WORKS
OF
ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.
VOL. 1.








DISCOU RSES
ON
HUMAN NATURE,
HU MAN  LI F E,
AND THE
NATURE OF RELIGION
B Y
ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES S. FRANCIS.
1868.




Entered, according to Act of Congress. in the year 1847,
BY C. S FRANCIS & CO
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New-York




PRE F ACE.
I HAVE collected into these Volumes, most of the Ser
mons and Essays that have been published with my name;
and have added some Sermons not before printed, together
with Articles from Reviews, and Occasional Discourses.
A new arrangement is made, in order to bring the Discourses under certain heads.  The title of the Volume
first published, " Discourses on Various Subjects," is dropped. The first Series in this Edition, " On Human Nature,"
embraces several of those Discourses; others are omitted; and others, placed under another Head. Discourses
on " Human Life," follow; and then, a number of Discourses, for which I could find no more definite title than
"TheNature of Religion." In the first Sermon of the succeeding series, on " Commerce and Business," I have attempted by a revision of the Argument, to reply to an objection sometimes urged against its main doctrine, with regard
to the use of superior knowledge, power or opportunity. I
have met with those who argued thus: "We have a right
to take every advantage of each other; it is perfectly honest
to do so, because we have agreed to do so. It is a matter of
compact, whose chances and risks we mutually agree to
take." Now I maintain that the general moral policy of




VI                 PREFACE.
trade forolas such compact. The remainder of the Second
Volume is occupied by a Miscellaneous Collection of Discourses on Politics and Society, and by reprints of Reviews
and Occasional Sermons and Addresses. The Third Volume, or the one which is to occupy that place in the Edition, is already published-as it has been some time out of
print, and was called "or —under the title of " Discourses
and Reviews upon Questions in Controversial Theology and
Practical Religion."  My apology for these details is, that
they seemed to be necessary to explain to those who have
purchased my publications, the character of the present
Edition.
Let me add, that no attempt is made at a full discussion
of any of the subjects embraced in these Volumes. I suppose that a Treatise is not usually expected in a Volume
of Sermons. Pulpit Discourses are, from the nature of the
case, more like separate Essays, than successive portions
of a regular Treatise.
I have now said all that is necessary, perhaps, in a Preface; and yet, in sending forth a revised Edition of my
Publications, I am disposed to add one or two remarks.
I have sometimes regretted that it has been my fortune
to communicate with the Public through Sermons. I doubt
whether there is any one vehicle of communication-Art,
Literature, Poetry, Fiction, the Journal, or the Newspaper
-in the way of which public opinion has thrown so many
obstructions and difficulties. In the first place, it has laid
a jealous restriction upon the topics of the Sermon, the
style, the modes of illustration-the whole manly freedom
of utterance. In the next place, having thus helped to
make it tame and common-place, it has branded what is
partly its own work, with that fatal epithet, dull.  In fact,




P REFACE.                     Vil.he Sermon, the printed Sermon, has scarcely any recogniset place among the great and noble arts of expression
or communication. It is not appreciated as such. It has
not the stimulus either of praise or blame from any high
court of Literary Criticism.
I do not say, I am far from saying, that all this is the
fault of the public, or of public opinion. It is the fault of
the preacher rather; it is the error essentially of our religious ideas and feelings. In this view I know of no more
significant fact connected with the history of Christianity
than this, that the Sermon should in all ages have been proverbially dull. I confess that I am stung to indignation and
shame at the bitter taunt implied in it, and would willingly
take upon my hands all the disabilities and difficulties of
this kind of communication, if I could give the feeblest demonstration, that it is not altogether deserved. The Essayist, Foster, says: " Might not all the Sermon-books in the
English language, after the exception of three or four dozen
volumes, be committed to the fire without any cause of regret?" I am not bold enough to expect that these volumes
of mine could escape the doom; it would be a solace to me
if I could believe, that they might stimulate others to do
better, and that, from their ashes, something should arise.
that would be worthy to live.




CONTENTS.
DISCOURSES ON HUMAN NATURE.
PAGI.
I. ON HUMAN NATURE,..               9
II. THE SAME SUBJECT,     -  -   -   28
III. ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN NATURE, 41
IV. ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE TRUE
AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN NATURE, 56
V. THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO HUMAN NATURE,   71
VI. THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO IT, 88
VII. HUMAN NATURE CONSIDERED AS A GROUND FOR
THANKSGIVING, -                          103
DISCOURSES ON HUMAN LIFE.
VIII. THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE,    -   -   123
IX. THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL,  -   - 137
X. LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND
VIRTUE, -                                154
XI. LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT,.         169
XII. ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE,  -   -   184
XIII. ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE, --    198
XIV. ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE, -                   212
XV. ON THE VALUE OF LIFE, --                    227
XVI. LIFE'S CONSOLATION IN VIEW OF DEATH,    -   241
XVII. THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF
CHRIST, -                      - - -    255
XVIII. ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE, 276
XIX  ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE,    -         - 285
XX. THE VOICES OF THE DEAD,    -   -   -   -   306
DISCOURSES ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
XXI. THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, AND
WITH A GOOD LIFE, -                      322
XXII. THE SAME SUBJECT, -                        343
XXIII. THE SAME SUBJECT,  -               -      3 65
XXIV. SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME, -   379




DISCOURSES.
ON HUMAN NATURE.
I.
WHAT IS MAN, THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM? AND THE SON OF MAN
THAT THOU VISITEST HIM? FOR THOU HAST MADE HIM A LITTL  LOWER
THAN THE ANGELS, AND HAST CROWNED HIM WITH GLORY AND HONOUR.
-Psalm  viii. 4, 5.
You will observe, my brethren, that in these words
two distinct, and in a degree opposite views are given,
of human nature. It is represented on the one hand
as weak and low, and yet on the other, as lofty and
strong. At one moment it presents itself to the inspired writer as poor, humble, depressed, and almost
unworthy of the notice of its Maker. But in the transition of a single sentence, we find him contemplating
this same being, man, as exalted, glorious and almost
angelic.  "When I consider thy heavens, the work of
thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast
ordained," he says, " what is man that thou art mindful of him?"  And yet, he adds, ",thou hast made
him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned
him with glory and honour."
But do not these contrasted statements make up, in
fact, the only true view of human nature? Are they
not conformable to the universal sense of mankind,
and to the whole tenor and spirit of our religion?
Whenever the human character is portrayed in colours




10            ON HUMAN NATURE.
altogether dark, or altogether bright; whenever the
misanthrope pours out his scorn upon the wickedness
and baseness of mankind, or the enthusiast lavishes
his admiration upon their virtues, do we not always
feel that there needs to be some qualification; that
there is something to be said on the other side?
Nay more; do not all the varying representations
of human nature imply their opposites? Does not
virtue itself imply, that sins and sinful passions are
struggled with, and overcome? And on the contrary
does not sin in its very nature imply that there are
high and sacred powers, capacities and affections,
which it violates?
In this view it appears to me, that all unqualified
disparagement as well as praise of human nature,
carries with it its own refutation; and it is to this
point that 1 wish to invite your particular attention in
the following discourse. Admitting all that can be
asked on this subject by the strongest assertors of
human depravity; admitting every thing, certainly,
that can be stated as a matter of fact; admitting that
men are as bad as they are said to be, and substan
tially believing it too, I shall argue that the conclusion
to be drawn is entirely the reverse of that which
usually is drawn. I shall argue, that the most strenuous, the most earnest and indignant objections
against human nature imply the strongest concessions
to its constitutional worth. I say then, and repeat,
that objection here carries with it its own refutation;
that the objector concedes nmuch, very much to human
nature, by the very terms with which he inveighs
against it.
It is not my sole purpose, however, to present any
abstract or polemic argument. Rather let me attempt
to offer some general and just views of human nature 




ON HUMAN NATURE.               11
and for this purpose rather than for the sake of controversy, let me pass in brief review before you, some
of the specific and disparaging opinions, that have
prevailed in the world concerning it; those for instance, of the philosopher and the theologian.
In doing this, my purpose is to admit that much of
what they say, is true; but to draw from it an inference quite different from theirs. I would admit on
one hand, that there is much evil in the human heart,
but at the same time, I would balance this view, and
bleid it with others that claim to be brought into the
account. On the one hand, I would admit the objection that there is much and mournful evil in the
world; but, on the other, I would prevent it from
pressing on the heart, as a discouraging and dead
weight of reprobation and obloquy.
It may appear to you that the opinions which I
have selected for our present consideration are, each
of them, brought into strange company; and yet
they have an affinity which may not at once be suspected. It is singular indeed, that we find in the
same ranks and waging the same war against all
human self-respect, the most opposite descriptions of
persons; the most religious with the mlst irreligious,
the mosf credulous with the most sceptical. If any
man supposes that it is his superior goodness or purer
faith, which leads him to think so badly of his fellowmen and of their very nature, he needs to be reminded that vicious and dissolute habits almost invariably
and unerringly lead to the same result. The man
who is taking the downward way, with almost every
step, you will find thinks worse of his nature and his
species; till he concludes, if he can, that he was made
only for sensual indulgence, and that all idea of a
filture, intellectual, and immortal existence, is a dream.




t2           ON HUMAN NATURE.
And so if any man thinks that it is owing to his spirituality and heavenly mindedness, that he pronounces
the world so utterly corrupt, a mere mass of selfishness and deceit; he may be admonished that nobody
so thoroughly agrees with him as the man of the
world, the shrewd, over-reaching and knavish practicer on the weakness or the wickedness of his fellows.
And in the same way, the strict and high-toned theologian, as he calls himself, may unexpectedly find
himself in company with the sceptical and scornful
philosopher. No men have ever more bitterly decried
and vilified human nature, than the Infidel philosophers of the last century. They contended that man
was too mean and contemptible a creature, to be the
subject of such an interposition as that recorded in the
Gospel.
I. But I am to take up in the first place, and more
in detail, the objection of the sceptical philosopher.
The philosopher says, that man is a mean creature;
not so much a degraded being, as he is originally, a
poor, insignificant creature; an animal, some grades
above others perhaps, but still an animal; for whom,
to suppose the provision of infinite mercy and of immortality to be made, is absurd.
It is worth noticing, as we pass, and I therefore
remark, the striking connection which is almost always
found, between different parts of every man's belief
or scepticism. I never knew one to think wrongly
about God, but he very soon began to think wrongly
about man: or else the reverse is the process, and it is
not material which. The things always go together.
He who conceives of the Almighty as a severe, unjust
and vindictive being, will regard man as a slave, vill
make him the slave of superstition, will take a sort
of superstitious pleasure or merit in magnifying his




ON HUMAN NATURE.              13
wickedness or unworthiness. And he who thinks
meanly of human nature, will think coldly and distrustfully of the Supreme Being, will think of him as
withdrawing himself to a sublime distance from such
a nature. In other words, he who does not take the
Christian view, and has no apprehension of the infinite love of God, will not believe that he has made
man with such noble faculties, or for such noble ends,
as we assert. The discussion proposed is obviously,
even in this view, one of no trifling importance.
Let us, then, proceed to the objection of our philosopher. He says, I repeat, that man is a mean creature, fit only for the earth on which he is placed, fit
for no higher destination than to be buried in its
bosom, and there to find his end. The philosopher
rejects what he calls the theologian's dream about the
fall. He says that man needed no fall in order to be
a degraded creature; that he is, and was, always and
originally, a degraded creature; a being, not fallen
from virtue, but incapable of virtue; a being, not corrupted from his innocence, but one who never possessed innocence; a being never of heaven, but a being
only of earth aud sense and appetite, and never fit for
any thing better.
Now let us go at once to the main point in argument, which is proposed to be illustrated in this discourse. What need, I ask, of speaking of human
debasement, in such indignant or sneering tones, if it
is the real and only nature of man? There is nothing to blame or scorn in man, if he Is naturally such
a poor and insignificant creature. If he was made
only for the senses and appetites, what occasion, I
pray, for any wonder orabuse, that he is sensual and
debased?  Why waste invectives on such a being'.
The truth is, that this zealous depreciation of human
2




14            ON HUMAN NATURE.
nature betrays a consciousness, that It is not so utterly
wvorthless, after all. It is no sufficient reply to say,
that this philosophic scorn has been aroused by the
extravagance of human pretensions. For if these
pretensions were utterly groundless, if the being who
aspired to virtue were fit only for sensation, or if the
being whose thoughts swelled to the great hope of
immortality, were only a higher species of the animal
creation, and must share its fate; if this were true, his
pretensions could justly create only a feeling of wonder, or of sadness.
We might say much to rebut the charge of the philosopher; so injurious to the soul, so fatal to all just
self-respect, so fatal to all elevated virtue and devotion.
We might say that the most ordinary tastes and the
most trifling pursuits of man carry, to the observant
eye, marks of the nobler mind. We might say that
vain trifling, and that fleeting, dying pleasure, does
not satisfy the immortal want; and that toil does not
crush the soul, that the body cannot weigh down the
spirit to its own drudgery. We might ask our proud
reasoner, moreover, whence the moral and metaphysical philosopher obtains the facts with which he speculates, and argues, and builds up his admirable theory?
And our sceptic must answer, that the metaphysical
and mnoral philosopher goes to human nature; that he
goes to it in its very attitudes of toil and its free actings of passion, and thence takes his materials and his
form, and his living charm of representation, which
delight the wortd. We might say still more. We
might say that all there is of vastness and grandeur
and beauty in the world, lies in the conception of man;
that the immensity of the universe, as we term it, is
but the reach of his imagination; that immensity in
other words is but the image of his own idea; that




ON HUMAN NATURE.               lb
there is no eternity to him, but that which exists in
his own unbounded thought; that there is no God to
man, but what has been conceived of in his own capacious and unmeasured understanding.
These things we might say; but I will rather meet
the objector on his own ground, confident that I may
triumph even there. I take up the indignant argument, then. I allow that there is much weight and
truth in it, though it brings me to a different conclusion. I feel that man is, in many respects and in
many situations, and above all, compared with what
he should be, that man is a mean creature. I feel it,
as I should if I saw some youth of splendid talents
and promise plunging in at the door of vice and infamy. Yes, it is meanness, for a MAN-who stands in
the presence of his God and among the sons of heaven;
it is meanness in him to play the humble part of sycophant before his fellows; to fawn and flatter, to make
his very soul a slave, barely to gain from that fellowman his smile, his nod, his hand; his favour, his vote,
his patronage. It is meanness for a mwan to prevaricate and falsify, to sell his conscience for advantage,
to barter his soul for gain, to give his noble brow to
the smiting blush of shame, or his cheek to the deadly paleness of convicted dishonesty. Yes, it is a degradation unutterable, for a man to steep his soul in
gross, sensual, besotting indulgence; to live for this,
and in this one, poor, low sensation to shut up the
mind with all its boundless range; to sink to a debasement more than beastly: below where an animal can
go. Yes, all this, and much beside this is meanness;
but why, now I ask-why do we speak of it thus,
unless it is because we speak of a being who might
have put on such a nobility of soul, and such a loftiness and independence, and spiritual beauty and glory.




