man give his attention, to 
 any department of knowledge, and he soon gives it 
 his heart. He will leave all man loves at home, 
 and encounter all man dreads abroad. In the pur- 
 suit of improvement, he is ready to traverse the 
 arctic snow, the burning desert, the stormiest sea. 
 The day is too short for his study ; by night he will 
 outwatch the stars. He will do any thing and suf- 
 fer any thing. The least new discovery fills him 
 with rapturous joy. The glad energy, the intense 
 devotion, with which he engages in the chase of 
 knowledge, gives an idea of the manner in which 
 the souls of the just will study the works and ways 
 
228 WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 of God, and find every thing radiant with happiness 
 and eloquent with praise. 
 
 -Jt is the same with moral truth ; by which I mean 
 all truth which relates to God and to the nature and 
 destiny of men. Our knowing but in part inspires 
 that earnest desire to know more, which is compared 
 to hunger and thirst for wisdom, — a desire of truth 
 which always burns in the breasts of those who are 
 enlightened by the word of God. All truth of this 
 kind may be found suggested in that sacred word ; 
 there it has been written for ages, and for ages it 
 has lain open and close under the eye of man ; and 
 yet how slow is man to understand, how slow to 
 read the disclosure even of that which he most de- 
 sires to know ! Mark the doctrine, for example, that 
 true greatness is measured by the amount of servi- 
 ces rendered to men, and that no lasting renown can 
 be gained by cruelties and wrongs. The world is 
 but just waking to this truth ; it does not yet un- 
 derstand it, though the words, " Whosoever of you 
 will be the chiefest shall be servant of all," have 
 been written and read for centuries on the sacred 
 page. But now it knows in part, it will feel a grow- 
 ing desire to know all that can be known ; and that 
 desire will be the cause of new light breaking forth 
 from the word of God. We say the sun rises ; but 
 it does not rise, — it is only the earth rolling us up- 
 ward where we can behold his light. So, when the 
 Sun of Righteousness rises upon us, the change is 
 in ourselves, and not in him ; and thus, as the de- 
 sire for improvement extends, the light of truth will 
 
WE KNOW IN PART. 229 
 
 rise and spread, and the world's path shall be as 
 described in those beautiful words, — like " the ris- 
 ing light, which shineth brighter and brighter unto 
 the perfect day." 
 
 With respect to mankind, also, it is true that par- 
 tial knowledge inspires a desire to know more. 1 
 mean a real knowledge, for I, would not give this 
 name to that meaner sagacity which teaches us to 
 distrust mankind. Who are they that complain most 
 of men ? They are those who dwell apart, who 
 have none but selfish interests and pleasures, who 
 never lift a hand to do good to others ; — these are 
 they who talk of the fraud and falsehood of their 
 race. While the lovers of mankind are they who 
 go about doing good. They find in poor, degraded 
 humanity much to reverence and love. He who 
 visited the prisons of the earth to expose their 
 abuses received not a word of unkindness from pris- 
 oners, nor from those who kept them. And tender 
 and delicate women have ventured among the most 
 abandoned. They were warned that they would 
 meet with defiance, but they knew better ; they 
 knew that kindness would melt the frozen spirit, 
 and, where man had been vainly trying for ages to 
 overcome evil with evil, they tried with success the 
 Christian experiment, and overcame evil with good. 
 They saw the darkest aspects of humanity without 
 hatred or despair ; and they were right ; for Jesus 
 Christ, who knows what is in men, loves them, 
 though no being ever endured from them half so 
 much as he. 
 
 20 
 
230 WK KNOW IN PART. 
 
 The young always have this desire to know more 
 of others. Alas that this generous affection should 
 be driven back to their hearts, disappointed and dis- 
 mayed, by what they see and hear ! They find their 
 parents talking with cold severity of others, — of all 
 others, — of any others, — even their nearest friends ; 
 and they listen with wonder and pain. They are 
 affrighted to learn how much there is unworthy and 
 contemptible in those whom they desired to love, 
 and whom they might have loved, if their warm- 
 hearted confidence had not been changed into jeal- 
 ous suspicion. Thus it is that man resists the will 
 of Heaven. Mankind are thrown apart and kept so ; 
 those cords of humanity, which united would have 
 been strong as the sheet-anchor cable, become singly 
 as weak as the silk-worm's thread, and the purpose 
 of Christianity is not answered, which is to reconcile 
 them to each other and make the divided one. 
 
 So our knowing God but in part inspires an ear- 
 nest desire to know more. It leads us on in religious 
 improvement, and it makes that improvement a suc- 
 cession of bright revelations, in which man is con- 
 tinually learning what he thirsted to know. There 
 are many things in the dispensations of Heaven 
 which the thoughtful long to know, as the prophets 
 and kings of ages past desired to look into the mys- 
 teries of God. The mother who has lost a child in 
 the brightness of its rising, which is now transfig- 
 ured in her memory and shines like a morning star, 
 — she will bear witness what deep and agitating 
 questions sometimes rise in the breast. Why should 
 
WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 231 
 
 the dying infant suffer? What moral purpose can 
 be gained by this slow torture through which it 
 passes to the sleep of death ? " Commune with 
 your own heart and be still," is all the answer that 
 inspiration gives. But no ! there is encouragement. 
 " What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt 
 know hereafter." This hopeof knowing hereafter 
 is an anchor to the soul ; it saves it from being 
 wrecked in its own doubts and fears; it keeps it true 
 to itself and its destiny, till it reaches the world 
 where the wonders of Providence are unfolded to 
 its astonished view_, and it can read and understand 
 them all. 
 