16            ON HUMAN NATURE.
as would fling rebuke uponl all the hosts of sill and
temptation, and cast dimness upon all the splendour
of the world?
It may be proper under the head of philosophical
objections to take notice of the celebrated maxim of
Rochefoucauld; since it is among the written, and
has as good a title as others, to be among the philosophic objections. This maxim is, that we take a
sort of pleasure in the disappointments and miseries of
others, and are pained at their good fortune and success. If this maxim were intended to fix upon mankind the charge of pure, absolute, disinterested malignity, and if it could be sustained, it would be fatal to
my argument. If I believed this, I should believe not
only in total, but in diabolical depravity. And I am
aware, that the apologists for human nature, receiving
the maxim in this light, have usually contented themselves with indignantly denying its truth. I shall,
however, for myself take different ground. I suppose,
and I admit, that the maxim is true, to a certain extent. Yet I deny that the feelings on which it is
founded, are malignant. They may be selfish, they
may be bad; but they are not malicious and diabolical. But let us explain. It should be premised, that
there is nothing wrong in our desiring the goods and
advantages of life, provided the desire be kept within
proper bounds. Suppose then that you are pursuing
the same object with your neighbour, a situation, an
office, for instance; and suppose that he succeeds.
His success, at the first disclosure of it to you, will of
course, give you a degree of pain; and for this reason:
it immediately brings the sense of your own disappointment. Now it is not wrong perhaps, that you
do regret your own failure; it is probably unavoidable
that you should. You feel perhaps that you need, o0




ON HUMAN NATURE.               17
deserve the appointment, more than your rival. Y)u
cannot help, therefore, on every account, regretting
that he has obtained it. It does not follow that you
wish him any less happy. You may make the distinction in your own mind. You may say-" I am
glad he is happy; but I am sorry he has the place; I
wish he could be as happy in some other situation."
Now all this, so far from being malignant, is scarcely
selfish; and even when the feeling in a very bad
mind is altogether selfish, yet it is very different from
a malignant pain, at another's good fortune. But
now, let us extend the case a little, from immediate
rivalship to that general competition of interests which
exists in society; a competition which the selfishness
of men makes to be far more than is necessary, and
conceives to be far greater than it is. There is an
erroneous idea, or imagination shall I call it-and
certainly it is one of the moral delusions of the world
-that something gained by another, is something lost
to one's self: and hence the feeling, before described,
may arise at almost any indifferent instance of good
fortune. But it always rises in this proportion: it is
stronger, the nearer the case comes to direct competition. You do not envy a rich man in China, nor a
great man in Tartary. But if envy, as it has been
sometimes called, were pure malignity, a man should
be sorry that any body is happy, that any body is fortunate or honoured in the world. But this is not true;
it does not apply to human nature. If you ever feel
pain at the successes or acquisitions of another, it is
when they come into comparison or contrast with
your own failures or deficiencies. You feel that those
successes or acquisitions might have been your own;
you regret, and perhaps rightly, that they are not;
and then, you insensibly slide into the very wrong
2*




iS            ON HUMAN NATURE.
feeling of regret, that they belong to another. This
is envy; and it is sufficiently base; but it is not purely malicious, and it is, in fact, the perversion of a feeling originally capable of good and valuable uses.
But I must pursue the sceptical philosopher a step
farther; into actual life. The term, philosopher, may
seem to be but ill applied here; but we have probably
all of us known or heard those, who, pretending to
have a considerable knowledge of the world, if not
much other knowledge, take upon them with quite an
air of philosophic superiority, to pronounce human
nature nothing but a mass of selfishness; and to say
that this mass, whenever it is refined, is only refined
into luxury and licentiousness, duplicity and knavery.
Some simple souls they suppose there may be, in the
retired corners of the earth, that are walking in the
chains of mechanical habit or superstitious piety, who
have not the knowledge to understand nor the courage
to seek, what they want. But the moment they do
act freely, they act, says our objector, upon the selfish
principle. And this he maintains is the principle
which, in fact, governs the world. Nay more, he
avers, that it is the only reasonable and sufficient principle of action; and freely confesses that it is his own.
Let me ask you here to keep distinctly in view the
ground, which the objector now assumes. There are
talkers against human virtue, who never think however of going to this length; men in fact, who are a
great deal better than their theory; whose example,
indeed, refutes their theory. But there are worse objectors and worse men; vicious and corrupt men; sensualists; sensualists in philosophy, and in practice
alike; who would gladly believe all the rest of the
world as bad as themselves. And these are objectors,




ON HUMAN NATURE.               19
I say, who like the objections before stated, refute
themselves.
For who is this small philosopher, that smiles, either
at the simplicity of all honest men, or at the simplicity of all honest defenders of them?  He is, in the
first place, a man who stands up before us, and has
the face to boast, that he is himself without principle.
No doubt, he thinks other men as bad as himself. A
man necessarily, perhaps, judges the actions of other
men by his own feelings. He has no other interpreter. The honest man, therefore, will often presume
honesty in another; and the generous man, generosity.
And so the selfish man can see nothing around him
but selfishness; and the knave, nothing but dishonesty; and he who never felt any thing of a generous
and self-devoting piety, who never bowed down in that
holy and blessed worship, can see in prayer nothing
but the offering of selfish fear; in piety, nothing but a
slavish superstition.
In the next place, this sneerer at all virtue and
piety, not only imagines others to be as destitute of
principle as himself; but to some extent, he makes
them such, or makes them seem such. His eye of
pride chills every goodly thing it looks upon. His
breath of scorn blights every generous virtue where it
comes. His supple and crafty hand puts all men
upon their guard. They become like himself, for the
time; they become more crafty while they deal with
him. How shall any noble aspiration, any high and
pure thoughts, any benevolent purposes, any sacred
and holy communing, venture into the presence of the
proud and selfish scorner of all goodness! It has been
said, that the letters your friends write to you, will
show their opinion of your temper and tastes. Andt
so it is, to a certain extent, with. conversation.




20            ON HUMAN NATURE.
But in the third place, where, let us ask, has this
man studied human nature? Lord Chesterfield observes —and the observation is worthy of a man who
never seems to have looked beneath the surface of any
thling —that the Court and the Camp are the places,
in which a knowledge of mankind is to be gained.
And we may remark, that it is from two fields not altogether dissimilar, that our sceptic about virtue always
gains his knowledge of mankind: I mean, from fashion and business; the two most artificial spheres of
active life. Our objector has witnessed heartless civilities, and imagines that he is acquainted with the deep
fountains of human nature. Or he has been out into
the paths of business, and seen men girt up for competition, and acting in that artificial state of things
which trade produces; and he imagines that he has
witnessed the free and unsophisticated workings of
the human heart; he supposes that the laws of trade,
are also the laws of human affection. He thinks himself deeply read in the book of the human heart, that
unfathomable mystery, because he is acquainted with
notes and bonds, with cards and compliments.
How completely, then, is this man disqualified from
judging of human nature! There is a'power, which
few possess, which none have attained in perfection;
a power to unlock the retired, the deeper and nobler
sensibilities of men's minds, to draw out the hoarded
and hidden virtues of the soul, to open the fountains
which custom and ceremony and reserve have sealed
up: it is a power, I repeat, which few possess-how
evidently does our objector possess it not-and yet
without some portion of which, no man should think
himself qualified to study human nature. Men knotv
but little of each other, after all; but little know how
many good and tender affections are suppressed and




ON HUMAN NATURE.               21
kept out of sight, by diffidence, by delicacy, by the
fear of appearing awkward or ostentatious, by habits
of life, by education, by sensitiveness, and even by
strong sensibility, that sometimes puts on a hard and
rough exterior for its own check or protection. And
the power that penetrates all these barriers, must be
an extraordinary one. There must belong to it charity, and kindness, and forbearance, and sagacity, and
fidelity to the trust which the opening heart reposes
in it. But how peculiarly, I repeat, how totally devoid
of this power of opening and unfolding the real character of his fellows, must be the scoffer at human nature!
I have said that this man gathers his conclusions
from  the most formal and artificial aspects of the
world. He never could have drawn them from the
holy retreats of domestic life-to say nothing of those
deeper privacies of the heart of which I have just been
speaking; he never could have drawn his conclusions
from those family scenes, where unnumbered, nameless, minute, and indescribable sacrifices are daily
made, by thousands and ten thousands all around us;
he never could have drawn them from the self-devoting mother's cares, or from the grateful return, the
lovely assiduity and tenderness of filial affection; he
never could have derived his contemptuous inference
from the sick-room, where friendship, in silent prayer,
watches and tends its charge. No: he dare not go
out from our dwellings, from our temples, from our
hospitals-he dare not tread upon the holy places of
the land, the high places where the devout have prayed, and the brave have died, and proclaim that patriotism is a visionary sentiment; and piety a selfish
delusion; and charity a pretence; and virtue, a name!




22            ON HUMAN NATURE.
II. But it is time that we come now to the objection
of the Theologian. And I go at once to the single
and strong point of his objection. The Theologian
says that human nature is bad and corrupt. Now,
taking this language in the practical and popular
sense, I find no difficulty in agreeing with the Theologian. And, indeed, if he would confine himselfleaving vague and general declamation and technical
phraseology-if he would confine himself to facts; if
he would confine himself to a description of actual bad
qualities -and dispositions in men, I think he could not
well go too far. Nay more, I am not certain that any
Theologian's description so far as it is of this nature,
has gone deep enough into the fiightful mass of human depravity. For it requires an acute perception,
that is rarely possessed, and a higher and holier conscience, perhaps, than belongs to any, to discover and
to declare, how bad, and degraded and unworthy a
being, a bad man is. I confess that nothing would
beget in me a higher respect for a man, than a real —
not a theological and factitious-but a real and deep
sense of human sinfulness and unworthiness; of the
grievous wrong which man does to himself, to his religion and to his God, when he yields to the evil and
accursed inclinations that find place in him. This
moral indignation is not half strong enough, even in
those who profess'to talk the most about human depravity. And the objection to them is, not that they
feel too much or speak too strongly, about the actual
wickedness, the actual and distinct sins of the wicked;
but they speak too generally and vaguely of human
wickedness, that they speak with too little discrimina
tion to every man as if he were a murderer or a mon.
ster, that they speak in fine too argumentatively, and




ON HUMAN NATURE.                23
too much, if I may say so, with a sort of argumentative satisfaction, as if they were glad that they could
make this point so strong.
I know then, and admit, that men and all men more
or less, are, alas! sinful and bad. I know that the
catalogue of human transgressions is long and dark
and mournful. The words, pride and envy and anger
and selfishness and base indulgence, are words of
lamentation. They are words that should make a
man weep when he pronounces them; and most of all
when he applies them to himself, or to his fellow-men.
But what now is the inference from all this? Is it
that man is an utterly debased, degraded, and contemptible creature; that there is nothing in him to be
revered, or respected: that the human heart presents
nothing to us but a mark for cold and blighting reproach?  Without wishing to assert any thing paradoxical, it seems to me that the very reverse is the
inference.
I should reason thus upon this point. I should say,
it must be a noble creature that can so offend. I
should say, there must be a contrast of light and
shade, to make the shade so deep. It is no ordinary
being, surely; it is a being of conscience, of moral
powers and glorious capacities, that calls from us such
intense reproach and indignation. We never so arraign the animal creation. The very power of sinning is a lofty and awful power! It is, in the language of our holiest poet, "the excess of glory obscured." Neither is it a power standing alone. It is not
a solitary, unqualified, diabolical power of evil; a dark
and cold abstraction of wickedness. No, it is clothed
with other qualities. No, it has dread attendants;
attendants, I had almost said, that dignify even the
wrong. A waiting conscience, visitings —-Oh! visit




24            ON HUMAN NATURE.
ings of better thoughts, calls of honour and self respect
come to the sinner; terrific admonition whispering in
his secret ear, prophetic warning pointing himn to the
dim and veiled shadows of future retribution, and the
all-penetrating, all-surrounding idea of an avenging
God are present with him: and the right arm of the
felon and the transgressor is lifted up, amidst lightnings of conviction and thunderings of reproach. I
can tremble at such a being as this; I can pity hilm;
I can weep for him; but I cannot scorn him.
The very words of condemnation which we apply
to sin, are words of comparison. When we describe
the act of the transgressor as mean for instance, we
recognise I repeat, the nobility of his nature; and
when we say that his offence is a degradation, we
imply a certain distinction. And so to do wrong implies a noble power, the very power which constitutes
the glory of heaven; the power to do right.  And
thus it is, as I apprehend, that the inspired Teachers
speak of the wickedness and unworthiness of man.
They seem to do it under a sense of his better capacities and higher distinction. They speak as if he had
wronged himself. And when they use the words ruin
and perdition, they announce, in affecting terms, the
worth of that which is reprobate and lost. Paul when
speaking of his transgressions says,-" not I, but the
sin thlat dwelleth in me." There was a better nature
in him that resisted evil, though it did not always
successfully resist. And we read of the Prodigal Son
— in terms which have always seemed to me of the
nost affecting import-that when he came to the
sense of his duty, he "came —to himself."  Yes, the
sinner is beside himself; and there is no peace, no
reconciliation of his conduct to his nature, till he re



ON HUMAN NATURE.                25
turns from his evil ways. Shall we not say then, that
his nature demands virtue and rectitude to satisfy it?
True it is, and I -would not be one to weaken nor
obscure the truth, that man is sinful; but he is nol.
satisfied with sinning. Not his conscience only, but
his wants, his natural affections, are not satisfied. He
pays deep penalties for his transgressions. And these
sufferings proclaim a higher nature. The pain, the
disappointment, the dissatisfaction that wait on an
evil course, show that the human soul was not made
to be the instrument of sin, but its (lofty avenger.
The desolated affections, the haggard countenance,
the pallid and sunken'cheek, the sighings of grief,
proclaim that there are ruins indeed, but they proclaim that something noble has fallen into ruin-proclaim it by signs mournful, yet venerable, like the
desolations of an ancient temple, like its broken walls
and falling columns and the hollow sounds of decay,
that sink down heavily among its deserted recesses.
The sinner, I repeat it, is a sufferer. He seeks happiness in low and unworthy objects; that is his sin:
but he does not find it there; and that is his glory.
No, he does not find it there: he returns disappointed
and melancholy; and there is nothing on earth so
eloquent as his grief. Read it in the pages of a Byron
and a Burns. There is nothing in literature so touching as these lamentations of noble but erring natures,
in the vain quest of a happiness which the world and
the world's pleasure can never give. The sinner is
often dazzled by earthly fortune and pomp, but it is
in the very midst of these things, that he sometimes
most feels their emptiness; that his higher nature
most feels that it is solitary and unsatisfied. It is in
the giddy whirl of frivolous pursuits and amusements,
that his soul oftentimes is sick and weary with trifles
3




2b             ON HUMAN NATURE.
and vanities: that "he says of laughter, it is mad,
and of mirth, what doeth it?"
And yet it is not bare disappointment, nor the mere
destitution of happiness caused by sin-it is not these
alone that give testimony to a better nature.  There
is a higher power that bears sway in the human
heart.  It is remorse, sacred, uncompromising remorse; that will hear of no selfish calculations of pain
and pleasure; that demands to suffer; that, of all
sacrifices on earth, save those of benevolence, brings
the only willing victim. What lofty revenge does the
abused soul thus take, for its offences; never, no,
never, in all its anger, punishing another, as in its justice, it punishes itself!
Such, then, are the attributes that still dwell in the
dark grandeur of the soul; the beams of original light,
of which amidst its thickest darkness it is never shorn.
That in which all the nobleness of earth resides,
should not be condemned even, but with awe and
trembling. It is our treasure; and if this is lost, all is
lost. Let us take care, then, that we be not unjust.
Man is not an angel; but neither is he a demon; nor
a brute. The evil he does is not committed with brutish insensibility, nor with diabolical satisfaction. And
the evil, too, is often disguised under forms that do
not, at once, permit him to see its real character. His
affections become wrong, by excess; passions bewilder; semblances delude; interests ensnare; example
corrupts. And yet no tyrant over men's thoughts, no
unworthy seeker of their adulation, no pander for
guilty pleasure, could ever make the human heart
what he would. And in making it what lie has, he
has often found that he had to work with stubborn
materials. No perseverance of endeavour, nor devices
of ingenuity, nor depths of artifice, have ever equalled




ON HUMAN NATURE.               27
those which are sometimes employed to corrupt the
heart from its youthful simplicity and uprightness.
In endeavouring to state the views which are to be
entertained of human nature, I have, at present, and
before I'reverse the picture, but one further observation to make. And that is on the spirit and tone with
which it is to be viewed and spoken of. I have wish
ed, even in speaking of its faults, to awaken a feeling
of reverence and regret for it, such as would arise
within us, on beholding a noble but mutilated statue
or the work of some divine architect, in ruins, or some
majestic object in nature, which had been marred by
the rending of this world's elements and changes.
Above all other objects, surely, human nature deserves
to be regarded with these sentiments. The ordinary
tone of conversation in allusion to this subject, the
sneering remark on mankind, as a set of poor and
miserable creatures, the cold and bitter severity whether
of philosophic scorn or theological rancour, become
no being; least of all, him who has part in this common nature. He, at least, should speak with consideration and tenderness. And if he must speak of faults
and sins, he would do well to imitate an Apostle, and
to tell these things, even weeping. His tone should
be that of forbearance and pity. His words should be
recorded in a Book of Lamentations. "How is the
gold become dim," he might exclaim in the words of
an ancient lamentation-" how is the gold become
dim, and the most fine gold changed! The precious
sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they
esteemed but as earthen vessels, the work of the hands
of the potter!"