 But why do I attempt to show you the benefit of 
 knowing in part. Inspiration has done it already ; 
 it assures us that it is owing to this our imperfect 
 knowledge, that faith, hope, and charity still abide 
 with the children of men. Their home is heaven ; 
 but they linger here in compassion to our sorrow, 
 to comfort us in the darkness and doubt of the 
 world below. Faith stands leaning, with divine se- 
 renity, upon the Rock of Ages. Hope looks up to 
 heaven with glorious eye, as if impatient to be 
 there. Charity is seen in the dark lanes of want 
 and suffering, her lamp filled with the oil of glad- 
 ness, looking on the guilty and forsaken with a 
 smile of kindness that makes the death-bed and the 
 dungeon bright. Now they dwell in the world, 
 content to remain so long as there is duty they can 
 do, or a blessing they can give ; but as soon as that 
 which is perfect is come, and that which is in part 
 
232 WE KNOW IN PART. 
 
 shall be done away, they will spread their wings 
 for their ascending flight, and they will not fold 
 them till they reach the heaven of the blest. 
 
 Above all, I would say that we cannot complain 
 of the limitation of our knowledge till we make a 
 better improvement of what we already know. 
 Enough is already known to make us wise unto 
 salvation. It remains that we apply it to our hearts 
 and lives. And when we consider what a cold wel- 
 come has been given to the religion of Jesus Christ, 
 we could not wonder if God should at last grow 
 weary of forgiving the sins of Christians, and take 
 back the gift which is so little valued, — so poorly 
 understood. If this should ever be, if the world 
 should fall back into barbarism and darkness, if the 
 cloud should gather over the tomb again, and every 
 page on which life and immortality are written be 
 burned to ashes and scattered to the winds, not one 
 whisper of complaint would be heard through all 
 the wide borders of the Christian world. For men 
 would remember that they did not improve it while 
 they possessed it, — they sharpened their passions 
 and called it zeal, or they sunk into indifference and 
 called it charity ; there were comparatively few who 
 took it to their hearts and became acquainted with 
 its power. Let us feel, then, that God has revealed 
 enough for our improvement ; we have already 
 enough to answer for to him. 
 
SERMON XXI. 
 
 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 love the truth. — Zechariah viii. 19. 
 
 I cannot think it improper to discuss any subject 
 here in which our improvement is concerned. I 
 therefore propose to speak to you on the use of fic- 
 tion, which has gained so fast a hold upon the pub- 
 lic taste, that it supplies the most common recreation 
 in civilized lands, and has become to many so essen- 
 tial a kind of reading, that they have lost the power 
 to relish any other. The most favorite writers. — 
 those whom the people most delight to honor — are 
 writers of fiction, not of truth. Many think it ne- 
 cessary to administer truth itself in the disguise of 
 fiction, from the impression that in this way alone 
 it can gain a welcome ; and when the young mind 
 opens, fiction is the first thing which it is taught to 
 love, — thus creating a taste which does much to 
 determine its character and destiny in future years, 
 perhaps for ever. 
 
 When the use and love of fiction is so general, it 
 would be of little avail to speak against it. I do not 
 propose to do so. God has made the imagination 
 20* 
 
234 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 part of our nature for wise purposes, no doubt ; and 
 so long as those purposes are ascertained and kept in 
 view, there cannot be much danger. I am willing 
 to believe that amusement was one of those pur- 
 poses, — not one of the highest, certainly, but still 
 one of them. The mind cannot be always on the 
 stretch ; the bow must sometimes be unstrung ; en- 
 tertainment at such intervals is healthy for the mind 
 and soul. If, then, fiction is occasionally used for 
 this purpose, to refresh the weary powers, to lift up 
 into the world of fancy for a time one who is tired 
 of walking on the dusty road of existence, such an 
 indulgence is not to be blamed ; nor is it incon- 
 sistent with that love of truth which is essential 
 to the mind of a man as well as the character of a 
 Christian. 
 
 But, obviously, there is danger of excess in this 
 indulgence ; these luxuries cannot be the daily bread 
 of the mind. And here let me say, that the effect of 
 these fictions on the mind exactly resembles the 
 effect of rich and stimulating food upon the body. 
 They are loved, no doubt, as such food is eagerly 
 devoured, and the occasional use of them, like the 
 occasional use of such food, will do no harm ; for it 
 is possible to live too low. But when you come to 
 the daily, constant use of either, it is ruinous, in one 
 case, to the health of the body, in the other, to the 
 health of the mind. This being my view of the 
 subject, — that fictions are harmless and even useful 
 at times, if they can be read with forbearance and 
 without excess, — I trust you will listen patiently 
 
ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 235 
 
 while I point out some dangers into which the lover 
 of such writings is very apt to fall. They are great 
 and serious dangers, — serious enough, in my opin- 
 ion, to claim the solemn attention of every mind. 
 