II.
ON HUMAN NATURE.
1tA THOU HAST MADE HIM A LITTLE LOWER THAN THE ANGELS, AND TIASI
CROWNED HIM WITH GLORY AND HONOUR.-Psalm viii. 5.
I HAVE endeavoured, in my last discourse, to show
that the very objections which are usually brought
against human nature, imply in the very fact, in the
very spirit and tone of them, the strongest concessions
to its worth. I shall now proceed to the direct argument in its favour. It is the constitutional worth of
human nature that we have thus far considered rather
than its moral worth, or absolute virtue. We have
considered the indignant reproaches against its sin
and debasement, whether of the philosopher or the
theologian, as evidence of their own conviction, that
it was made for something better. We have considered that moral constitution of human nature, by
which it was evidently made not to be the slave of sin,
but its conqueror.
Let us now proceed to take some account of its
moral traits and acquisitions.  I say its moral traits
and acquisitions.  For there are feelings of the human
mind which scarcely rise to the character of acquisitions, which are involuntary impulses; and yet which
possess a nature as truly moral, though not in as high
a degree, as any voluntary acts of virtue. Such is
the simple, natural love of excellence. It bears the
same relation to moral effort, as spontaneous reason
does to reflection or logical effort: and what is spontaneous, in both cases, is the very foundation of the
acquisitions that follow.- Thus, the involuntary per




ON HUMAN NATURE.               29
teption of a few axioms lies at the foundation of
Mathematical science; and so from certain spontaneous impressions of truth, springs all knowledge;
and in the same manner, our spontaneous moral impressions are the germs of the highest moral efforts.
Of these spontaneous impressions, I am to speak in.
the first place; and then to produce in favoui' of
human nature the testimony of its higher and more
confirmed virtues.
But I am not willing to enter upon this theme,
without first offering a remark or two, to prevent any
misconception of the purpose for which I again bring
forward this discussion. It is not to bring to the altar
at which I minister, an oblation of flattery to my
fellow worshippers. It is not to make any man feel
his moral dangers to be less, or to make him easier in
reference to that solemn, spiritual trust that is committed to his nature; but the very contrary. It is not
to make him think less of his faults, but more. It is
not in fine to build up any one theological dogma, or
to beat down another.
My view of the subject, if I may state it without
presumption, is this; that there is a treasure in human
nature of which most men are not conscious, and with
which none are yet fully acquainted! If you had
met in a retired part of the country with some rustic
youth who bore in his character, the indications of a
most sublime genius, and if you saw that he was
ignorant of it, and that those around him were igno
rant of it, you would look upon him with extreme,
with enthusiastic interest, and you would be anxious
to bring him into the light, and to rear him up to his
proper sphere of honour. This, may I be permitted to
say, illustrates the view which I take of human
nature. I believe that there is something in every
3*




30            ON HUMAN NATURE.
man's heart upon which he ought to look as a found
treasure; something upon which he ought to look
with awe and wonder; something which should make
him tremble when he thinks of sacrificing it to evil;
something also, to encourage and cheer him in every
endeavour after virtue and purity. Far be it from me
to say, that. that something is confirmed goodness, or
is the degree of goodness which is necessary to make
him happy, here or hereafter; or, that it is something
to rest upon, or to rely upon, in the anticipation of
God's judgment. Still I believe that he who says
there is nothing good in him, no foundation, no feeling of goodness, says what is not true, what is not
just to himself, what is not just to his Maker's beneficence.
I will refer now, to those moral traits, to those involuntary moral impressions, of which I have already
spoken.
Instances of this nature might undoubtedly be
drawn from  every department of social life; from
social kindness, from friendship, from parental and
filial love, from the feelings of spontaneous generosity,
pity and admiration, which every day kindles into life
and warmth around us. But since these feelings are
often alleged to be of a doubtful character, and are so,
indeed, to a certain extent; since they are often mixed
up with interested considerations which lessen their
weight in this argument, I am about to appeal to
cases, which, though they are not often brought into
the pulpit, will appear to you I trust to be excused, if
not justified, by the circumstance that they are altogether:pposite cases; cases that is to say, of disinter.
ested feeling.
The world is inundated in this age, with a perfect
deluge of fictitious productions. I look, indeed, upon




ON HUMAN NATURE.                31
the exclusive reading of such works, in which too
many employ their leisure time, as having a very bad
and dangerous tendency: but this is not to my purpose at present. I only refer now to the well known
extent and fascination of this kind of reading, for the
purpose of putting a single question. I ask, what is
the moral character of these productions? Not high
enough, certainly; but then I ask still more specifically, whether the preference is given to virtue or to vice,
ill these books; and to which of them, the feelings of
the reader generally lean? Can there be one moment's doubt? Is not virtue usually held up to admiration, and are not the feelings universally enlisted in
its favour?  Must not the character of the leading
personage in the story, to satisfy the public taste, be
good, and is not his career pursued with intense interest to the end? Now reverse the case. Suppose his
character to be bad. Suppose him ungenerous, avaricious, sensual, debased. Would he then be admired?
Would he then enlist the sympathies even of the most
frivolous reader? It is unnecessary to answer the
question. Here, then, is a right and virtuous feeling
at work in the world; and it is a perfectly disinterested feeling. Here, I say, is a right and virtuous feeling, beating through the whole heart of society. Why
should any one say, it is not a feeling; that it is conscience; that it is mere approbation! It is a feeling,
ii any thing is. There is intense interest; there are
tears, to testify that it is a feeling.
If, then, I put such a book into the hands of any
reader, and if he feels thus, let him not tell me that
there is nothing good in him. There may not be
goodness, fixed, habitual goodness in him; but there
is something good, out of which goodness may grow.
Of the same character are the most favourite popu



32            ON HUMAN NATURE.
lar songs and ballads. The chosen themes of these
compositions are patriotism, generosity, pity, love.
Now it is known that nothing sinks more deeply into
the heart of nations; and yet these are their themes.
Let me make the ballads of a people, some one has
said, and let who will, make their laws; and yet he
must construct them on these principles; he must
compose them in praise of patriotism, honour, fidelity,
generous sympathy and pure love. I say, pure love.
Let the passion be made a base one; let it be capricious, mercenary, or sensual, and it instantly loses the
public sympathy: the song would be instantly hissed
from the stage of the vilest theatre that ever was
opened. No, it must be true-hearted affection, holding its faith and fealty bright and unsoiled, amidst
change of fortunes, amidst poverty, and disaster, and
separation, and reproach. The popular taste will
hardly allow the affection to be as prudent as it ought
to be. And when I hsten to one of these popular
ballads or songs that tells-it may be not in the best
taste-but which tells the thrilling tale of high, disinterested, magnanimous fidelity to the sentiments of
the heart; that tells of pure and faithful affection,
which no cold looks can chill, which no storms of
misfortune can quench, which prefers simple merit to
all worldly splendour; when I observe this, I say, I
see a noble feeling at work; and that which many
will pronounce to be silly, through a certain shamefacedness about their own sensibility, I regard as respectable, and honourable to human nature.
Now I say again, as I said before, let these popular
compositions set forth the beauties of vice; let them
celebrate meanness, parsimony, fraud or cowardice;
and would they dwell, as they'now do, in the habitations, and in the hearts, and upon the lips, of whole




ON HUMAN NATURE.               33
nations?'What a disinterested testimony is this to the
charms of virtue! What evidence that men feel those
charms, though they may not be won by them to
virtuous lives! The national songs of a people do not
embrace cold sentiments; they are not sung or heard
with cold approbation. They fire the breasts of millions. They draw tears from the eyes of ten thousand
listening throngs, that are gathered in the homes of
human affection.
And the power of music, too, as a separate thing,
lies, very much, as it seems to me, in the sentiments
and affections it awakens. There is a pleasure to the
ear, doubtless; but there is a pleasure also, to the heart;
and this is the greater pleasure. But what kind of
pleasure is it? Does that melody which addresses the
universal mind, appeal to vile and base passions? Is
not the state into which it naturally throws almost
every mind favourable to gentle and kind emotions, to
lofty efforts and heroic sacrifices? But if the human
heart possessed no high nor holy feelings; if it were
entirely alien to them, then the music which excites
them, should excite them to voluptuousness, cruelty,
strife, fraud, avarice, and to all the mean aims and
indulgences of a selfish disposition.
Let not these illustrations-which are adopted, to be
sure, partly because they are fitted to unfold a moral
character where no credit has usually been given for
it, and because, too, they present at once universal and
disinterested manifestations of human feeling-let not
these illustrations, I say, be thought to furnish an unsatisfactory inference, because they are drawn from
the lighter actions of the human mind. The feeling
in all these cases is not superficial nor feeble; and the
slighter the occasion that awakens it, the stronger is
our argument. If the leisure and recreations of men




34            ON HUMAN NATURE.
yield such evidence of deep moral feeling, what are
they not capable of, when armed with lofty purposes
and engaged in high duties? If the instrument yields
such noble strains, though incoherent and intermitted,
to the slightest touch; what might not be done, if the
hand of skill were laid upon it, to bring out all its sublime harmonies? Oh! that some powerful voice might
speak to this inward nature-powerful as the story of
heroic deeds, moving as the voice of song, arousing as
the trumpet-call to honour and victory! My friends,
if we are among those who are pursuing the sinful
way, let us be assured that we know not ourselves yet;
we have not searched the depths of our nature; we
have not communed with its deepest wants; we have
not listened to its strongest and highest affections; if
we had done all this, we could not abuse it as we do;
nor could we neglect it as we do.
But it is time to pass from these instances of spontaneous and universal feeling, to those cases in which
such feeling, instead of being occasional and evanescent, is formed into a prevailing habit and a consistent
and fixed character; to pass from good affections, transient, uncertain, and unworthily neglected, to good
men, who are permanently such, and worthy to be
called such. Our argument from this source is more
confined, but it gains strength by its compression within
a narrower compass.
I shall not be expected here to occupy the time, with
asserting or proving, that there are good men in the
world. It will be more important to reply to a single
objection under this head, which would be fatal if it
were just, and to point to some characteristics of human
virtue which prove its great and real worth. Let me
however for a moment indulge myself in the simple
assertion, of what every mind, not entirely misan



ON HUMAIN NATURE.              3.
thropic, must feel to be true. I say then that there
are good men in the world: there are good men every
where. There are men who are good for goodness'
sake. In obscurity, in retirement, beneath the shadow
of ten thousand dwellings, scarcely known to the world
and never asking to be known, there are good men.
In adversity, in poverty, amidst temptations, amidst
all the severity of earthly trials, there are good men,
whose lives shed brightness upon the dark clouds that
surround them. Be it true, if we must admit the sad
truth, that many are wrong, and persist in being wrong;
that many are false to every holy trust, and faithless
towards every holy affection; that many are estranged
from infinite goodness; that many are coldly selfish
and meanly sensual; yes, cold and dead to every thing
that is not wrapped up in their own little earthly
interest, or more darkly wrapped up in the veil of
fleshly appetites. Be it so; but I thank God, that is
not all that we are obliged to believe. No, there are
true hearts, amidst the throng of the false and the
faithless. There are warm and generous hearts,
which the cold atmosphere of surrounding selfishness
never chills; and eyes, unused to weep for personal
sorrow, which often overflow with sympathy for the
sorrows of others. Yes, there are good men, and true
men; I thank them; I bless them for what they are:
I thank them for what they are to me. What do I
say-why do I utter my weak benediction? God firom
on high, doth bless them, and he giveth his angels
charge to keep them; and no where in the holy Record
are there words more precious or strong, than those in
which it is written that God loveth these righteous
ones. Such men are there. Let not their precious
virtues be distrusted. As surely and as evidently as
some men have obeyed the calls of ambition and




36             ON HUMIIAN NATURE.
pleasure, so surely, and so evidently, have other men
obeyed the voice of conscience, and " chosen rather te
suffer with the people of God than to enjoy the pleasures
of sin for a season."  Why, every meek man suffers in
a conflict keener far, than the contest for honour and
applause. And there are such men, who amidst
injury, and insult, and misconstruction, and the pointed
finger, and the scornful lip of pride, stand firm in their
integrity and allegiance to a loftier principle, and still
their throbbing hearts in prayer, and hush them to the
gentle motions of kindness and pity. Such witnesses
there are, even in this bad world; signs that a redeeming work is going forward amidst its mournful derelictions; proofs that it is not a world forsaken of
heaven; pledges that it will not be forsaken; tokens
that cheer and touch every good and thoughtful mind,
beyond all other power of earth to penetrate and
enkindle it.
I believe that what I have now said, is a most legitimate argument for the worth of human nature. As
a matter of fact, it will not be denied that such beings
as I have represented, there are. And I now further
maintain, and this is the most material point in the
argument, that such men-that good men, in other
words-are to be regarded as the rightful and legitimate representatives of human nature. Surely, not
man's vices but his virtues, not his failure but his success, should teach us what to think of his nature. Just
as we should look, for their real character, to the productions nourished by a favourable soil and climate,
and not to the same plants or trees, as thev stand
withered and stunted in a barren desert.
But here we are met with the objection before
referred to. It is said that man's virtues come from
God; and his sins only from his own nature. And




ON HUMAN NATURE.               37
thus —for this is the result of the objection —from the
estimate of what is human, all human excellence is at
once cut of, by this fine discrimination of theological
subtilty. Unreasonable as this seems to me, if the
objector will forget his theology for one moment, I will
answer it. I say, then, that the influence of the good
spirit of God, does not destroy our natural powers, but
guides them into a right direction; that it does not
create any thing unnatural surely, nor supernatural in
man, but what is suitable to his nature: that, in fine,
his virtues are as truly the voluntary putting forth of
his native powers, as his vices are. Else would his
virtues have no worth. Human nature, in short, is
the noble stock on which these virtues grow. With
heaven's rain, and sunshine, and genial influence, do
you say? Be it so; still they are no less human, and
show the stock from which they spring. When you
look over a grain-field, and see some parts more luxuriant than others, do you say, that they are of a different nature from the rest? And when you look abroad
upon the world, do you think it right to take Tartars
and Hottentots as specimens of the race? And why
then shall you regard the worst of men, rather than
the best, as samples of human nature and capability?
The way, then, is open for us to claim for human
nature, however that nature is breathed upon by
heavenly influences, all the excellent fruits that have
sprung from it. And they are not few; they are not
small; they are not contemptible.
They have cost too much-if there were no other
consideration to give them value; they have cost too
much, to be thus estimated.
The true idea of human nature, is not, that it passively and spontaneously produces its destined results;
4




38            ON HUMAN NATURE.
but, that placed in a fearful contest between good antd
evil, it is capable of glorious exertions.and attainments.
Human virtue is the result of effort and patience, in
circumstances that most severely try it.  Human
excellence is much of it gained at the expense of selfdenial. All the wisdom and worth in the world, are a
struggle with ignorance and infirmity and temptation;
often with sickness and pain. There is not an admi-:
rable character presented before you, but it has cost
years and years, of toil and watching and self-government to form it. You see the victor, but you forget
the battle. And you forget it, for a reason that exalts
and ennobles the fortitude and courage of the combatant. You forget it, because the conflict has been car
ried on, all silently, in his own bosom. You forget it,
because no sound has gone forth, and no wreath of
fame has awaited the conqueror.
And what has he gained?-to refer to but one more
of the views that might be urged; what has he gained?
I answer, what is worth too much to be slightly estimated. The catalogue of human virtues is not brief
nor dull. What glowing words do we involuntarily
put into that record! with what feelings do we hallow
it! The charm of youthful excellence, the strong
integrity of manhood, the venerable piety of age;
unsullied honour, unswerving truth; fidelity, magnanimity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom; ay, and the spirit
of martyrdom in many a form of virtue; sacred fiiendship, with its disinterested toil, ready to die for those
it loves; noble'patriotism, slain in its high places,
beautiful in death; holy philanthropy, that pours out
its treasure and its life! dear and blessed virtues of
humanity! (we are ready to exclaim,) what human
heart does not cherish you? Bright cloud that hath
passed on with " the sacramental host of God's elect,"




ON HUMAN NATURE.               39
through ages!-how dark and desolate but for you,
would be this world's history!
My friends, I have spoken of the reality and worth
of virtue, and I have spoken of it as a part of human
nature, not surely to awaken a feeling of pride, but to
lead you and myself, to an earnest aspiration after that
excellence, which embraces the chief welfare and glory
of our nature. A cold disdain of our species, an indulgence of sarcasm, a feeling that is always ready to
distrust and disparage every indication of virtuous
principle, or an utter despair of the moral fortunes of
our race, will not help the purpose in view, but must
have a powerful tendency to hinder its accomplish
ment.
Unhappy is it, that any are left, by any possibility,
to doubt the virtues of their kind! Let us do something to wipe away from the history of human life,
that fatal reproach. Let us make that best of contributions to the stock of human happiness, an example
of goodness that shall disarm such gloomy and chilling
scepticism, and win men's hearts to virtue. I have
received many benefits, from my fellow-beings. But
no gift, in their power to bestow, can ever impart such
a pure and thrilling delight, as one bright action, one
lovely virtue, one character that shines with all the
enrapturing beauty of goodness.
Who would not desire to confer such benefits on the
world as these?  Who would not desire to leave such
memorials behind him? Such memorials have been
left on earth. The virtues of the departed, but forever
dear, hallow and bless many of our dwellings, and call
forth tears that lose half of their bitterness in gratitude
and admiration. Yes, there are such legacies, and
there are those on earth who have inherited them.
Yes, there are men, poor men, whose parents have left




40           ON HUMAN NATURE.
them a legacy in their bare memory, that they would
not exchange-no, they would not exchange it for
boundless wealth. Let it be our care to bequeath to
society and to the world, blessings like these. "The
memorial of virtue," saith the wisdom of Solomon, "is
immortal. When it is present, men take example from
it; and when it is gone, they desire it; it weareth a
crown, and triumpheth forever."




III.
ON THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES TO HUMAN NATURE.
HI THAT SINNETH AGAINST ME WRONGETH HIS OWN SOUL.-Prov. vii. 36.
THIS is represented as the language of wisdom.
The attribute of wisdom is personified throughout the
chapter; and it closes its instructions with the declaration of our text: "He that sinneth against me,wrongeth
his own soul." The theme, then, which, in these
words, is obviously presented for our meditation, is the
wrong which the sinner does to himself, to his nature,
to his own soul.
He does a wrong, indeed, to others. He does them,
it may be, deep and heinous injury. The moral offender injures society, and injures it in the most vital part.
Sin is, to all the dearest interests of society, a desolating power. It spreads misery through the world.
It brings that misery into the daily lot of millions.
The violence of anger, the exactions of selfishness, the
corrodings of envy, the coldness of distrust, the contests
of pride, the excesses of passion, the indulgences of
sense, carry desolation into the very bosom of domestic
life; and the crushed and bleeding hearts of friends
and kindred, or of a larger circle of the suffering and
oppressed, are every where witnesses at once, and victims to the mournful presence of this great evil.
But all the injury, great and terrible as it is, which
the sinner does or can inflict upon others, is not equal
to the injury that he inflicts upon himself.  The evil
that he does, is, in almost all cases, the greater, the
1*




42            ON HUMAN NATURE.
nearer it comes to himself; greater to his friends than
to society at large; greater to his family, than to his
friends; and so it is greater to himself than it is to any
other. Yes, it is in his own nature, whose glorious
traits are dimmed and almost blotted out, whose pleading remonstrances are sternly disregarded, whose immortal hopes are rudely stricken down; it is in his
own nature that he does a work so dark and mournful,
and so fearful, that he ought to shudder and weep to
think of it.
Does any one say, "ho is glad that it is so; glad
that it is himself he injures most?" What a feeling,
my brethren, of disinterested justice is that! How
truly, may it be said, that there is something good in
bad men. Doubtless, there are those, who in their
remorse at an evil deed, would be glad if all the injury
and suffering could be their own. I rejoice in that
testimony. But does that feeling make it any less
true,-does not that feeling make it more true, that
such a nature is wronged by base and selfish passions?
Or, because it is a man's self, because it is his own
soul that he has. most injured; because he has not only
wronged others, but ruined himself; is his course any
the less guilty, or unhappy, or unnatural?
I say, unnatural; and this is a point on which I
wish to insist, in the consideration of that wrong which
the moral offender does to himself. The sinner, I say,
is to be pronounced an unnatural being. He has cast
off the government of those powers of his nature, which
as being the loftiest, have the best right to reign over
him, the government, that is to say, of his intellectual
and moral faculties; and has yielded himself to meaner
appletites. Those meaner appetites, though they belong to his nature, have no right, and he knows they
aave no right, to govern him. The rightful authority,




THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT.            43
the lawful. sovereignty belongs, and he knows that it
belongs, not to sense, but to conscience. To rebel
against this, is to sin against nature. It is to rebel
against nature's order. It is to rebel against the government that God has set up within him. It is to
obey, not venerable authority, but the faction which
his passions have made within him.
Thus violence and misrule are always the part of
transgression.  Nay, every sin-I do not mean now
the natural and unavoidable imperfection of a weak
and ignorant being-but every wilful moral offence is
a monstrous excess and excrescence in the mind, a
hideous deformity, a loathsome disease, a destruction,
so far as it goes, of the purposes for which our nature
was made. As well inight you say of the diseased
plant or tree, which is wasting all its vigour on the
growth of one huge and unsightly deformity, that it is
in a natural condition. Grant that the natural powers
of the plant or tree are converted, or rather perverted
to this misuse, and help to produce this deformity; yet
the deformity is not natural. Grant that evil is the
possible, or supposable, or that it is the actual, nay,
and in this world, the common, result of moral freedom. But it is evidently not the just and legitimate
result; it is not the fair and natural result; it violates
all moral powers and responsibilities.  If the mechanism of a vast manufactory, were thrown into sudden
disorder, the power which propels it might, indeed,
spread destruction throughout the whole work; but
would that be the natural course of things; the result
for which the fabric was made? So passion, not in its
natural state, but still natural passion, in its unnatural state of excess and fury, may spread disorder
and destruction through the moral system; but wreck




44             ON HUMAN NATURE.
and ruin are not the proper order of any nature,
whether material or moral.
The idea against which I am now contending, that
evil is natural to us, and, in fact, that nothing else is
natural; this popular and prevailing idea is one, it
seems to me, so fearful and fatal in its bearings —is
one of such comprehensive and radical mischief, as to
infect the religious state of all mankind, and to overshadow, almost with despair, the moral prospects of
the world. There is no error, theological or moral,
that appears to me, so destructive as this. There is
nothing that lies so near the very basis of all moral
reform and spiritual improvement as this.
If it were a matter of mere doctrine it would be of
less consequence. But it is a matter of habitual feeling, I fear, and of deep-settled opinion. The world,
alas! is not only in the sad and awful condition of
being filled with evil, and filled with misery in consequence, but of thinking that this is the natural order
of things. Sin is a thing of course; it is taken for
granted that it must exist very much in the way that
it does; and men are every where easy about it: they
are every where sinking into worldliness and vice as
if they were acting out the principles of their moral
constitution, and almost as if they were fulfilling the
will of God. And thus it comes to pass, that that
which should fill the world with grief and astonishment and horror, beyond all things else most horrible
and lamentable, is regarded with perfect apathy as a
thing natural and necessary. Why, my brethren, if
but the animal creation were found, on a sudden, disobedient to the principles of their nature; if they were
ceasing to regard the guiding instincts with which they
are endowed, and were rushing into universal mad




THE WRO0NG WHICH SIN DOES IT.          45
ness, the whole world would stand aghast at the spectacle.. But multitudes in the rational creation, disobey
a higher law and forsake a more sacred guidance; they
degrade themselves below the beasts, or make themselves as entirely creatures of this world; they plunge
into excess and profligacy; they bow down divine and
immortal faculties to the basest uses; and there is no
wonder, there is no horror, there is no consciousness
of the wrong done to themselves.  They say, "it is the
natural course of things," as if they had solved the
whole problem of moral evil. They say, "it is the
way of the world," almost as if they thought it was the
order of Providence.  They say, " it is what men are,"
almost as if they thought it was what men were designed to be. And thus ends their comment, and with
it, all reasonable endeavour to make themselves better
and happier.
If this state of prevailing opinion be as certainly
erroneous, as it is evidently dangerous, it is of the last
importance that every resistance, however feeble, should
be offered to its fatal tendencies. Let us therefore consider, a little more in detail, the wrong which sin does
to human nature. I say then, that it does a wrong to
every natural faculty and power of the mind.
Sin does a wrong to reason. There are instances,
and not a few, in which it absolutely destroys reason.
There are other and more numerous cases, in which it
employs that faculty, but employs it in a toil most
degrading to its nature.  There is reasoning, indeed,
in the mind of a miser; the solemn arithmetic of profit
and loss. There is reasoning in the schemes of unscrupulous ambition; the absorbing and agitating
intrigue for office or honour. There is reasoning upon
the modes of sensual pleasure; and the whole power




16            ON HUMAN NATURE.
of a very acute mind is sometimes employed and absorbed, in plans and projects and imaginations of evil
indulgence. But what an unnatural desecration is it,
for reason, sovereign, majestic, all comprehending
reason, to contract its boundless range to the rreasure
of what the hand can grasp; to be sunk so low, as to
idolize outward or sensitive good; to make its- god, not
indeed, of wood or stone, but of a sense, or a nerve!
What a prostration of immortal reason is-it, to bend its
whole power to the poor and pitiful uses, which sinful
indulgence demands of it!
Sin is a kind of insanity. So far as it goes, it makes
man an irrational creature: it makes him a fool. The
consummation of evil is, ever, and in every form, the
extreme of folly. And it is that most pitiable folly
which is puffed up with arrogance and self-sufficiency.
Sin degrades, it impoverishes, it beggars the soul; and
yet the soul in this very condition, blesses itself in its
superior endowments and happy fortune. Yes, every
sinner is a beggar: as truly as the most needy and
desperate mendicant. He begs for a precarious happiness; he begs it of his possessions or his coffers, that
cannot give it; he begs it of every passing trifle and
pleasure; he begs it of things most empty and uncertain,-of every vanity, of every shout of praise in the
vacant air; of every wandering eye he begs its homage: he wants these things, he wants then for happiness; he wants them to satisfy the craving soul; and
yet he imagines that he is very fortunate; he accounts
himself wise, or great, or honourable, or rich, increased
in goods, and in need of nothing. The infatuation of
the inebriate man, who is elated and gay, just when
he ought to be most depressed and sad, we very well
understand. But it is just as true of every man that




THE WRONG WHICH SIN.DOES IT.          47
is intoxicated by any of his senses or passions, by
wealth, or honour, or pleasure, that he is infatuated;
that he has abjured reason.
What clearer dictate of reason is there than to prefer the greater good, to the lesser good. But every
offender, every sensualist, every avaricious man, sacrifices the greater good, the happiness of virtue and piety,
for the lesser good, which he finds in his senses or in
tile perishing world. Nor, is this the strongest view
of the case. He sacrifices the greater for the less,
without any necessity for it. He might have both.
He gives up heaven for earth, when in the best sense,
he might, I repeat, have both. A pure mind can derive more enjoyment from this world, and from the
senses, than an impure mind. This is true even of
the lowest senses. But there are other senses, besides
these; and the pleasures of the epicure are far from
equalling even in intensity, those which piety draws
from the glories of vision, and the melodies of sound;
ministers as they are of thoughts and feelings, that
swell far beyond the measure of all worldly joy.
The love of happiness might properly be treated as
a separate part of our nature, and I had intended,
indeed, to speak of it distinctly; to speak of the meagre
and miserable provision which unholy gratification
makes for it; and yet more of the cruel wrong which
is done to this eager and craving love of happiness.
But as I have fallen on this topic, and find the space
that belongs to me diminishing, I must content myself
with a single suggestion.
What bad man ever desired that his child should be
like himself?  Vice is said to wear an alluring aspect;
and many a heedless youth, alas! rushes into its embraces for happiness; but what vicious man, what
corrupt and dissolute man, ever desired that his child




46            ON HUMAN NATURE.
should walk in his steps? And what a testimony is
this, what a clear and disinterested testimony, to the
unhappiness of a sinful course! Yes, it is the bad
mlan that often feels an interest about the virtue of
others, beyond all, perhaps, that good men feel-feels
an intensity, an agony of desire for his children, that
they may be brought up virtuously; that they may
never, never be, such as he is!
How truly, and with what striking emphasis, did
the venerable Cranmer reply, when told that a-certain
man had cheated him, "No, he has cheated himself."
Every bad man, every dishonest man, every corrupt
man, cheats himself of a good, far dearer than any
advantage that he obtains over his neighbour. Others
he may injure, abuse and delude; but, another thing
is true, though commonly forgotten, and that is, that
he deludes himself, abuses himself; injures himself,
more than he does all other men.
In the next place, sin does a wrong to conscience.
There is a conscience in every man, which is as truly
a part of his nature, as reason or memory. The offender against this, therefore, violates no unknown law,
nor impracticable rule. From the very teaching of
his nature, he knows what is right, and he knows that
he can do it; and his very nature, therefore, instead
of furnishing him with apologies for wilful wrong,
holds him inexcusable. Inexcusable, I am aware, is
a strong word; and when I have looked at mankind,
and seen the ways in which they are instructed, educated and influenced, I have been disposed to feel as
if there were palliations. But on the other hand, when
I consider how strong is the voice of nature in a man,
how sharp and piercing is the work of a restraining
and condemning conscience, how loud and terrible is
its remonstrance, what a peculiar, what a heaven-com



THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT.          49
missioned anguish it sometimes inflicts upon the guilt)
man; I am compelled to say, despite of all bad teaching, and bad influence, " this being is utterly inexcusable."  For, I repeat it, there is a conscience in men
I cannot admit that human nature ever chooses evil
as such. It seeks for good, for gratification, indeed.
But take the vilest man that lives; and if it were so,
that he could obtain the gratification he seeks-be it
property or sensual pleasure-that he could obtain it,
honestly and innocently, he would greatly prefer it, on
such terms. This shows that there is conscience in
him. But he will have the desired gratification. And
to obtain it, he sets his foot upon that conscience, and
crushes it down to dishonour and agony, worse than
death. Ah! my brethren, we who sit in our closets,
talk about vice, and dishonesty, and bloody crime, and
draw dark pictures of them; cold and lifeless, though
dark pictures. But we little know, perhaps, of what
we speak. The heart, all conscious and alive to the
truth, would smile in bitterness and derision, at the
feebleness of our description. And could that heart
speak; could " the bosom black as death " send forth
its voice of living agony in our holy places, it would
rend the vaulted arches of every sanctuary, with the
cry of a pierced, and wounded, and wronged, and ruined
nature!
Finally, sin does a wrong to the affections. How
does it mar even that image of the affections, that
mysterious shrine from which their revealings flash
forth, "the human face divine;" bereaving the world
of more than half its beauty! Can you ever behold
sullenness clouding the clear, fair brow of childhood,
or the flushed cheek of anger, or the averted and
writhen features of envy, or the dim and sunken eye
and haggard aspect of vice, or the red signals of bloated
P




50             ON HUMAN NATURE.
excess hung out on every feature, proclaiming the fi eB
that is consuming within-without feeling that sin is
the despoiler of all that the affections make most hallowed and beautiful?
But these are only indications of the wrong that is
done, and the ruin that is wrought in the heart. Nature has made our affections to be full of tenderness,
to be sensitive and alive to every touch, to cling to
their cherished objects with a grasp, from which
nothing but cruel violence can sever them. We hear
much, I know, of the coldness of the world; but I
cannot believe much that I hear; nor is it perhaps
meant, in any sense, that denies to man naturally, the
most powerful affections; affections that demand the
most gentle and considerate treatment. Human love
— I am ready to exclaim-how  strong is it! What
yearnings are there of parental fondness, of filial gratitude, of social kindness, every where! What impatient asking of ten thousand hearts for the love of
others; not for their gold, not for their praise, but for
their love!
But sin enters into this world of the affections, and
spreads around the death-like coldness of distrust; the
word of anger falls like a blow upon the heart; or
avarice hardens the heart against every finer feeling;
or the insane merriment, or the sullen stupor of the
inebriate man, falls like a thunder-bolt amidst the
circle of kindred and children. Oh! the hearts, where
sin is to do its work, should be harder than the nether
mill-stone; yet it enters in among affections, all warm,
all sensitive, all gushing forth in tenderness; and deaf
to all their pleadings, it does its work, as if it were
some demon of wrath that knew no pity, and heard no
groans, and felt no relenting.
But I must not leave this subject to be regarded as




THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT.          51
ofit were only a matter for abstract or curious speculation. It goes beyond reasoning; it goes to the
conscience, and demands penitence and humiliation.
For of what, in this view, is the sensualist guilty?
He is guilty not merely of indulging the appetites of
his body; but of sacrificing to that body, a soul!-I
speak literally-of sacrificing to that body a soul; yes,
of sacrificing all the transcendent and boundless creation of God in his nature, to one single nerve of his
perishing frame. The brightest emanation of God, a
flame from the everlasting altar, burns within him;
and he voluntarily spreads over it, a fleshy veil, a veil
of appetites, a veil of thick darkness; and if from its
awful folds, one beam of the unholy and insufferable
light within breaks forth, he closes his eyes, and quickly
spreads another covering of wilful delusion over it, and
utterly refuses to see that light, though it flashes upon
him from the shrine of the Divinity. There is, indeed,
a peculiarity in the sensuality of a man, distinguishing
it from the sensual gratification of which an animal is
capable, and which, many men are exalted above the
brutes, only to turn to the basest uses. The sensual
pleasures of a human being derive a quality from the
mind. They are probably more intense, through the
co-operating action of the mind. The appetite of
hunger or thirst, for instance, is doubtless the same in
both animal and man, and its gratification the same
in kind; but the mind communicates to it a greater
intensity. To a certain extent, this is unquestionably
natural and lawful. But the mind, finding that it has
this power, and that by absorption in sense, by gloating
over its objects, it can for a time, add something to their
enjoyment; the mind, I say, surrenders itself to the
base and ignoble ministry. The angel in man does
homage to the brute in man. Reason toils for sense;




52            ON HUMAN NATURE.
the imagination panders for appetite; and even the
conscience-that no faculty may be left undebasedthe divine conscience strives to spread around the
loathsome forms of voluptuousness, a haze of moral
beauty-calling intoxication, enthusiasm;-and revelling, good fellowship; and dignifying every species of
indulgence with some name that is holy.
Of what, again, is the miser, and of what is every
inerdinately covetous man, guilty? Conversant as he
may be with every species of trade and traffic, there is
one kind of barter, coining yet nearer to his interest,
but of which, perchance, he has never thought. He
barters virtue for gain! That is the stupendous moral
traffic in which he is engaged. The very attributes of
the mind are made a part of the stock, in the awful
trade of avarice. And if its account-book were to state
truly the whole of every transaction, it would often stand
thus: "Gained, my hundreds or my thousands; lost,
the rectitude and peace of my conscience:" "Gained,
a great bargain, driven hard; lost, in the same proportion, the generosity and kindness of nay affections."
"Credit "-and what strife is there for that ultimate
item, for that final record?-" Credit, by an immense
fortune;" but on the opposing page, the last page of
that moral, as truly as mercantile account, I read those
words, written not in golden capitals, but in letters of
fire-" a lost soul!"
Oh! my brethren, it is a pitiable desecration of such
a nature as ours to give it up to the world. Some baser
thing might have been given, without regret; but to
bow down reason and conscience, to bind them to the
clods of earth; to contract those faculties that spread
themselves out beyond the world, even to infinity-to
contract them to worldly trifles; it is pitiable; it is
something to mourn and to weep over.  ie who sits




THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT.         53
down in a dungeon which another has made, has not
such cause to bewail himself, as he who sits down in
the dungeon which he has thus made for himself.
Poverty and destitution are sad things; but there is
no such poverty, there is no such destitution, as that
of a covetous and worldly heart. Poverty is a sad
thing, but there is no man so poor, as he who is poor
in his affections and virtues. Many a house is full,
where the mind is unfurnished and the heart is empty;
and no hovel of mere penury ever ought to be so sad
as that house. Behold, it is left desolate; to the immortal it is left desolate, as the chambers of death.
Death is there indeed; and it is the death of the soul!
But not to dwell longer upon particular forms of
evil; of what, let us ask, is the man guilty? W'Vho
is it that is thus guilty? To say that he is noble in
his nature, has been sometimes thought a dangerous
laxity of doctrine, a proud assumption of merit, "a
flattering unction " laid to the soul. But what kind of
flattery is it, to say to a man, "you were made but
little lower than the angels; you might have been
rising to the state of angels; and you have madewhat have you made yourself?  What you are; a
slave to the world; a slave to sense; a slave to masters baser than nature made them, to vitiated sense,
and a corrupt and vain world!" Alas! the irony implied in such flattery as this, is not needed to add
poignancy to conviction. Boundless capacities shrunk
to worse than infantile imbecility! immortal faculties
made toilers for the vanities of a moment! a glorious
nature sunk to a willing fellowship with evil!-it needs
no exaggeration, but only simple statement, to make
this a sad and afflicting case. Ill enough had it been
for us if we had been made a depraved and degraded
race. Well might the world even then, have sat down
5*