 In the first place, that caution is necessary may 
 be seen from the tendency of this taste for fiction to 
 become excessive and engrossing. It grows fast, 
 and gains strength fast, crowding in upon the other 
 tastes of the mind. But some one may say, " What 
 if it does grow ? what harm is there in that ? " I 
 answer, that fact proves it to be an unhealthy taste, 
 and one which cannot be indulged without injury to 
 the mind. It is in this as it is in other things. The 
 appetite for bread is a natural and healthy one, and 
 so is the taste for water ; there is no tendency to use 
 either of them to excess. The use of them does 
 not inflame any appetite within you which will ever 
 become hard to put down. But it is not so with 
 the use of stimulating food and drink. Every one 
 knows that they tend to excess ; great care and self- 
 control are necessary to prevent our using them to 
 excess ; and this tendency is proof enough that they 
 are unhealthy, and that it is dangerous to indulge 
 them. In the same manner do I say, that there is 
 no danger that the taste for reading true history will 
 ever become excessive ; — it is healthy in itself, and 
 indicates right action in the mind. One who habit- 
 ually reads what is true can occasionally resort to 
 fiction with pleasure, whereas the habitual reader of 
 fiction cannot interest himself in truth ; it is too 
 simple and unexciting for him, and his indifference 
 
236 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 is a bad sign, for the mind when not diseased will 
 always find satisfaction in the truth. 
 
 As I said, this taste for fiction, beside being un- 
 healthy, dislodges and removes better tastes from the 
 mind. There is among our feathered tribes one 
 which lays its egg in the nest of some smaller bird. 
 After the young cowbird is hatched, though it has 
 no enmity to the rightful tenants, the nest is soon 
 found too narrow to hold them all, and the result is 
 that the smaller fall over the side ; the offspring of 
 the thief becomes the sole possessor, and is sustained 
 by the food which belongs to the ejected young. 
 This is an illustration of the manner in which a 
 taste for fiction takes a piratical and exclusive pos- 
 session of the mind which harbours it. You think, 
 perhaps, that your children are great readers, and re- 
 joice in it as an indication of activity of mind. But 
 see what it is that they are fond of reading ; and if 
 you find it to be fiction, you may as well tell me 
 that they devour great quantities of confectionary as 
 a proof that they are healthy, as infer from their de- 
 vouring fiction that their minds are in the way to 
 improve. No. In the one case, your child will be 
 diseased and have no appetite for the food which 
 only can make him strong ; and in the other, you 
 will find that, when it comes to reading for improve- 
 ment, he has lost the power to do it ; and without 
 utterly renouncing the wrong taste, he can no more 
 recover the right one, than one who allows himself 
 to use strong drink intemperately can relish water 
 from the purest spring. And this is true, whether in 
 
ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 237 
 
 childhood, manhood, or old age. Let your taste for 
 fiction be so much indulged that you can no longer 
 relish reading for improvement, and the injury is 
 done ; the mind is no longer healthy ; the manfy, 
 pure, refined enjoyment which comes from the har- 
 monious use and unfolding of the powers is one 
 which such a reader can never know. He may en- 
 joy his fictions when he has them, but in the inter- 
 vals his mind falls heavily back upon itself; his 
 vacant hours are dreary ; he knows not what to do. 
 Heavier yet will the hours roll over him in some 
 future day. 
 
 There is another danger, arising from the fact that 
 the mind is passive, perfectly passive, in this kind 
 of reading. In reading for improvement it is not so ; 
 in that operation the mind is active. Any one who 
 has ever read for this purpose knows that, while he 
 is so engaged, many questions start up in his mind ; 
 many new trains of thought are suggested ; the 
 mind, instead of tamely receiving the communica- 
 tions of the writer, originates new ideas of its own. 
 This is, in fact, the benefit of such reading. No one 
 can remember a hundredth part of what he reads ; 
 the benefit does not consist in direct attainment so 
 made ; in a word, the benefit of reading for im- 
 provement consists in the activity and vigor which 
 it awakens and sustains in the mind. But in read- 
 ing for amusement, the mind is not in action. It 
 originates no trains of thought ; it gains no new 
 strength nor power of action ; but, on the contrary, 
 subsides into a luxurious, dreamy state, very much 
 
238 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 resembling that produced by narcotics, and which, 
 fascinating though it is, destroys all moral and intel- 
 lectual energy, and makes self-indulgence the ruling 
 principle within. Pleasant, no doubt, it is. How 
 much pleasanter to sail fast over smooth waters than 
 to walk on the rough highway ! But look to the 
 results. While the tenant of the pleasure-boat gains 
 no exercise, and grows tired at last of his perpetual 
 recreation, the wayfarer becomes invigorated by his 
 exertions, and, after his first weariness is over, en- 
 joys the sensation of full health, — the most light- 
 hearted and joyous of all physical sensations which 
 it is given to man to know. 
 
 Here, also, we see how little force there is in the 
 common saying, that good moral instruction can be 
 given in a fictitious form. Nobody doubts this ; but 
 there is another question : — Can such instruction be 
 taken in a fictitious form ? Now I say, that if the 
 mind is passive, not active, in such reading, — and it 
 is impossible to deny it, — such instruction, if given, 
 cannot be taken, and will do the reader no good. 
 But experience on this subject abounds, and will 
 settle this question, if there is one. The most com- 
 mon aim of such writing is to excite the benevolent 
 affections ; the utmost it ever does is to excite some 
 benevolent emotions, but no impulses, — nothing 
 that leads to action ; such emotions, perhaps, as 
 bring some tears to the eye, but no such impulses as 
 make men extend their hands to the distressed. Now 
 these emotions which do not lead to action grow 
 less and less every time they are repeated. The 
 
ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 239 
 
 tears are shed, perhaps, as usual, for they cost noth- 
 ing, but the heart grows cold ; so that, of all human 
 beings, these persons who weep over fictitious dis- 
 tress are the very last to whom you would go for re- 
 lief in that suffering with which the world abounds. 
 There must be something graceful and interesting in 
 distress before it can touch their feelings ; and as 
 there is a hard and coarse reality in all suffering that 
 requires relief, they reserve their sympathy for im- 
 aginary sorrows, and turn from actual sorrows with 
 disgust. In this way does their fictitious morality 
 affect them. It produces only fictitious benevolence; 
 it never warms the heart. And if this reading is a 
 self-indulgence, as we know it is, how can we ex- 
 pect any thing self-denying, as all true benevolence 
 must be, to grow out of it ? We might as well ex- 
 pect fires to kindle out of snow. It is often said of 
 fictions, that they give false views of human life. 
 They do not give any views of human life at all. 
 The mind, being passive, is not in a state to receive 
 instruction, however just and true may be the views 
 of the writer. Nothing is communicated to the 
 mind ; so that these views of life, as they are called, 
 are nothing but the reader's own fancies ; they are 
 nothing that he sees about him, but only paintings 
 of the imagination within ; and I need not say how 
 impossible it is that they should be practical, useful, 
 or true. 
 
 Because of this circumstance, that the mind is 
 passive in reading fiction, it is exposed to injurious 
 influences, which if it were in action it would hardly 
 
240 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 feel. The health of the mind is precisely analogous 
 to that of the body, and depends on similar laws. 
 Let a man be exposed to the evening air in an un- 
 healthy climate ; so long as he is in motion, there is 
 no danger ; but let him sit down to gaze at the 
 moonlight as it sleeps sweetly on the landscape, and 
 he will breathe in disease with the fragrance of the 
 flowers. Still more, if he slumbers under the serene 
 and peaceful influence of that evening sky, it is 
 almost certain that death will be the end of it. Who 
 does not know that the enjoyment of reading fiction 
 resembles this ? It has a soothing and pleasant effect 
 upon the mind. One cannot easily persuade himself 
 that his moral health is in danger ; but certain it is 
 that he is the sure victim of the immoral and un- 
 principled author whom he reads. His moral and 
 religious sensibility will be impaired ; his hatred of 
 guilt and unworthiness will be put to sleep, and 
 he will become callous to suggestions which he 
 would formerly have regarded with fear and shame. 
 
 But you say all writers of fiction are not immoral. 
 No, they are not ; and it is well for the world that it 
 is so. I allow that the best and most eminent of 
 them are not men who will stoop to licentiousness 
 and corruption. But many of them are persons who 
 will descend to any thing for the sake of effect, 
 and, as they have no moral principle of their own, 
 will not regard, nor even be conscious of, the mis- 
 chief they do ; and if a person of this kind can se- 
 cure a temporary popularity, he may spread the 
 breath of contagion among thousands, because they 
 
ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 241 
 
 read him with minds too passive to discover the in- 
 jury he is doing to their virtue. Thus there may be 
 an author so unconscious of moral distinctions, as to 
 represent a common thief as lofty and generous in 
 his sentiments and affections, and so recommend him 
 to the reader's imitation and love. Or he may take 
 a murderer, and invest the base wretch with rain- 
 bow colors of fancy, till the bewildered reader shall 
 really feel as if assassination were consistent with re- 
 finement and even grandeur of mind, — not perceiv- 
 ing that these are stupid and senseless contradic- 
 tions, — not conscious that the shallow and rotten- 
 hearted writer is effacing from his mind all the lines 
 which separate vice from virtue, and glory from 
 shame. I allow that the world will at last find out 
 these creatures of a day, and dismiss them to forget- 
 fulness with the contempt which they deserve. But 
 meantime they are read by many. In many young 
 hearts their infamous work is done. They have 
 taught many young and tender spirits to look on 
 crimes without abhorrence, to admire, rather than 
 condemn, the guilty, and have thus brought their 
 minds unconsciously into opposition to the spirit of 
 the Gospel and the laws of God, — not because they 
 write with power, but because a mind not in action 
 is open to every influence, and can be bent and 
 moulded with the light touch of the feeblest hand. 
 
 I would say, too, that if there are not many writ- 
 ers of this description, if — though some such have 
 been popular with those who ought to know bet- 
 ter — the majority are of a higher order, still the 
 21 
 
242 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 very best of them may do injury, because they will 
 create a taste for fiction which can only be fed with 
 fiction. Let a youth begin with the most unexcep- 
 tionable writers of the kind, — writers who would 
 scorn to prostitute their imaginations to low or licen- 
 tious uses, — still, the more the young are fascinated 
 by them, the more are they in love with fiction ; the 
 more do they crave such excitement ; the less easily 
 do they content themselves with that daily bread 
 which is the only healthy food for the mind. Now 
 if this appetite is once created, it will soon lose its 
 moral taste and power of selection. It will demand 
 and it will have indulgence. Works of high moral 
 beauty will soon cease to stimulate, and it will be- 
 gin to devour indiscriminately all such works as lie 
 in its way, without regard to their character, or the 
 effect they may have upon his heart. The epicure 
 may begin with light wines ; so long as they exhil- 
 arate, he will not ask for any thing stronger; but the 
 thirst for excitement grows within him, and when 
 these will no longer excite, he will resort to those 
 stronger drinks which he once disdained to touch. 
 In the same way it is that even the best writers of 
 this kind create a taste for intellectual excitement, 
 which must and will be indulged. When their 
 works are exhausted, the reader will resort to others 
 less worthy ; he will not perceive the degenerating 
 change which goes on within him ; he will not be 
 conscious that his moral sense is dead and all his 
 soul in ruins. 
 