54             ON HUMAN NATURE.
in sackcloth and sorrow; though repentance could
properly have made no part: of its sorrow. But ill is
it indeed, if we have made, ourselves the sinful and
unhappy beings that we are; if we have given ourselves the wounds, which have brought languishment
and debility and distress upon us! What keen regret
and remorse would any one of us feel, if in a fit of
passion, he had destroyed his own right arm, or had
planted in it a lingering wound! And yet this, and
this last especially, is what every offender does to some
faculty of his nature.
But this is not all. Ill enough had it been for us, if
we had wrought out evil from nothing; if from a
nature negative and indifferent to the result, we had
brought forth the fruits of guilt and misery. But if we
have wronged, if we have wrested from its true bias,
a nature -made for heavenly ends; if it was all beautiful in God's design and in our capacity, and we have
made it all base. so that human nature, alas! is but the
by-word of the satirist, and a mark for the scorner; if
affections that might have been sweet and pure almost
as the thoughts of angels, have been  soured and
embittered and turned to wrath, even in the homes
of human kindness; if the very senses have been brutalized and degraded, and changed from ministers of
pleasure to inflictors of pain; and yet more, if all the
dread authority of reason has been denied, and all the
sublime sanctity of conscience has been set at naught
in this downward course; and yet once more, if all
these things, not chimerical, rnot visionary, are actually witnessed, are matters of history, in ten thousand
dwellings, around us; ah! if they are actually existing, my brethren, in you and in me!-and finally, if
uniting together, these causes of depravation have
spread a flood of misery over the world. and there




THE WRONG WHICH SIN DOES IT.           55
are sorrows and sighings and tears in all the hatitations of men, all proceeding from this one cause;
then, I say, shall penitence be thought a strange and
uncalled-for emotion?  Shall it be thought strange
that the first great demand of the Gospel, should be
for repentance? Shall it be thought strange that a
man should sit down and weep bitterly for his sins;
so strange that his acquaintances shall ask, "what
hath he done?" or shall conclude that he is going mad
with fanaticism, or is on the point of losing his reason?
No, truly; the dread infatuationis on the part of those
who weep not? It is the negligent world, that is
fanatical and frantic in the pursuit of unholy indulgences and unsatisfying pleasures. It is such a world
refusing to weep over its sins and miseries, that is
fatally deranged. Repentance, my brethren,- shall it
be thought a virtue difficult of exercise? What can the
world sorrow for, if not for the cause of all sorrow?
What is to awaken grief, if not guilt and shame?
Where shall the human heart pour out its tears, if not
on those desolations which have been of its own
creating?
How fitly is it written, and in language none too
strong, that "the sacrifices of God are a broken and
contrite heart." And how encouragingly is it written
also, "a broken and contrite heart, thou wilt not despise."  "Oh! Israel," saith again the sacred word,
" Oh, Israel! thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is
thine help folmd."




IV.
ON THE ADAPTATION WHICH RELIGION, TO BE TRUE
AND USEFUL, SHOULD HAVE TO HUMAN NATURE.
A BRUISED REED SHALL HE NOT %BREAK, AND THE SMOKING FLAX SHALL HI
NOT QUENCH.-Isaiah xlii. 3.
THIS was spoken by prophecy of our Saviour, and
is commonly considered as one of the many passages,
which either prefigure or describe, the considerate and
gracious adaptation of his religion, to the wants and
weaknesses of human nature: This adaptation of
Christianity to the wants of the mind, is, indeed a
topic that has been much, and very justly insisted on,
as an evidence of its truth.
I wish however, in the present discourse, to place
this subject before you in a light somewhat different,
perhaps, from that in which it has usually been viewed.
If Christianity is suited to the wants of our nature, it
is proper to consider what our nature needs. I shall
therefore in the following discourse, give considerable
prominence to this inquiry. The wants of our nature
are various. I shall undertake to show in several respects, what a religion that is adapted to these wants,
should be. In the same connection, I shall undertake
to show that Christianity is such a religion.
This course of inquiry, I believe, will elicit some
just views of religious truth, and will enable us to
judge whether our own views of it are just. My ob.
ject in it, is to present some temperate and comprehen



THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.  57
sive views of religion, which shall be seen at once to
meet the necessities of our nature, and to accord with
the spirit of the Christian religion.
Nothing, it would seem, could be more obvious, than
that a religion for human beings, should be suited to
human beings; not to angels, nor to demons: not to a
fictitious order of creatures; not to the inhabitants of
some other world; but to men-to men of this world,
of this state and situation in which we are placed, of
this nature which is given us; to men, with all their
passions and affections warm and alive, and all their
weaknesses and wants and fears, about them. And
yet evident and reasonable as all this is, nothing has
been more common, than for religion to fail of this
very adaptation. Sometimes, it has been made a
quality all softness, all mercy and gentleness; something joyous and cheering, light and easy, as if it were
designed for angels. At others, it has been clothed
with features as dark and malignant, as if it belonged
to fiends rather than to men. In no remote period, it
has laid penances on men: as if their sinews and
nerves were like the mails of steel, which they wore in
those days. While the same religion, with strange
inconsistency, lifted up the reins to their passions, as
if it had been the age of Stoicism, instead of being the
age of Chivalry. Alas! how little has there been
in the religions of past ages; how little in the prevalent forms even of the Christian religion, to draw out,
to expand and brighten, the noble faculties of our
nature! How many of the beautiful fruits of human
affection, have withered away under the cold and
blighting touch of a scholastic and stern theology!
How many fountains of joy in the human heart have
been sealed and closed up for ever, by the iron hand of
a gloomy superstition! How many bright spirits, how




68            ON HUMAN NATURE.
many comely and noble natures, have been marred
and crushed, by the artificial, the crude and rough
dealing of religious phrenzy and fanaticism!
It is suitable, then, it is expedient, to consider the
adaptation which religion to-be true and useful ought
to have to human nature. It may serve to correct
errors. It may serve to guide those who are asking
what ideas of religion they are to entertain, what
sentiments they are to embrace; what conduct to
pursue.
In entering upon this subject, let me offer one leading observation, and afterwards proceed to some particulars.
I. I say, then, in the first place, that religion should
be adapted to our whole nature. It should remember
that we have understandings; and it should be a rational religion. It should remember that we have
feelings; and it should be an earnest and fervent religion. It should remember that our feelings revolt at
violence, and are all alive to tenderness; and it should
be gentle, ready to entreat, and full of mercy. It should
remember too that our feelings naturally lean to selfindulgence, and it should be, in its gentleness, strict
and solemn. It should in a due proportion address all
our faculties.
Most of the erroneous forms of religious sentiment
that prevail in the Christian world, have arisen from
the predominance that has been given to some one
part of our nature, in the matters of spiritual concernment. Some religions have been all speculation, all
doctrine, all theology; and, as you might expect, they
have been cold, barren and dead. Others have been
all feeling; and have become visionary, wild, and
extravagant.  Some have been all sentiment; and
have wanted practical virtue. Others have been all




THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.   59
practice; their advocates have been exclaiming " works
works! these are the evidence and test of all goodness."  And so, with certain exceptions and qualifications, they are. But this substantial character of religion, this hold which it really has, upon all the
active principles of our nature, has been so much, so
exclusively contended for, that religion has too often
degenerated into a mere, superficial, decent morality.
Religion, then, let it be repeated, if it be true and
just, addresses our whole nature. It addresses the
active and the contemplative in us; reason and imagination; thought and feeling. It is experience; but
it is conduct too: it is high meditation; but then
it is also humble virtue. It is excitement, it is earn
estness; but no less truly, is it calmness. Let me
dwell upon this last point a moment. It is not uncommon to hear it said that excitement is a very bad
thing, and that true religion is calm. And yet it
would seem as if, by others, repose was regarded as
deadly to the soul, and as if the only safety lay in a
tremendous agitation. Now what saith our nature —
for the being that is the very subject of this varying
discipline may surely be allowed to speak-what saith
our nature to these different advisers? It says, I think,
that both are to a certain extent wrong, and both, to
a certain extent right. That is to say, human nature
requires, in their due proportion, both excitement and
tranquillity. Our minds need a complex and blended
influence; need to be at once aroused and chastened,
to be at the same time quickened and subdued; need
to be impelled, and yet guided; need to be humbled
no doubt, and that deeply, but not that only, as it
seems to be commonly thought-humbled, I say, and
yet supported; need to be bowed down in humility,
and yet strengthened in trust: need to be nerved to




60             ON HUMAN NATURE.
endurance at one time, and at another to be transport.
ed with joy. Let religion, let the reasonable and gracious doctrine of Jesus Christ, come to us with these
adaptations; generous to expand our affections, strict
to restrain our passions; plastic to mould our temper,
strong, ay, strong to control our will. Let religion be
thus welcomed to every true principle and passion of
our nature. Let it touch all the springs of intellectual
and of moral life. Let it penetrate to every hidden recess of the soul, and bring forth all its powers, and
enlighten, inspire, perfect them.
I hardly need say, that the Christian religion is thus
adapted to our whole nature. Its evidences address
themselves to our sober judgment. Its precepts commend themselves to our consciences.  It imparts light
to our understandings, and fervour to our affections.
It speaks gently to our repentance; but terribly to
our disobedience. It really does that for us, which
religion should do. It does arouse, and chasten, quicken and subdue, impel and guide, humble and yet support: it arms us with fortitude, and it transports us
with joy. It is profitable for the life that now is, and
for that which is to come.
II. But I must pass now, to observe, that there are
more particular adaptations which religion should have,
and which the Gospel actually has, to the condition
of human nature, and to the various degrees of its
improvement.
One of the circumstances of. our moral condition is
danger. Religion then should be a guardian, and a vigilant guardian; and let us be assured that the Gospel
is such.  Such emphatically do we read.  If we cannot bear a religion that admonishes us, watches ovet
us, warns us, restrains us; let us be assured that we
cannot bear a religion that will save us.  Religion




THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.   61
should be the keeper of the soul; and without such a
keeper, in the slow and undermining process of temptation, or amidst the sudden and strong assaults of
passion, it will be overcome and lost.
Again, the human condition is one of weakness.
There are weak points, where religion should be stationed to support and strengthen us. Points, did I say?
Are we not encompassed with weakness?  Where, in
the whole circle of our spiritual interests and affections, are we not exposed, and vulnerable? Where
have we not need to set up the barriers of habit, and
to build the strongest defences, with which resolutions
and vows and prayers can surround us? Where, and
vwherein, I ask again, is any man safe?  What virtue
of any man is secure from frailty?  What strong purpose of his is not liable to failure?  What affection of
his heart can say, " I have strength, I am established,
and nothing can move me." How weak is man in
trouble, in perplexity, in doubt; how weak in affliction, or when sickness bows the spirit., or when approaching death is unloosing all the bands of his pride
and self-reliance! And whose spirit does not sometimes faint under its intrinsic weakness, under its native frailty, and the burthen and pressure of its necessities?  Religion then should bring supply, and support, and strength to the soul; and the Gospel does
bring supply, and support, and strength. And it thus
meets a universal want. Every mind wants the stability which principle gives, wants the comfort which
piety gives; wants it continually, in all the varying
experience of life.
I have said, also, that religion should be adapted to
the various degrees of mental improvement, and I
may add, to the diversities of temperament. Now
there are sluggish natures that need to be aroused




6N HUMAN NATURE.
All the machinery of spiritual terror can scarce be too
much to arouse some persons; though it may indeed
be very improperly applied. But on the contrary, there
are minds so excitable and sensitive, that religion
should come to them with all its sobering and tranquillizing influence. In how many cases do we witness this! Hoxv many are there whose minds are
chilled, or stupified by denunciation! How many are
repelled by severity, or crushed by a weight of fear
and anxiety! How many such are there, that need
a helping hand to be stretched out to them; that need
to be raised, and soothed, and comforted; that need
to be won with gentleness, and -cheered with promises. The Gospel has terrors, indeed, but it is not
all terror: and its most awful rebukes soften into
pity, over the fearful, the dejected, the anxious and
humble.
But the most striking circumstance in the adaptation of religion to the different degrees of mental improvement, is its character as supplying not merely
the general necessities, but the conscious wants of the
mind. There may be some who have never been
conscious of these intrinsic wants, though they spring
from human nature and must be sooner or later felt.
To the very young, or to the unreflecting, religion can
be scarcely any thing more, perhaps, than direction.
It says, "do this, and do that; and refrain from this
gratification, and beware of that danger." It is chiefly
a set of rules and precepts to them. Speak to them
of religion as the grand resort of the mind, as that
which meets its inward necessities, supplies its deepfelt wants, fills its capacious desires; and they do not
well under stand you; or they do not understand, why
this view of the subject should be so interesting to
you. But another mind shall be bound to the Gospel




THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.  63
by nothing so mluch as by its wants. It craves something, thus vast, glorious, infinite, and eternal. It
sought, sought long perhaps, and anxiously for something thus satisfying; and it has found what it long
and painfully sought, in the teachings of Jesus, in
the love of God, in that world of spiritual thoughts
and objects which the great teacher has opened, in
that solemn and majestic vision of immortality which
he has brought to light. To such a religion the soul
clings with a peace and satisfaction never to be expressed, never to be uttered. It says, " to whom shall
I go-to whom shall I go? thou, 0 blessed religion,
minister and messenger from heaven!-thou hast the
words of eternal life, of eternal joy!" The language
which proclaims the sufficiency of religion, which sets
forth the attraction and the greatness of it, as supply
ing the great intellectual want, is no chimerical language; it is not merely a familiar language; but is
intimate with the deepest and the dearest feelings of
the heart.
In descending to the more specific applications of
the principle of religion to human nature, I must content myself for the present, with one further observation; and that is, that it meets and mingles with all
the varieties of natural temperament and disposition.
Religion should not propose to break up all the diversities of individual character; and Christianity does
not propose this. It did not propose this, even when
it first broke upon the world with manifestation and
miracle. It allowed the rash and forward Peter, the
timid and doubting Thomas, the mild and affectionate
John, the resolute and fervent Paul, still to retain all
their peculiarities of character. The way of becoming
religious, or interested in religion, was not the same to
all. There was Cornelius, the Pagan, whose "alms




64            ON HUMAN NATURE.
and prayers were accepted;" and there were others)
who became Christians, "without so much as hearing
that there was any Holy Ghost."  There were the inmediate disciples of our Lord, who, through a course
of gradual teaching, came to apprehend his spiritual
kingdom; and there was Paul, to whom this knowledge came by miracle, and with a light brighter than
the sun. There was the terrified jailer who fell down
trembling and said, "what must I do to be saved?"
and there was the cautious and inquiring Nicodemus,
who, as if he had been reflecting on the matter, said,
" we know that thou art a teacher come from God, for
no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except
God be with him."
Now it is painful to observe at this day, how little
of this individuality there is, in the prevailing and
popular experience of religion. A certain process is
pointed out, a certain result is described; particular
views and feelings are insisted on, as the only right
and true state of mind; and every man strives to bring
himself through the required process to the given result. It is common, indeed, to observe, that if you read
one account of a conversion, one account of a religious excitement, you have all. I charge not this to any
particular set of opinions, though it may be found to
have been connected with some creeds more than with
others; but it results too, fiom the very weakness of
human nature. One man leans on the experience of
another, and it contributes to his satisfaction, of course
to have the same experience. How refreshing is it.
amidst this dull and artificial uniformity, to meet with
a man whose religion is his own; who has thought and
felt for himself; who has not propped up his hopes on
other men's opinions: who has been willing to commune with the spirit of religion and of God, alone,




THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.   65
and who brings forth to you the fruits of his experience, fresh and original, and is not much concerned
for your judgment of them, provided they have nourished and comforted himself.  I would not desire that
every man should view all the matters of piety, as I
do; but would rather that every man should bring
the results of his own individual conviction, to aid the
common cause of right knowledge and judgment.
In the diversities of character and situation that
exists, there will naturally be diversities of religious
experience. Some, as I have said before, are -constitutionally lively, and others serious; some are ardent
and others moderate: some, also, are inclined to be
social, and others to be retired.  Knowledge and ignorance, too, and refinement and rudeness of character, are cases to be provided for. And a true and
thorough religion-this is the special observation I
wish to make on the diversities of character-a true
and thorough religion, when it enters the mind, will
show  itself by its naturally blending and mingling
with the mind as it is; it will sit easily upon the character; it will take forms in accordance, not with the
bad, but with the constitutional tempers and dispositions it finds in its subjects.
Nay, I will say yet further, that religion ought not
to repress the natural buoyancy of our affections, the
innocent gaiety of the heart. True religion was not
designed to do this. Undoubtedly, it will discriminate.
It will check what is extravagant in us, all tumultuous and excessive joy about acquisitions of little consequence, or of doubtful utility to us: it will correct
what is deformed; it will uproot what is hurtful. But
there is a native buoyancy of the heart, the meed of
youth, or of health, which is a sensation of our animal
nature, a tendency of our being. This, true religion
6*




66             ON HIIUMAN NATURE.
does not propose to withstand.  It does not wat
against our nature. As well should the cultivator of
a beautiful and variegated galrden, cut up all the flowers in it, or lay weights and encumbrances on thenm,
lest they should be too flourishing and fair. Religion
is designed for the culture of our natural faculties, not
for their eradication!
It would be easy now, did the time permit, to illustrate the views which have been presented, by a reference to the teachings of our Saviour. He did not address one passion or part of our nature alone, or chiefly.
There was no one manner of address; and we feel
sure as we read, that there was no one tone. He did
not confine himself to any one class of subjects. He
was not always speaking of death, nor of judgment,
nor of eternity; fiequently and solemnly as he spoke
of them. He was not always speaking of the state of
the sinner, nor of repentance and the new heart;
though on these subjects too he delivered his solemn
message. There was a varied adaptation, in his discourses, to every condition of mind, and every duty of
life; and every situation in which his hearers were
placed. Neither did the preaching of our Saviour possess, exclusively, any one moral complexion. It was
not terror only, nor promise only; it was not exclusively severity nor gentleness; but it was each one of
them in its place, and all of them always subdued to
the tone of perfect sobriety. At one time we hear
him  saying, with lofty self-respect, "neither tell I you
by what authority I do these things:" at another with
all the majesty of the Son of God, we hear him, in
rely to the fatal question of the judgment-hall, "Art
thou the Christ?" —we hear him  say, "I am; and
hereafter ye shall see the Son of man seated on the
throne of power and coming in the clouds of heaven."




THE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.  67
But It is the same voice that says, " come unto me, all
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest; take my yoke which is easy, and my burden which is light, and ye shall find rest to your souls."
At one time he speaks in the language of terror, and
says, " fear not them who after that they have killed the
body, have no more that they can do; but fear Him
who is able to cast both soul and body into hell, yea,
I say into you, fear him."  But at another time, the
awful admonisher breaks out into the pathetic exclamnation, " Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem! how often would
I have gathered your children, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, but ye would not."
If I might be permitted now, to add a suggestion of
an advisory nature, it would be in the language of an
apostle; " let your moderation be known to all men."
The true religion, the true excellence of character,
requires that we should hold all the principles and affections of our nature in a due subordination and pro
portion to each other; that we should subdue all the
clamoring voices of passion and desire, of fear and
hope, of joy and sorrow, to complete harmony; that
we should regard and cultivate our nature as a whole.
Almost all error is some truth, carried to excess, or
diminished from its proper magnitude. Almost all evil
is some good or useful principle, suffered to be immoderate and ungovernable, or suppressed and denied
its proper influence and action. Let, then, moderation
be a leading trait of our virtue and piety. This is not
dullness. Nothing is farther from dullness. And nothing, surely, is more beautiful in character, or more
couching, than to see a lively and intense sensibility
controlled by the judgment; strong passions subdued
and softened by reflection; and on the other hand, to




68             ON HUMAN NATU1t E.
End a vigorous, clear and manly understanding, quick.
ened by a genuine fervor and enthusiasm. Nothing
is more wise or more admirable in action, than to be
resolute and yet calm, earnest and yet self-possessed, decided and yet modest; to contend for truth and right
with meekness and charity; to go forward in a good
cause without pretension, to retire with dignity; to give
without pride, and to withhold without meanness; to
rejoice with moderation, and to suffer with patience.
And nothing, I may add, was more remarkable in the
character of our Saviour, than this perfect sobriety,
consistency, self-control.
This, therefore, is the perfection of character. This
will always be found, I believe, to be a late stage in
the progress of religious worth from its first beginnings.
It is comparatively easy to be one thing and that
alone; to be all zeal, or all reasoning; all faith or all
action; all rapture, or all chilling and captious faultfinding. Here novices begin. Thus far they may
easily go. Thus far men may go, whose character is
the result of temperament and not of culture; of headlong propensity, and not of careful and conscientious
discipline. It is easy for the bruised reed to be broken. It is easy for the smoking flax to be quenched.
It is easy to deal harshly and rudely with the matters
of religious and virtuous experience: to make a hasty
effort, to have a paroxysm of emotion, to give way to
a feverish and transient feeling, and then to smother
and quench all the rising purposes of a better life.
But true religion comes to us with a wiser. and more
considerate adaptation,-to sustain and strengthen
the bruised reed of human weakness; to fan the rising
flame of virtuous and holy purposes: it comes to revive
our failing courage, to restrain our wayward passions.




TIHE ADAPTATION OF RELIGION TO IT.   69
It will not suffer us to go on with our fluctuations and
our fancies; with our transient excitements, and monmentary struggles. It will exert a more abiding, a
more rational influence. It will make us more faithful and persevering. It will lay its hand on the very
energies of our nature, and will take the lead and control, the forming and perfecting of them. May we
find its real and gracious power! May it lead us in
the true, the brightening path of the just, till it brings us
to the perfect day!
Oh! my brethren, we sin against our own peace, we
have no mercy upon ourselves, when we neglect such
a religion as this. It is the only wisdom, the only soundness, the only consistency and harmony of character.
the only peace and blessedness of mind. We should
not have our distressing doubts and fears; we should
not be so subject as we are to the distracting influences
of passion, or of the world without us, if we had
yielded our hearts wholly to the spirit and religion of
Jesus. It is a religion adapted to us all. To every
affection, to every state of mind, troubled or joyous, to
every period of life, it. would impart the very influence
that we need. How surely would it guide our youth,
and how would it temper, and soften, and sanctify all
the fervors of youthful affection! How well would it
support our age, making it youthful again with the
fervent hope of immortality! How would it lead us,
too, in all the paths of earthly care and business and
labour, turning the brief and weary courses of worldly
toil into the ways that are everlasting! How faithfully
and how calmly would it conduct us to the everlasting
abodes! And how well, in fine, does he, of whom it
was prophesied that he should not break the bruised
reed nor quench the smoking flax; how well does he




70            ON HIUMAN NATURE.
meet that gracious character, when he says,-shall we
not listen to him'?-" Come unto me all ye that labour
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest: take my
yoke which is easy, and my burden, which is light;
learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye
shall find rest unto your souls."




V.
THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO HUMAN NATURE.
UNTO YOU, 0 MEN, I CALL; AND MY VOICE IS TO THE SONS OF MEN.-Pro0. viii 4
THE appeal of religion to human nature, the deep
wisdom of its instructions to the human heart, the language of power and of cheering with which it is fitted
to address the inmost soul of man, is never to be understood, perhaps, till our nature is exalted far beyond its
present measure. When the voice of wisdom and
purity shall find an inward wisdom and purity to which
it can speak, it will be received with a welcome and
gladness, with a joy beyond all other joy, such as no
tongue of eloquence has ever expressed, nor the heart
of worldly sensibility ever yet conceived. It is, therefore, with the most unfeigned diffidence, with the most
distinct conciousness that my present labour must be
incipient and imperfect, that I enter upon this great
theme-the appeal of religion to human nature.
What'ought it to be?  What has it been?  These
are the inquiries which I shall pursue. Nor shall I
attempt to keep them altogether separate in the discussion; since, both the defects and the duties of religious instruction may often be best exhibited under
the same head of discourse. Neither shall I labour to
speak of religion under that abstract and figurative
character with which wisdom is personified in the
context, though that may be occasionally convenient;
but whether it be the language of individual reason, or




72             ON HUMAN NATURE.
conscience; whether it be the voice of the parent, ot
of the preacher; whether it be the language of forms
or of institutions, I would consider how religion has
appealed, and how it ought to have appealed, to
human nature.
Thle topics of discourse, under which I shall pursue
these inquiries, are the following; in what character
should religion address us?  To what in us should it
speak?  And how  should it deliver its message?
That is to say, the substance, the subject, and the
spirit of the appeal, are the topics of our inquiry. I
cannot, of course, pursue these inquiries beyond the
point to which the immediate object of my discourse,
will carry them; and I am willing to designate that
point, at once, by saying, that the questions are,
whether the character in which religion is to appeal
to us, be moral or not; whether that in us to which it
chiefly appeals, should be the noblest or the basest
part of our nature; and finally, whether the manner
and spirit of its appeal should be that of confidence or
distrust, of friendship or hatred.
I. And with regard to the first question, the answer,
of course, is, that the character in which religion
should address us, is purely moral.. As a moral principle, as a principle of rectitude, it must speak to us.
Institutions, rites, commruands, threatenings, promisesall forms of appeal must contain this essence; they
must be moral; they must be holy.
It may be thought strange that I should insist upon
a point so obvious, but let me crave your patience.
What is the most comprehensive form  of morality,
holiness, gratitude, religion? It is love; it is goodness.  The character of the Supreme Perfection is
set forth in this one attribute: "God is love."  This
is the very glory of God.  For when an ancient servant




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.        73
desired to "see his glory," the answer to the prayer
was, that "he caused all his goodness to pass before
him."
The character, then, in which religion should appeal to human nature, is that of simple and essential goodness. This, the moral nature of man is
made to understand and to feel; and nothing else
but this. This character, doubtless, has various expressions. Sometimes it takes the forms of command and threatening; but still these must speak, in
the name of goodness. If command and threatening
stand up to speak for themselves, alone-dissociated
froln that love which gives them all their moral
character-then, I say, that the moral nature of
man cannot receive their message. A brute can receive that; a dog or a horse can yield to mere command or tnenace. But the moral nature can yield
to nothing which is not moral; and that which
gives morality to every precept and warning is the
goodness which is breathed into them. Divest them
of this, and they are not even religious. Nor are
those persons religious, who pay obedience to command, as command, and without any consideration of
its moral nature, of the intrinsic and essential sanction which goodness bestows on the command
The voice of religion, then, must be as the voice of
goodness. Conceive of every thing good and lovely,
of every thing morally excellent and admirable, of
every thing glorious and godlike; and when these speak
to you, know that religion speaks to you. Whether
that voice comnes from the page of genius, or from
the record of heroic and heavenly virtue, or from its
living presence and example, or from the bosom of silent reverie, the innermost sanctuary of meditation;
whatever of the holy and beautiful speaks to you, and
7




74            ON HUMAN NATURE.
through what medium soever it comes, it is the voice
of religion. All excellence, in other words, is religion.
But here we meet with what seems to me-and so
must I denominate it, in justice to my own apprehensions,-a stupendous error; an error, prevalent I
believe, and yet fatal, so far as it goes, to all religious
emotion. All excellence, I said, is religion. But the
great error is, that in the popular apprehension, these
things are not identified. In other words, religion and
goodness are not identified in the general mind: they
are not held by most men to be the same thing. This
error, I say, if it exists, is fatal to genuine religious
emotion; because men cannot heartily love, as a
moral quality, any thing which is not, to them, goodness. Or, to state this position as a simple truism,
they cannot love any thing which is not, to them,
loveliness.
Now I am willing, nay I earnestly wish, that with
regard to the real nature of religion, there should be
the utmost discrimination; and I will soon speak to
that point. But I say for the present-I say, again,
that religion is made, intrinsically and altogether a
different thing, from what is commonly regarded as
loveliness of character, and therefore that it speaks to
men, speaks to human nature, not as goodness but as
some other thing.
For proof of this, I ask you first to look at that
phraseology by which religion is commonly described,
and to compare it with. the language by which men
express those lovely qualities that they most admire.
See, then, how they express their admiration. You
hear thenl speak of one who is amiable, lovely, fasci
nating; of one who is honourable, upright, generous.
You hear them speak of a good parent, of an affectionate child, of a worthy citizen, of an obliging neigh



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.         75
bour, of a kind and faithful friend, of a man whom
they emphatically call " a noble man;" and you observe a fervour of language and a glow of pleasure
while these things are said; a kindling animation in
the tone and the countenance, which inspires you
with a kindred sympathy and delight. But mark now,
in how different a language and manner, the qualities
of religion are described. The votary of religion is
said to be very " serious," perhaps, but with a look and
tone as if a much worse thing were stated; or you
hear it said of him that he is " a pious man," or, he is " a
very experienced person," or he is "a Christian, if ever
there was one;" but it seems even when the religious
themselves say all this, as if it were an extorted and
cold homage; as if religion were something very
proper indeed, very safe perhaps, but not very agreeable certainly; there is no glow, there is no animation, and there is generally no sympathy.
In further proof that religion is not identified with
the beautiful and admirable in character, I might turn
from the language in common use, to actual experience. Is religion, I ask —not the religion of poetry,
but that which exists in the actual conceptions of men,
the religion of professors, the religion that is commonly
taught from our pulpits-is it usually regarded as the
loveliest attribute of the human character? When your
minds glow with the love of excellence, when you
weep over the examples of goodness, is this excellence,
is this goodness which you admire, religion? Consult
the books of fiction, open the pages of history, resort
to the stores of our classical literature, and say, if the
religious man of our times appears in them at all; or
if, when he does appear in them, it is he that chiefly
draws your affection?  Say, rather, if it is not some
personage, whether of a real or fictitious tale, that is




76            ON HUMAN NATURE.
destitute of every distinctive quality of the popular re.
ligion, who kindles your enthusiasm? So true is this,
that many who have held the prevailing ideas of religion, have regarded, and on their principles, have
justly regarded, the literature of taste and of fiction, as
one of the most insidious temptations that could befall
them. No, I repeat, the images of loveliness that
dwell in the general mind, whether of writers or
readers, have not been the images of religion. And
thus it has happened, that the men of taste, and of
a lively and ardent sensibility, have, by no means
yielded their proportion of votaries to religion. The
dull, the gloomy, the sick,'the aged, have been religious; not-i. e. not to the same extent —the young
and the joyous in their first admiration and their first
love; not the intellectual and refined in the enthusiasm
of their feelings and in the glory of their imaginations.
But let me appeal once more to experience. I ask
then; do you love religion? I ask you, I ask any one,
who will entertain the question; do you love religion?
Does the very word carry a sound that is agreeable,
delightful to you? Does it stand for something attrac
tive and lovely? Are the terms that describe religiongrace, holiness, repentance, faith, godliness-are they
invested with a charm to your heart, to your imagination, to your whole mind? Now, to this question, I am
sure, that many would answer freely and decidedly,
" No, religion is not a thing that we love. We cannot
say that we take that sort of interest in it. We do not
professs to be religious, and-honestly-we do not
wish to be." What! I might answer in return: do you
love nothing that is good? Is there nothing in character, nothing in attribute, no abstract charm that
you love?  "Far otherwise;" would be the rleply.




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.         77'There are many persons that we love: the,,( are
many characters in history, in biography, in romance,
that are delightful to us; they are so noble, so
beautiful."
How different then-do we not see-are the ideas
of religion, from the images of loveliness that dwell
in many minds! They are actually the same in principle. All excellence has the same foundation. There
are not, and cannot be, two different and opposite kinds
of rectitude. The moral nature of man, deranged
though it be, is not deranged so far as to admit this;
and yet how evident is it, that religion is not identified
with the excellence that men love!
But I hear it said, " the images of loveliness which
dwell in the general mind, are not indeed the images
of religion, and- ought not to be; for they are false,
and would utterly mnislead us."  Grant, now, for the
sake of argument, that this were true, and whom
would the admission benefit?  What would follow
from the admission? Why, this clearly; that of being
religious, no power or possibility is within human
reach. For men must love that which seems to them
to be lovely. If that which seems to them to be
lovely is not religion; if religion is something else,
and something altogether different; religion, it is clear
they cannot love. That is to say, on this hypothesis,
they cannot be religious; they cannot, by any possibility, but that in which all things- are possible with
God; they cannot by any possibility that comes
within the range of the powers and affections, that
God has given them.
But it is not true that men's prevailing and constitutional perceptions of moral beauty are false. It is
not true, that is to say, that their sense of right and
wrong is false; that their conscience is a treacherous
7*




78             ON HUMAN NATURE.
and deceitful guide. It is not true; and yet, doubtless, there is a discrimination to be made. Their perceptions may be, and undoubtedly often are low and
inadequate, and marred with error. And therefore
when we use the words, excellent, admirable, lovely,
there is danger that to many, they will not mean all
that they ought to mean; that men's ideas of these
qualities will not be as deep and thorough and strict, as
they ought to be: while, if we confine ourselves to
such terms for religious qualities, as serious, holy,
godly, the danger is that they will be just as erroneous, besides being technical, barren, and uninteresting.
There is a difficulty on this account attending the
language of the pulpit, which every reflecting man, in
the use of it, must have felt. But the truth, amidst
all these discriminations, I hold to be this; that the
universal and constitutional perceptions of moral loveliness which mankind entertain, are radically just.
And therefore the only right doctrine and the only
rational direction to be addressed to men, on this subject is to the following effect; "Whatever your conscience dictates; whatever your mind clothes with moral beauty; that to you, is right; be that to you, religion.
Nothing else can be, if you think rationally; and therefore let that be to you the religion that you love; and
let it be your endeavour, continually to elevate and purify your conceptions of all virtue and goodness." Nay,
if I knew a man whose ideas of excellence were ever
so low, I should still say to him, Revere those ideas;
they are all that you can revere. The very apprehensions you entertain of the glory of God, cannot go beyond your ideas of excellence. All that you can worship then, is the most perfect excellence you can conceive of. Be that, therefore, the object of your reverence. However low, however imperfect it is, still be