 This unconsciousness of danger — unconscious- 
 
ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 243 
 
 ness even of ruin — is one of the most fearful things 
 in all diseases of the mind and heart. When the 
 frame is affected with physical disorder, it is plain to 
 every eye ; but no external trembling betrays the 
 palsy which indulgence has brought upon the mind ; 
 no blackness on the surface shows that mortification 
 of the moral nature has commenced within. A man 
 does not even know when his soul is dead, — dead 
 to all living action, dead to all the higher purposes 
 of existence, dead to the claims of humanity and of 
 God. Therefore do I say that a man must look 
 within himself with a sharp, observing eye. He 
 must learn to watch those signs of change which 
 are not obvious to the outward sense ; he must 
 dread that self-satisfaction which is always crying, 
 " Peace, peace," when, if he knew himself, he 
 would have no peace within. 
 
 If any one asks how he may know the signs of 
 danger, I say, as I intimated before, that if he has 
 lost his taste, or never formed the taste for reading 
 for improvement, there is injury already done. If 
 he would know how much is done, let him throw 
 by the news and fiction of the day, and see whether 
 they are essential to his enjoyment ; whether he is 
 listless and dull without them, or whether he can 
 turn with energy and interest to works of a different 
 order, — such as will put the mind in action, and 
 send through it a healthy glow. Let him make the 
 experiment fully and fairly, without submitting to 
 any arts of self-imposture, and if he finds that it 
 gives him no pleasure to exert his powers, that im- 
 
244 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 provement alone has no attractions, that he turns to 
 his fiction like the intemperate man to his glass, 
 then the charge, " Love the truth," should be a 
 serious sound to him. It reminds him of a pervert- 
 ed taste, of a neglected duty ; and of a change, 
 too, which must be made before the purposes of life 
 can be fulfilled. 
 
ADDRESS 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY, 
 SEPTEMBER 5tH,184L* 
 
 When I saw this great audience just now, wind- 
 ing up through the glades of the cemetery, to take 
 their places on this ground, I was deeply affected 
 with the thought, how soon we shall take our places 
 in the dust, below. With this deep thought upon 
 our minds, with these hills and valleys around us, 
 in presence of these venerable trees and these spark- 
 ling waters, with the green earth beneath and God's 
 own bright sky above us, I need not ask your- at- 
 tention, I need not labor to bring you to solemnity ; 
 for I doubt not that a voice is now saying in every 
 heart, " The place whereon thou standest is holy 
 ground." 
 
 The feeling which leads us to respect the dead, 
 the same feeling which brings us here to-day, is 
 found in every age and country ; ay, in every man 
 who deserves the name of man. The rough soldier, 
 
 * The interest which Dr. Peabody took in this cemetery has been 
 noticed in the Memoir. Though an edition of his Address at its con- 
 secration was published at the time, for circulation in the neighbour- 
 hood, we have thought that it might be appropriately reprinted here. 
 
 21* 
 
246 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 at the grave of his comrade, feels this strong emo- 
 tion, and becomes a better man for the time ; the 
 seaman, as he leans over the side of his vessel, to 
 watch the plunge of his shipmate's corpse in the 
 waters, becomes more thoughtful than ever he was 
 before. And ye yourselves do know, that, in every 
 funeral, where the dead lies out before the living, 
 with an air of mysterious reserve upon his brow, 
 with an unsearchable depth of expression which no 
 living eye can read, he is invested, for the time, 
 with the stern majesty of death, and every heart 
 does willing homage to his power. 
 
 Nor does this reverence cease when the dead are 
 hidden from our eyes. It follows them to the grave, 
 and makes us regard as sacred the place where we 
 have laid them. The burial-place is the favorite 
 retreat of the thoughtful ; it calms all troubled feel- 
 ings ; it is the place where many holy lives begin, 
 where the unfortunate are most reconciled to this 
 world, and the gay most concerned for the other. 
 When our friends depart, we hang over these places 
 with profound interest, because here it is that we 
 lose them. Up to this place we can follow them, 
 through all changes of joy and sorrow, of life and 
 death. But " hitherto shalt thou come, and no far- 
 ther," is written on the portal of the tomb. Here 
 is the boundary, beyond which they cannot return, 
 beyond which we cannot go. No wonder, then, 
 that it chains attention ; it is like the spot in the 
 ocean where we have seen some gallant ship go 
 down. 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 247 
 
 And now I say, it is nature, that is, the God of 
 nature, who inspires this feeling in the human breast. 
 I have heard some men say, that they care not what 
 becomes of their remains when they are gone. It 
 may be so ; they may say so of themselves if they 
 will. But if they say that they care not what be- 
 comes of the remains of their friends when they 
 are gone, their hearts are not in the right place ; 
 I should doubt if they had friends, — I should know 
 that they did not deserve them. Indifference to 
 these things is not natural to any good mind or 
 heart. Nature says, " Bury me with my fathers." 
 The feeling which nature dictates is, " that I may 
 die in mine own city, and be buried by the grave of 
 my father and my mother." 
 
 It is true the soul is more than the body ; the con- 
 dition of the soul which has gone into eternity is in- 
 finitely more important than that of the tenement 
 of clay which it leaves behind. But whoever truly 
 cares for the one will also care for the other. Who- 
 ever follows with his heart the friend who has gone 
 into eternity will surely have some regard to the 
 place where that friend's remains are laid. Why 
 is the body cared for ? Is it not because it has been 
 for a time the dwelling of the soul ? This reason 
 will be sufficient to keep any one who values the 
 soul from treating it with the least disdain. Have 
 you not known how, when a friend departs, every 
 thing that has been connected with him becomes 
 consecrated in your eyes ? The letters he wrote, the 
 dress he wore, the books he read, — every thing is 
 
248 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 a sacred memorial to the surviving. Surely, then, 
 the mortal frame which the soul has once illumi- 
 nated with light and love, — the mortal frame, where 
 the soul has beamed from the eye, breathed from 
 the lips, and shone like a glory on the brow, — sure- 
 ly the remains deserve to be treasured ; and I neither 
 envy nor respect the man who can treat them with 
 light regard. 
 
 Do you say that this feeling grows out of refine- 
 ment ? that it springs from cultivation, not from na- 
 ture ? To this I have a reply. The land on which 
 we dwell was possessed by a different race two 
 hundred years ago. There is reason to believe that 
 their camps were stationed and their council-fires 
 burned on a part of this very ground. That wild 
 race was never equalled by any civilized people 
 in their attachment to the graves and the memory 
 of their fathers. Was this refinement in them ? 
 Was it not rather a natural feeling, which all their 
 barbarism had never been able to extinguish ? 
 
 Let me ask, too, what portion of a civilized com- 
 munity manifest this feeling in its greatest strength ? 
 Is it the refined, as they are called, or is it those 
 who are more true to nature ? Who are they who 
 make it so dangerous to violate the grave ? Let an 
 insult be offered to the tomb, and all the roughest 
 elements of the community are up in arms. They 
 say that the living can protect themselves ; but they 
 must guard the slumbers of the defenceless dead. 
 So far from refinement being the parent of these 
 feelings, it rather tends to weaken and destroy them. 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 249 
 
 Silver and gold may be refined till they are fit for 
 no useful purpose, and serve only for ornament and 
 show ; and so man may be refined till he becomes 
 cold and heartless, — till all generous impulses and 
 affections forsake his breast for ever. 
 
 But you ask, If this feeling is natural, why has it 
 not done more to improve the .outward aspect of the 
 grave ? I answer, this is the province of taste ; and 
 it does not follow that, because the feeling of respect 
 for the dead is strong, it shall manifest itself in this 
 way ; though, in coming days, there is encourage- 
 ment to hope that it will. The proper taste has 
 been inspired ; it is spreading fast and far ; the time 
 is not distant, when Mount Auburn, which for years 
 was almost alone, will be the mother of a thousand 
 fair cities of the dead. It is not so now. In most 
 parts of our land, the burial-place is another name 
 for desolation. Its walls, if it have any, are broken 
 down ; its monuments are leaning with neglect, not 
 with age, — as if they were weary of bearing inscrip- 
 tions which no one comes to read ; there is no relief 
 to the eye but the rank grass in summer, and the 
 aster and golden-rod in autumn, which nature 
 spreads there as if in shame for the living and com- 
 passion for the dead. In such places, every one 
 feels ashamed of his race ; every one feels that the 
 living are unjust and unworthy. Why, the very 
 dog, who has been faithful to his master, deserves a 
 more honored grave. 
 
 And now let me say, that religion strongly tes- 
 tifies to the power of this natural feeling. If I 
 
250 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 would know what will affect the human heart, the 
 Bible is the authority to which I go. There we 
 find it written that God determined to separate the 
 sons of the patriarchs as a peculiar people. They 
 were then wanderers by habit and profession ; it 
 was necessary that they should give up their roving, 
 and settle quietly down in the limits of the prom- 
 ised land. And this was done. Hard as it is to 
 change the manners of a people, in the case of the 
 Hebrews this was so thoroughly done, that these 
 hereditary wanderers became renowned through all 
 the nations for the depth of their attachment to 
 their father-land. In the captivity, by the rivers of 
 Babylon, when their conquerors respectfully desired 
 to hear their far-famed minstrelsy, the songs of Zion 
 were so full of recollections of their country, that 
 it almost broke their hearts to sing them. They 
 hanged their harps on the weeping willows, and 
 could not strike them again. Their feeling is ex- 
 pressed by one of their prophets, in the words, 
 " Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him ; but 
 weep for him that goeth away : for he shall return 
 no more, nor see his native country." 
 
 And how was this great change accomplished ? 
 It was done by means of this feeling of respect for 
 the dead. It was done by anchoring the affections 
 of the children to the graves of their fathers. From 
 the earliest ages, all who dwelt near to God took 
 an interest in this subject, resolved that the body, 
 which had once been the dwelling of the soul, 
 should not, like common dust, be trodden under foot 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 251 
 
 of men. When Jacob was dying in Egypt, he 
 could not bear the thought of being laid to rest in 
 the distance and solitude of a foreign land. Joseph, 
 too, bound his children by a promise, that his re- 
 mains should be borne to the sepulchre of his fa- 
 thers. This feeling grew and gained strength among 
 them, till it destroyed all inclination to wander, — 
 till it was the heart's desire and prayer of the dying 
 Hebrew, that his ashes might mingle, dust to dust, 
 with his own, his native land. 
 