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.        79
that to you the image of the Divinity. On that scale
of your actual ideas, however humble, let your
thoughts rise to higher and higher perfection."
I say, however low. And grant now that the moral
conceptions of a man are very low; yet if they are the
highest hle has, is there any thing higher that he can
follow? Will it be said there are the Scriptures?
But the aid of the Scriptures is already presupposed
in the case. They contribute to form the very perceptions in question. They are a light to man, only
as they kindle a light within him. They do not, and
they cannot mean more to any man, than he understands, than he perceives them to mean. His perceptions of their intent then, he must follow. He cannot
follow the light, any farther than he sees it.
But it may be said that many of the ignorant and
debased see very little light; that their perceptions
are very low; that they admire qualities and actions
of a very questionable character. What then? You
must begin with them where they are! But let us not
grant too much of this. Go to the most degraded
being you know, and tell him some story of noble disinterestedness, or touching charity; tell him the story
of Howard, or Swartz, or Oberlin; and will he not
approve; will he not admire? Then tell him, I sayas the summing up of this head of my discourse-tell
him that this is religion. Tell him that this is a faint
shadow, to the infinite brightness of divine love; a
feeble and marred image, compared with the infinite
benignity and goodness of God!
II. My next observation is, on the principles to be
addressed. And, on this point, I say in general, that
religion should appeal to the good in man against the
bad. That there is good in man, not fixed goodness;
but that there is something good in man is evident




80            ON HUMAN NATURE.
from the fact that he has an idea of goodness. For
if the matter be strictly and philosophically traced, it
will be found that the idea of goodness can spring
from nothing else but experience, but the inward
sense of it.
But not to dwell on this; my principal object under
this head of discourse is to maintain, that religion
should appeal chiecfty, not to the lowest, but to the
highest of our moral sentiments.
There are sentiments in our nature to which powerful appeal can be made, and they are emphatically,
its high and honourable sentiments. If you wished to
speak in tones that should thrill through the very heart
of the world, you would speak to these before all
others. Almost all the richest poetry, the most admirable, the fine arts, the most popular and powerful
eloquence in the world, have addressed these moral
and generous sentiments of human nature. And 1
have observed it as quite remarkable indeed, because
it is an exception to the general language of the pulpit, that all the most eloquent preachers have made
great use of these very sentiments; they have appealed to the sense of beauty, to generosity and tenderness, to the natural conscience, the natural sense of
right and wrong, of honour and shame.
To these, then, if you would move the human heart,
you would apply yourself. You would appeal to the
indignation at wrong, at oppression, or treachery, or
meanness, or to the natural admiration whi6h men
feel for virtuous and noble deeds. If you would touch
the most tender feelings of the human heart, you
would still make your appeal to these sentiments.
You would represent innocence borne down and crushed by the arm of power; you would describe patriotism labouring and dying for its country: or you would




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.         81
describe a parent's love with all its cares and anxieties
and its self-sacrificing devotion: or you would portray filial affection, watching over infirmity and relieving pain and striving to pay back something of the
mighty debt of filial gratitude. Look abroad in the
world, or look back upon the history of ages past, and
ask for those on whom the enthusiasm and pride and
affection of men love to dwell. Evoke from the shadows of the times gone by, their majestic, their cherished formls, around which the halo of everlasting admiration dwells: and what are they?  Behold the
names of the generous, the philanthropic, and the
good; behold, the voice of martyred blood on the altars
of cruelty, or on the hills of freedom for ever rising.
from the earth-eternal testimonies to the right and
noble sentiments of mankind.
To these, then, religion ought to have appealed.
In these sentiments, it ought to have laid its foundation, and on these it ought to have built up its power.
But has it done so? Could it do so, while it held human nature to be utterly depraved?
But there is a farther question.  Can any religion,
Christian or heathen, in fact, entirely discard human
nature? Certainly not. Must not every religion that
speaks to man, speak to something human? Undoubtedly, it must. What then is the end of all this zeal
against human nature?  Has it not been, I ask, to
address the worst parts of it?  There has been no
scruple, about appealing to fear and anxiety. But of
the sentiments of admiration, of the sense of beauty in
the human heart, of the deep love for friends and
kindred that lingers there, religion has been afraid.
Grant indeed, that these sentiments and affections have
been too low. It was the very business of religion to




82            ON HUMAN NATURE.
elevate them. But while it has failed to do this, in
the degree it ought, how often has it spread a rack of
torture for our fear and solicitude! How often has it
been an engine of superstition, an inflicter of penance,
a minister of despondency and gloom; an instrument
effective, as if it were framed on purpose, to keep
down all natural buoyancy. generosity and liberal
aspiration!  How often has religion frowned upon
the nature that it came to save; and instead of winning its confidence and love, has incurred its hatred
and scorn; and instead of having drawn it into the
blessed path of peace and trust, has driven it to in
difference, infidelity or desperation!
And how lamentable is this! Here is a world of
beings, filled with enthusiasm, filled with a thousand warm and kindling affections; the breasts of
millions are fired with admiration for generous and
heroic virtues; and when the living representative
of these virtues appears among us-a Washington,
or some illustrious compeer in excellence-crowded
cities go forth to meet him, and nations lift up the
voice of gratitude. How remarkable in the human
character is this moral admiration! What quickening thoughts does it awaken in solitude! What
tears does it call forth, when we think of the prisons,
the hospitals, the desolate dwellings, visited and
cheered by the humane and merciful! With what
ecstacy does it swell the human breast, when the vision of the patriotic, the patiently suffering, the magnanimous and the good, passes before us! In all this
the inferior race has no share. They can fear; but
esteem, veneration, the sense of moral loveliness, they
know not. These are the prerogatives of man, the
gifts of nature to him, the gifts of God. But how




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.          83
little, alas! have they been called into the service of
his religion! How little have their energies been
enlisted in that which is the great concern of man!
And all this is the more to be lamented, because
those who are most susceptible of feeling and of enthusiasm, most need the power and support of religion. The dull, the earthly, the children of sense,
the mere plodders in business, the mere votaries of
gain, may do, or may think they can do, without it.
But how many beings are there, how many spirits of
a finer mould, and of a loftier bearing, and of more
intellectual wants, who, when the novelty of life is
worn off, when the enthusiasm of youth has been freely
lavished, when changes come on, when friends die, and
there is care and weariness, and solitude to press upon
the heart —how many are there, then, that sigh bitterly
after some better thing, after something greater, and
more permanent, and more satisfying! And how do
they need to be told that religion is that better thing;
that it is not a stranger to their wants and sorrows;
that its voice is speaking and pleading within them, in
the cry of their lamentation, and in the felt burthen of
their necessity; that religion is the home of their farwandering desires; the rest, the heaven, of their longtroubled affections! How do they need to hear the
voice that says, " Unto you, 0 men —men of care, and
fear, and importunate desire-do I call; and my voice
is to the sons of men-to the children of frailty, and
trouble, and sorrow!"
III. Let us now proceed to consider, in the third
place and finally, from the relation between the power
that speaks and the principle addressed, in what manner the one should appeal to the other.
The relation then between them, I say, is a relation
of amity. But let me explain. I do not say, of course.




84             ON HUMAN NATURE.
that there is amity between right and wrong. I de
not say, that there is amity between pure goodness, and
what is evil in man. But that which is wrong and evil
in man, is the perversion of something that is good and
right. To that good and right, I contend that religion should speak. To that it must speak, for there
Is nothing else to hear it. We do not appeal to abstractions of evil in:man, because there are no such
things in him; but we appeal to affections; to affections
in which there is a mixture of good and evil. To the
good, then, I say, we must appeal, against the evil.
And every preacher of righteousness, may boldly and
fearlessly approach the human heart, in the confidence
that however it may defend itself against him, however
high it may build its battlements of habit and its towers of pride, he has friends in the very citadel.
I say, then, that religion should address the true
moral nature of man, as its friend, and not as its
enemy; as its lawful subject, and not as an alien or a
traitor; and should address it, therefore, with generous
and hopeful confidence, and not with cold and repulsive
distrust. What is it, in this nature to which religion
speaks? To reason, to conscience, to the love of happiness, to the sense of the infinite and the beautiful, to
aspirations after immortal good; to natural sensibility,
also, to the love of kindred and country and home.
All these are in this nature, and they are all fitted to
render obedience to religion. In this obedience they
are satisfied, and indeed they can never be satisfied
without it.
Admit, now, that these powers are ever so sadly
perverted and corrupted; still, no one maintains that
they are destroyed. Neither is their testimony to what
is right ever, in any case, utterly silenced.  Should
they not then, be appealed to in a tone of confidence?




THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.         8,
Suppose, for instance, to illustrate our observation, that
simple reason were appealed to on any subject not religious; and suppose, to make the case parallel, that the
reason of the man on that subject were very much
perverted, that he was very much prejudiced and misled. Yet would not the argument be directed to his
reason% as a principle actually existing in him, and as
a principle to be confided in and to be recovered from
its error? Would not every tone of the argument and
of the expostulation show confidence in the principle
addressed?
Oh! what power might religion have had, if it had
breathed this tone of confidence; if it had gone down
into the deep and silent places of the heart as the voice
of friendship; if it had known what precious treasures
of love and hope and joy are there, ready to be made
celestial by its touch; if it had spoken to man as the
most affectionate parent would speak to his most
beloved, though sadly erring child; if it had said in
the emphatic language of the text, " Unto you, 0 men,
I call, and my voice is to the sons of men;" lo! I have
set my love upon you; upon you, men of the strong
and affectionate nature, of the aspiring and heavenneeding soul; not upon inferior creatures, not upon the
beasts of the field, but upon you have I set my love;
give entrance to me, not with fear and mistrust, but
with good hope and with gladness; give entrance to
me, and I will make my abode with you, and I will
build up all that is within yoP, in glory, and beauty,
and ineffable brightness.  Alas! for our erring and
sinful, but also misguided and ill-used nature; bad
enough indeed we have made it or suffered it to be
made; but if a better lot had befallen it, if kindlier
influences had breathed upon it; if the parent's and
the preacher's voice, inspired with every tone of hal
8




86            ON HUMAN NATURE.
lowed feeling, had won it to piety; if the train of social
life, with every attractive charm of goodness, had led
it in the consecrated way, we had ere this known,
what now, alas! we so poorly knowr-we had known
what it is to be children of God, and heirs of heaven.
My friends, let religion speak to us in its own true
character, with all its mighty power, and winning candour and tenderness. It is the principle of infinite
wisdom  that speaks. From  that unknown period
before the world was created-so saith the holy record;
from the depth of eternity, from the centre of infinity,
friom  the heart of the universe, from "the bosom of
God:" its voice has come forth, and spoken to us, to
us, men, in our lowly habitations. What a ministration is it! It is the infinite communing with the
finite; it is might communing with frailty; it is mercy
stretching out its arms to the guilty. It is goodness
taking, part with all that is good in us, against all that
is evil. So full, so overflowing, so all-pervading is it,
that all things give it utterance. It speaks to us in
every thing lowly, and in every thing lofty. It speaks
to us in every whispered accent of human affection; and
in every revelation that is sounded out from the spreading heavens. It speaks to us from this lowly seat at
which we bow down in prayer; from this humble
shrine veiled with the shadows of mortal infirmity;
and it speaks to us alike; from those altar-fires, that
blaze in the heights of the firmament. It speaks where
the seven thunders utter their voices; and it sends
forth its voice-of pity more than human, of agony
more than mortal-from the silent summit of Calvary.
Can a principle so sublime and so benignant as religion, speak to us but for our good? Can infinity, can
omnipotence, can boundless love, speak to us, but in
the spirit of infinite generosity, and candour, and ten



THE APPEAL OF RELIGION TO IT.          87
derness? No; it may be the infirmity of man to use
a harsh tone, and to heap upon us bitter and cruel upbraidings; but so speaks not religion. It says-and I
trace an accent of tenderness and entreaty in every
word-" Unto you, 0 men, I call; and my voice-my
voice is to the children of men."
0 man! whosoever thou art, hear that voice of wis
domn. Hear it, thou sacred conscience! and give not
way to evil; touch no bribe; touch not dishonest gain;
touch not the sparkling cup of unlawful pleasure.
Hear it, ye better affections! dear and holy! and turn
not your purity to pollution, and your sweetness to
bitterness, and your hope to shame. Hear it, poor,
wearied, broken, prostrate, human nature! and rise to
penitence, to sanctity, to glory, to heaven. Rise now;
lest soon, it be for ever too late. Rise, at this entreaty
of wisdom, for wisdom can utter no more. Rise,arise at this voice; for the universe is exhausted of all
its revelations-infinity, omnipotence, boundless love
have lavished.their uttermost resources in this one
provision, this one call, this one Gospel, of mercy!




VI.
THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO 1i'
OH! THAT I KNEW WHERE I MIGHT FIND HIM; THAT I MIGHT COME EVEN
10 HIS SEAT! I WOULD ORDER MY CAUSE BEFORE HIM, AND FILL MY MOUTH
WITH ARGUMENTS. I WOULD KNOW THE WORDS WHICH HE WOULD ANSWER
ME, AND UNDERSTAND WHAT HE WOULD SAY TO ME.-Job xxiii. 3, 4 and 5 vs.
IT is striking to observe, how large a part of the book
of Job, and especially of Job's own meditation, is occupied with a consideration of the nature and character
of the Supreme being. The subject-matter of the book,
is human calamity. The point proposed for solution,
is the interpretation of that calamity.  The immediate
question-of very little interest now, perhaps, but one
of urgent difficulty in a darker age-is, whether calamity is retributive; whether, in proportion as a man
is afflicted, he is to be accounted a bad man.  Job contends against this principle, and the controversy with
his friends turns upon this point. But as I have already remarked, it is striking to observe how often his
mind rises apparently quite above the controversy, to
a sublime meditation on God. As if feeling, that provided he could fix his trust there, he should be strong
and triumphant, thither he continually resorts.  Witt
these loftier soarings, are mingled, it is true, passionate complaint and sad despondency and bitter reproaches against his friends, and painful questionings
about the whole order of providence. It is indeed a
touching picture of a mind in distress; with its sad




CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER.  89
fluctuations; its words of grief and haste bursting
into the midst of its words of prayer; its soarings and
sinkings; its passionate and familiar adjurations of
heaven and earth to help it; and with the world of
dark and undefined thoughts, which roll through it
like waves of chaos: in short, it is a picture, whose
truth can be realized only by experience.
But I was about to observe that this tendency of
Job's mlind in the Supreme, though it may seem to
carry him, at times, up quite out of sight of the question in hand, is really a natural tendency, and that
it naturally sprung from the circumstances in which
he was placed. The human condition is throughout,
allied to a divine power; and the strong feeling of
what this condition is, always leads us to that Power.
The positive good and evil of this condition, therefore;
have especially this tendency. This is implied in the
proem or preface of the book of Job; which gives an
account after the dramatic manner which characterizes the whole book, of the circumstances that lead to
Job's trial. After a brief prefatory statement informing the reader who Job was, and what were his possessions, the scene is represented as opening in heaven.
Among the sons of God, Satan presents himself, the
Accuser, the Adversary. And when Job's' virtue is the
theme of commendation, the Accuser says, "Doth Job
fear God for naught? A grand Emir of the East; cra.dled in luxury; loaded with the benefits of heaven:
doth he fear God for naught? Put forth thine hand
now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee
to thy face!" It is done; and Job is stripped of his
possessions, servants, children-all. And Job falls
down upon the ground and worships; and says, " The
Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away; blessed be
the name of the Lord."