 We should not have expected to find the true 
 taste in times so ancient ; nor should we find it in 
 any except the patriarchs and those whose souls 
 were lighted from on high. But we do trace, in 
 those early ages, the same taste which now begins to 
 prevail among ourselves, — the same desire to bring 
 trees and flowers, to remove the dreariness of the 
 place of death. When Abraham bought the fields 
 of Machpelah for a cemetery, he secured the right- to 
 all the trees that were in it, and all that grew on its 
 borders. The sepulchre of our Saviour, too, was in 
 a garden, — a place where trees spread their shade 
 above, and flowers breathed incense from their little 
 urns below, — a place not distant from the city, and 
 yet not so near that the noise and business of the 
 living should disturb the silence of the grave. Not 
 anticipating that their Master would rise, they laid 
 him in a place to which they might come in peace 
 and loneliness, to meditate and remember, and where 
 pilgrims in after times might resort, to be strength- 
 ened and inspired by the memory of that great friend 
 of man. 
 
252 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 The religion of Jesus tends to confirm the feeling 
 of which I speak. It gives us reason to believe that 
 the departed are living, — gone from this world, in- 
 deed, but not from existence, — living in some prov- 
 ince of creation, where it is not given us to know. 
 If it be so, they must look back with deep interest 
 on all the scenes through which they travelled in 
 their pilgrimage below. And if, from their bright 
 abodes, they look down on their own neglected 
 graves, must there not be sorrow in heaven ? But 
 no ! sorrow can never enter to disturb the untroubled 
 calm above. Let me ask rather, Will there not be 
 joy in heaven if they can see that their resting-place 
 is honored, and that memorials are planted there by 
 affectionate hands ? It will assure them, not merely 
 that they are remembered, but that their surviving 
 friends are faithful, both to the dead and the living, 
 and that they are preparing to meet them in their 
 Father's house on high. 
 
 But I am going beyond your patience and my 
 own strength ; I will therefore bring the subject 
 directly home to ourselves. 
 
 We have made arrangements to leave the burial- 
 place of our fathers. The opening of that small 
 grave yonder was the act by which we bade it fare- 
 well. We have done it from necessity and not from 
 choice. If I am told that there is room there yet, 
 I answer, it is true ; we may bury our dead there 
 if we will. But if we lay our heart's treasure there 
 to-day, the stranger may be laid at his side to-mor- 
 row ; and thus they who have been united in life 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 253 
 
 must be separated in death. Surely every heart will 
 confess that it ought not so to be. 
 
 The place " where the rude forefathers of the 
 hamlet sleep " was originally chosen with true taste 
 and feeling. It was so near the village, that the 
 mourner might follow his dead on foot, as the 
 mourner should, if God gives him strength ; at the 
 same time it was so distant as to leave the place in 
 silence and repose. When I came here, twenty 
 years since, it was my favorite resort, at morning, 
 at evening, and sometimes at midnight hours. It 
 was peaceful, — it was beautiful ; on one side the eye 
 wandered over the two spires, which were all that 
 then rose in the village, to the high walls of the 
 valley, crowned with the dark pine wood. On the 
 other side it fell upon the bright stream, with the 
 green fringe upon its borders, where there was sel- 
 dom even a dashing oar to break the smoothness of 
 the tide. But as the village grew, the place was 
 changed. The sounds of busy life came near ; the 
 noise of men, on the fields and the waters, was 
 brought into painful contrast with the stillness of 
 the grave. And now, for years, we have heard the 
 quick steps of improvement, as it is called, tram- 
 pling like a war-horse round it, impatient to tread it 
 down. When Jerusalem was about to fall, a voice 
 was heard at midnight in the temple, saying, — " Let 
 us depart " ; and when I have been, in the dead 
 of night, at the place of which I speak, it required 
 little fancy to hear a voice saying to the sleepers, — 
 22 
 
254 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 " Arise and depart, for this is not your rest ; the place 
 where the living buy and sell is no longer a home 
 for you." 
 
 Suffer me to congratulate you now on the success 
 which has attended this enterprise from its beginning 
 to the present hour. Seven years since, I presented 
 this subject to all whom my voice could reach. I 
 did so at the desire of a daughter of this village, 
 who was deeply interested in its welfare ; but before 
 her purpose could be accomplished, she was called 
 away ; and from necessity she was borne to the 
 very place where she could not bear that the re- 
 mains of her friends should lie. Last year another 
 effort was made, by those, whom, if they were not 
 present, I might name with the praise which they 
 deserve. The means to conduct the enterprise have 
 been liberally supplied by those who could have no 
 hope of gain, nor even requital for the efforts and 
 sacrifices they made. There were some who would 
 have selected a different place ; but with that gen- 
 erosity which it is more common to hear of than to 
 see, they gave up their own preferences, and showed 
 that they cared for nothing but the general good. 
 Have we not reason to hope that this will be se- 
 cured ? Nature has made this place beautiful, and 
 the purpose for which it is now set apart will make 
 it an attractive and delightful resort in every state of 
 feeling, — to the sorrowful and the happy, to the aged 
 and the young. I am persuaded that nothing has 
 been done in this village since its history began, 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 255 
 
 which will tend so much to improve and refine it, 
 as what you are doing now. Observe that small 
 fountain, whose sweet voice you hear ! It gathers 
 the streams, which formerly ran unseen through the 
 meadow, and lifts them up to the eye in graceful 
 silver falls. And in like manner this place and this 
 enterprise will assemble streams of good taste and 
 feeling which formerly ran to waste, and from them 
 produce results which shall be grateful to every eye, 
 and inspiring to every heart. When the native of 
 this town, after long absence, returns to the home 
 of his fathers, he will walk the streets, and all whom 
 he meets there will be strangers ; he will inquire 
 concerning familiar dwellings, and the names of their 
 inhabitants will be new ; when he meets his old 
 acquaintance, he will find that they know not the 
 Joseph of former days. He will be forlorn and 
 solitary among the living, and will not feel at home 
 till he comes to the mansions of the dead. Here 
 he will find the guardians and the playmates of 
 former years ; here will be all whom he used to 
 reverence and love ; and here his heart will over- 
 flow with emotions, such as no tongue can adequate- 
 ly tell. 
 
 Reflect how many tenants will soon be here, to 
 claim their freehold in the dust below. One fair 
 and gentle child has already come, — a fitting herald 
 to take possession in the name of all the dead. 
 Here he has laid himself down on a colder pillow 
 than a mother's breast. Many such will soon be 
 
256 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 here — morning stars quenched in the brightness of 
 their rising — before they have known the stains and 
 sorrows of life below. Children, in tender years, will 
 follow their parents to this place ; the domestic circle 
 will be fearfully broken, and thenceforth the wide 
 world will be their home. The husband will follow 
 the wife, — the light and joy of his desolated home ; 
 and the wife the husband, on whose strong arm she 
 had hoped to lean through all her days. The young, 
 sinking under the slow torture of wasting disease, 
 will flee away and be at rest in this holy ground ; 
 the aged, after years of labor and sorrow, will depart 
 to this place in peace. The pale marbles will rise 
 everywhere around us, telling of the dead, some- 
 times what they were, but still oftener what they 
 ought to have been. 
 
 We are here to-day to consecrate these grounds. 
 And we do consecrate them in the name of " Him 
 that liveth, and was dead." We consecrate them 
 to the service of our Heavenly Father, to the in- 
 fluences of his Spirit, to the kingdom of his Son. 
 We consecrate them to the sacred repose of the 
 dead, and the religious improvement of the living. 
 We consecrate them to all kind affections, to heaven- 
 ward hopes, to the tears of love, to the consolation 
 of grief. We consecrate them to the growth of 
 Christian principles, to the power of Christian emo- 
 tions. Heaven has made it a land of streams and 
 fountains, a land of valleys and hills ; and now may 
 a stronger and deeper interest be given to it than 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 257 
 
 beauty can ever bestow, and may the blessing of 
 God be upon it from the beginning to the end of 
 the year ! 
 
 But when we consecrate this place in the Sav- 
 iour's name, it should remind us of the promises of 
 the Gospel. Many of us have been at his table, to 
 commemorate his dying love, to-day. When he sat 
 with his disciples at the last supper, the bread and 
 the wine passed untasted by him ; he said that he 
 would not share them again till they met in the 
 kingdom of God. So, then, happy meetings were 
 yet before them, and that parting was not the last. 
 What a world of bright promise to the faithful do 
 those simple words bestow ! It spreads out in a 
 thousand forms of hope, each one of which is a 
 ray of glory to some afflicted heart. The mother, 
 for example, — the Rachel weeping for her children, 
 but not refusing to be comforted, because she has 
 surrendered them to her Father and their Father, to 
 her God and their God, — she may lift up her eyes 
 and look forward to the time when she shall go to 
 those who cannot return to her, — when they shall 
 be the first to meet her at heaven's gate, and with 
 bright and glad voices bid her welcome to their 
 own happy home. 
 
 " O, when the mother meets on high 
 The babe she lost in infancy, — 
 
 Hath she not then, for all her fears, 
 The day of woe, the sleepless night, 
 
 For all her sorrows, all her tears, 
 An over-payment of delight? " 
 
258 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 
 
 But the hour is wasting ; I see by the lengthening 
 shadows that the sun is sinking low. I see that 
 some, who, when I began to speak, were in the sun- 
 shine, are now in the evening shade. And some, 
 who are now in the full sunshine of prosperity and 
 gladness, will soon be covered with the awful shad- 
 ow of death. We shall soon leave this ground, — 
 never again thus to assemble, till we meet in the 
 dust below. The day is going down ; the darkness 
 of night will soon settle on these hills and vales. 
 The season is declining ; the red leaf is already 
 hung as a signal from the tree, and the winds of 
 autumn will soon be heard singing their vesper- 
 hymn. The year is waning ; the trumpet of the 
 winter storms will soon be sounded ; they will sweep 
 through these leafless woods, and rash and howl 
 over the habitations of death. Let us feel, then, 
 for it is true, that every fading year, every fall of 
 the leaf, every closing day, and every toll of the 
 funeral bell is measuring our dead march to the 
 grave. 
 
 Let us prepare, then, since, prepared or not, we 
 must go. Let us have the only preparation that 
 can avail us in the dying hour. Let us " so number 
 our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom." Let 
 us say to Him who made us, — " The grave cannot 
 praise thee ; death cannot celebrate thee ; but the 
 living, the living, he shall praise thee as we do 
 this day." May we so spend our days in his ser- 
 vice, that, in the hour which is not far from any 
 
OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 259 
 
 one of us, we may look forward with hopes full 
 of immortality ; and when the cares of this short 
 life are over, through Him who lived, and labored, 
 and died upon the cross to save us, may we serve 
 him in nearer presence and with angels' powers on 
 high ! 
 
 THE END.