90            ON HUMAN NATURE.
But again the Accuser says; thou hast not laid
thine hand yet upon his person. Come yet nearer;
"put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone, and
his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face." Again
it is done; and Job is smitten and overwhelmed with
disease; and he sits down in ashes and scrapes himself with a potsherd; a pitiable and loathsome object.
The faith of his wife too, gives way, of her who, above
all, should have supported him then; but who, from
the reverence and love which she felt for her husband,
is least able to bear the sight of his misery. She cannot bear it: and partaking of the prevalent feelings of
the age about outward prosperity, as the very measure
and test of the Divine favour, she says, "dost thou
still retain thine integrity? Curse God and die!"
"Give up the strife; you have been a good man; you
have helped and comforted many; and now you are
reduced to this. Give up the strife; curse God and
die!" And Job answered, "thou speakest as one of
the foolish women speaketh!" What nature! We
seem to hear that fireside conversation. What nature!
and what delicacy, mingled with reproof! "Thou
speakest not as my wife, but as one of the foolish, prating women speaketh.'What! shall we receive good
at the hand of the Lord, and shall we not receive evil?
In all this did not Job sin with his lips."
Then the three friends of Job came to him; and it
is a beautiful trait of delicacy for those ancient times,
that these friends, according to the representation, " sat
down upon the ground with him seven days and seven
nights, and spake not a word unto him; for they saw
that his grief was great." When we recollect that all
over the East, loud wailings and lamentations were
the usual modes of testifying sympathy, we are led
to ask, whence came-whence, but from inspiration,




CALL OF HUMANITY AND TTS ANSWER.  91
this finer conception, befitting the utmost culture and
delicacy of later times? "Seven days and seven
nights they sat with him, and none of them spake a
word to him."  Of course, we are not to take this
too literally. According to the Hebrew custom, they
mourned with him seven days: that is, they were in
his house, and they came, doubtless, and sat with him
from time to time; but they entered into no large discourse with him; they saw that it was not the time
for many words; they mourned in silence.
This I have said is a beautiful conception of what
belongs to the most delicate and touching sympathy.
There comes a time to speak, and so the friends of
Job judged; though their speech proved less delicate
and judicious than their silence. There comes a time
to speak; there are circumstances which may make it
desirable; there are easy and unforced modes of address which may make it grateful; there are cases
where a thoughtful man may help his neighbour with
his wisdom, or an affectionate man may comfort him,
with sympathy; "a word fitly spoken," says the
sacred proverbialist, " is like apples of gold in pictures
of silver."
And yet after all, it seems to me that words can go
but a little way into the depths of affliction. The
thoughts that struggle there in silence; that go out
into the silence of infinitude, into the silence of eternity, have no emblems. Thoughts enough, God knoweth, come there; such as no tongue ever uttered. And
those thoughts do not so much want human sympathy
as they want higher help. I deny not the sweetness
of that balm; but I say that. something higher is wanted. The sympathy of all good friends, too, we know
that we have, without a word spoken. And moreover,




92             ON HUMAN NATURE.
the sympathy of all the world, though grateful, would
not lighten the load, one feather's weight. Something
else the mind wants, something to rest upon. There
is a loneliness in deep sorrow, to which God only can
draw near. Its prayer is emphatically " the prayer of
a lonely heart."  Alone, the mind is wrestling with
the great problem of calamity; and the solution, it asks
fiom the infinite providence of heaven. Did I not
rightly say, then, that calamity directly leads us to
God; and that the tendency, so apparent in the mind
of Job, to lift itself up to that exalted theme of contemplation, was natural? And it is natural too that the
one book of affliction given us in the holy record, the
one book wholly devoted to that subject, is, throughout
and almost entirely, a meditation on God.
I wish to speak, in the present season of meditation,
of this tendency of the mind, amidst the trials and distresses of life, to things superior to itself, and especially to the Supreme Being. It is not affliction of
which I am to speak, but of that to which it leads. My
theme is, the natural aspiration of humanity to things
above and beyond it, and the revealings from above to
that aspiration; it is in other words, the call of humanity and the answer to it. "I would order nay
cause before him," says Job, "I would know the
words he would answer me."
There are many things in us, of which we are not
distinctly conscious; and it is one office of every great
ministration to human nature, whether its vehicle be
the pen, the pencil, or the tongue, to waken that slumbering consciousness into life. And so do I think,
that it is one office of the pulpit. That inmost consciousness, were it called forth from the dim cells in
the soul, where it sleeps; how instantly would it turn




CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER.   93
to a waking and spiritual reality, that-life, which is
now to many, a state so dull and worldly, so uninteresting and unprofitable!
How it should be such to any, seems to me, I confess, a thing almost inconceivable. It may be because my life is, as I may say, professionally a meditation upon themes of the most spiritual and quickening interest. Certainly I do not lay any claim to supeIrior purity, for seeming to myself to see things as they
are. But surely, this life, instead of being anything
negative or indifferent, instead of being anything dull
and trivial, seems to me I was ready to say, as if it were
bound up with mystery, and agony, and rapture. Yes,
rapture as well as agony; the rapture of love, of reciprocated affection, of hope, of joy, of prayer; and the
agony of pain, of loss, of bereavement; and over all
their strugglings, the dark cloud of mystery. If any one
is unconscious of the intensity and awfulness of this
life within him, I believe it is because he does not
know what he is all the while feeling.  Health and
sickness, joy and sorrow, success and disappointment, life and death, are familiar words upon his lips,
and he does not know to what depths they point
within him. It is just as a man may live unconscious
that there is anything unusual about him, in this age
of unprecedented excitement; in this very crisis of
the world's story.
Indeed a man seems never to'know what any thing
means, till be has lost it; and this, I suppose, is the
reason why losses, vanishings away of things, are
among the teachings of this world of shadows.  Tlhe
substance indeed teacheth; but the vacuity whence it
has disappeared, yet more. Many an organ, many a
nerve and fibre in our bodily fi'ame, performs its silent
part for years, and leaves us almost or quite uncon




94             ON HUMAN NATURE.
scious of its value.  But let there be the smallest injury, the slightest cut of a knife, which touches that
organ or severs the fibre; and then we find, though it
be the point of our finger, that we want it continually;
then we discover its value; then we learn, that the
fine and invisible nerves that spread themselves all
over this wonderful framle, are a significant hand-writing of divine wisdom. And thus it is, with the universal frame of things in life.  One would think that
the blessings of this world were sufficiently valued;
but after all, the full significancy of those words, property, ease, health; the wealth of meaning that lies in
the fond epithets, parent, child, friend, we never know
till they are taken away; till in place of the bright,
visible being, comes the awful and desolate shadow
where nothing is; where we stretch out our hands in
vain, and strain our eyes upon dark and dismal vacuity.
Still, in that vacuity we do not lose the object that we
loved; it only becomes more real to us.  Thus do
blessings not only brighten when they depart, but are
fixed in enduring reality; and friendship itself receives
its everlasting seal, beneath the cold impress of death.
I have said thus much for the sake of illustration,
of suggestion; to show you that the imprint of things
may be upon us, which we scarcely know; to intimnate to you-what I believe-that a dim consciousness of infinite mystery and grandeur, lies beneath
all this common place of life; yes, and to arouse
even the most irreligious worldliness, by the awfulness
and majesty that are around it. As I have seen a rude
peasant fiom the Appenines, falling asleep at the foot
of a pillar in one of the majestic Roman churches;
doubtless the choral symphonies yet fell soft upon his
ear, and the gilded arches were yet dimly seen through
the half slumbering eye-lids; so, I think, it is often




CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER.   95
with the repose and the very stupor of worldliness.  It
cannot quite lose the sense of where it is, and of what
is above and around it.
The scene of its actual engagements may be small;
the paths of its steps, beaten and familiar; the objects
it handles easily spanned, and quite worn out with
daily uses. So it may be, and amidst such things,
that we all live. So we live our little life; but heaven
is above us; and eternity is before us, and behind us;
and suns and stars are silent witnesses and watchers
over us. Not to speak fancifully, of what is matter of
fact; do you not always feel that you are enfolded by
infinity? Infinite powers, infinite spaces; do they not
lie all around you? Is not the dread arch of mystery,
spread over you; and no voice ever pierced it? Is not
eternity enthroned amidst yonder starry heights; and no
utterance, no word ever came from those far-lying and
silent spaces?  Oh! it is strange-to think of that
awful majesty above, and then to think of what is beneath it; this little struggle of life; this poor day's conflict; this busy ant-hill of a city. Shut down the dome
of heaven close upon it; let it crush and confine every
thought to the present spot, to the present instant; and
such would a city be. But now, how is it?  Ascend
the lonely watch-tower of evening meditation, and look
forth and listen; and lo! the talk of the streets, the
sounds of music and revelling, the stir and tread of a
multitude, go up into the silent and all-surrounding
infinitude!
But is it the audible sound only that goeth up? Otl!
no; but amidst the stir and noise of visible life, from
the inmost bosom of the visible man, there goeth up a
call, a cry, an asking, unuttered, unutterable; an asking for revelation, saying in almost speechless agony;
"Oh! break, dread arch of mystery! tell us ve stars,




96            ON HUMAN NATURE.
that roll above the waves of mortal trouble; speak!
enthroned imajesty of those awful heights; bow down
you mysterious and reserved heavens and come near;
tell us, what ye only know; tell us of the loved and
lost; tell us what we are, and whither we are going!"'
Is not man such an one? Is he not encompassed
with a dome of incomprehensible wonders? Is there
not that, in him and about him which should fill his
life with majesty and sacredness?  Is there not something of sublimity and  sanctity thus born down
fiom heaven, into the heart of every man? Where is
the being so base and abandoned but he hath some
traits of that sacredness left upon him; something so
much in discordance perhaps with his general repute,
that he hides it from all around him-; some sanctuary
in his soul, where no one may enter; some sacred enclosure-where the memory of a child is, or the image
of a venerated parent, or the. echo of some sweet word
of kindness that was once spoken to him; an echo,
that shall never die away?
Would man awake to the higher and better things
that are in him, he would no longer feel, I repeat, that
life to him is a negative, or superficial, or worldly
existence. Evermore are his steps haunted with
thoughts, far beyond their own range; which some
have regarded, as the reminiscences of a pre-existent
state. As a man who passeth a season in the sad and
pleasant land of Italy, feels a majestic presence of sub.lime ages and histories with him, which, he does not
always distinctly recognize, but which lend aln indescribable interest to every field, and mountain, and
mouldering wall, and make life to be, all the while,
more than mere life; so it is with us all, in the beaten
and worn track of this worldly pilgrimage. There is
more here, than the world we live in; " it is not all of




CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER.  97
life to live." An unseen and infinite presence is here;
a sense of something greater than we possess; a seeking, through all the void waste of life, for a good
beyond it; a crying out of the heart for interpretation;
a memory of the dead, which touches, ever and anon,
some vibrating thread in this great tissue of mystery.
I cannot help thinking, that we all, not only have
better intimations, but are capable of better things than
we know; that the pressure of some great emergency
would develope in us powers, beyond the worldly bias
of our spirits; and that, so heaven dealeth with us,
from time to time, as to call forth those better things.
Perhaps there is not a family so selfish in the world,
but that if one in it were doomed to die; if tyranny
demanded a victiml, it would be utterly impossible for
its members, parents and children, to choose out that
victim; but that all and each one would say, " I will
die, but I cannot choose." Nay, in how many families,
if that dire extremity had come, would one and another
step forth, freed from the vile meshes of ordinary selfishness, and say, like the Roman father and son, "let
the blow fall on me!"  There are greater and better
things in us all, than the world takes account of, or
than we take note of, would we find them out. And
it is one part of our spiritual culture to find these traits
of greatness and power, to revive these faded impressions of generosity and goodness; the almost squandered bequests of God's love and kindness to our soulls;
and to yield ourselves to their guidance and control.
I am sensible that' my discoursing now, has been
somewhat desultory and vague. Perhaps, though I
delight not in such discoursing generally, it has not
been, in this instance, without a purpose. For the
conciousness which I wish to address, is doubtless
tself someth'ng, too shadowy and vague. But it is
9




98            ON HUMAN NATURE.
real, though indistinct. An unsatisfied asking is for
ever in all human hearts. We know that the material crust of this earth does not limit our thoughts;
that the common-place of life does not suffice us; that
there are things in us, which go far beyond the range
of our ordinary, earthly pursuits. Depraved as we
may be, these things are true. They are indeed signs
that we are fallen; but they are signs too that all is
not lost. They are significant revelations; and they
are admonitions no less powerful.
But now when our minds go out beyond the range
of their visible action, what do they find?  We have
spoken of the great call of humanity; what is the
answer?
The first answer comes from the mindl itself. When
we descend into the depths of our own being, we find de.
sires which nothing less than the infinite can satisfy,
powers fitted for everlasting expansion; powers whose
unfolding at every step, only awakens new and vaster
cravings; and sorrows, which all the accumulated
wealth and pleasure of the world can never, never
soothe. If a man's life consisted in that which he possesseth, how intolerable would it be! To be confined
to what we have and what we are, is to be shut up in
a dungeon, where we cannot breathe! Is not this
whole nature then itself a stupendous argument
for something greater to come? Is not this very
conciousness deep in our souls, itself an answer?
When you look at the embryo bird in the shell, you
know that it is made to burst that little prison. You
see feet that are made to run, and wings to fly. And
as it pecks at the imprisoning shell, you see in that
very impulse, the prophetic certainty that it is to come
forth to light and air. And is the noblest being on
earth alone to be for ever imprisoned, to perish in his




CALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER.  99
prison; for ever to feel himself imprisoned; for ever to
press against the barriers of his present knowledge and
existence; and never to go forth? Are man's embryo
powers alone-are his cravings and aspirations after
something higher, to be accounted no revealings, no
prophecies of a loftier destiny?
And again; when we lift up our thoughts to the vast
infinitude, what do we find? Order, holding its sublime
reign among the countless revolving suns and systems;
and light, fair and beautiful, covering all as with a garment. Look up to the height of heaven in some bright
and smiling summer's day; hehold the etherial softness, the meteor of beauty that hangs over us; and
does it not seem as if it were an enfolding gentleness;
a silent, hushed breathing of unutterable love? Was
ever a mother's eye bent on her child, more sweet and
gentle? Was ever a loving countenance, more full of
ineffable meaning? " Oh! you sweet heavens!" hath
many a poet said; and can he who made those heavens, sublime and beautiful, wish us any harm? Were
you made lord of those heavens, could you hurl down
unrecking sorrow and disaster upon the poor tremblers
beneath you? God, who hath breathed that pitying
and generous thought into your heart, will not belie it
in himself. My heart is to me a revelation, and heaven
is to me a revelation of God's benignity. And when
the voices of human want and sorrow go upward-as
one has touchingly said, "like inarticulate cries, and
sobbings of a dumb creature, which in the ear of
heaven, are prayers " —I can no more doubt that they
find gracious consideration and pity above, than if a
voice of unearthly tenderness breathed from the sky,
saying, " Poor frail beings! borne on the bosom of imperfection, and laid upon the lap of sorrow; be patient
and hopeful; ye are not neglected nor forgotten; the




100           ON HUMAN NATURE.
heaven above you, holds itself in majestic reserve,
because ye cannot bear what it has to tell you-holds
you in solemn suspense, which death only may break;
be faithful unto death; be trustful for a while; and all
your lofty asking shall have answer, and all your
patient sorrow shall find issue, in everlasting peace."
But, once more, there is more than a voice; there is
a revelation in nature, and especially in the mission
of Jesus Christ, more touching than words.
I have said that there is no uttered speech, from all
around us; and yet have maintained that there is expression as clear and emphatic as speech; and I now
say, it is much more expressive than speech. Let me
observe here, that we are liable to lay quite an undue
stress upon this mode of communication, upon speech;
simply because speech is the ordained and ordinary
vehicle of converse between man and man. If men
had communicated with one another by pantomime;
if forms, and not utterances had been the grand in.
strument of impression; if human love had always
been expressed only by a urighter glow of the countenance, and pity only by a softer shadowing upon its
beauty, then had we better -understood perhaps, the
grand communication of nature.'Then had the bright
sky in the day-time, and the soft veil of evening, and
all the shows of things, around the whole dome of
heaven and amidst the splendour and beauty of the
world-all these, I say, in the majesty of silence, had
been a revelation, not only the clearest, but the most
impressive that was possible.  I say in the majesty of
silence. For accustomed as we are to speech; how
much more powerful in some things is silence! How
intolerable would it have been, if every day when it
came had audibly said, "God is good;" and every
evening when it stole upon us, had said, "God is good.'




tALL OF HUMANITY AND ITS ANSWER. 10 
and every cloud when it'rose, and every tree as it blossomed, and every plant as it sprung from the earth, had
audibly said, " God is good!" No, the silence of nature
is more impressive, would we understand it, than any
speech could be; it expresses what no speech can utter.
No bare word can tell what that bright sky meaneth;
what the wealth of nature meaneth; what is the
heart's own deep assurance, that God is good.
But yet more; in the express revelation that is given
us, it is not the bare word spoken, that is most powerful; it is the character of interposing mercy that is
spread all over the volume. It is the miracle-that
causes nature to break the secret of an all-controlling
power, in that awful pause and silence. It is the loving
and living excellence of Jesus; that miracle of his
life, more than all. The word is but an attestation
to something done. Had it been done in silence; could
all generations have seen Jesus living, Jesus suffering;
and heaven opened; it had been enough. Words are
but the testimony, that hath gone forth to all generations and all ages, of what hath been done. God is
ever doing for us, what-be it said reverently-what
he cannot speak. As a dear friend, can look the love,
which he cannot utter; so do I read the face of nature;
so do I read the record of God's interposing mercy. I
feel myself embraced with a kindness, too tender and
strong for utterance. It cannot tell me how dear to
the Infinite love, my welfare, my purity, is. Only by
means and ministrations, by blessings and trials, by
dealings and piessures of its gracious hand upon me,
can it make me know.. So do I read the volume of
life and nature; and so do I read the volume of revelation. I see in Jesus living, in Jesus suffering; I see
in the deep heart of his pain and patience, and love
and pity, what ne words can utter. I learn this not
9*




102           ON HUMAN NATURE.
from any excellency of speech, but from the excellency
of his living and suffering. Even in the human breast
the deepest things, are things which it can never utter.
So it was in the heart of Jesus.. So it is-I speak it
reverently-in the nature of God, "For no ear hath
ever heard, the things which God hath prepared for
them that love him. But God hath revealed them to
us by his spirit; for the spirit, and the spirit alone,
searcheth all things, yea, the deep things of God."




VII.
HUMAN NATURE CONSIDERED AS A GROUND FOR
THANKSGIVING
KNOW YE THAT THE LORD HE IS GOD; IT IS HE THAT HATH MADE US, AND
NOT WE OURSELVES; WE ARE HIS PEOPLE AND THE SHEEP OF HIS PASTURE.
ENTER INTO HIS GATES WITH THANKSGIVING) AND INTO HIS COURTS WITH
PRAISE; BE THANKFUL UNTO HIM AND BLESS HIS NAME.-Psalm. 3-4.
THE theme of gratitude which is here presented to
us, is, our existence, our nature.  "It is He that hath
made us, and not we ourselves: we are his people and
the sheep of his pasture." It is not what we possess
or enjoy, but what we are; or it is what we possess
and enjoy in relation to what we are, that I would
make the subject of grateful commemoration in our
present meditations.
In truth, every call to praise, is but an echo of this.
For if it be duly considered, will it not be found, that
all possible blessings,-all that can be the occasions of
thanksgiving,-must be referred back, when we trace
them, to the blessing which is conferred upon us in a
nature capable of enjoying them. The bounty and
the beauty of the world, were nothing but for the seeing
eye and the sensitive frame; the wisdom which all
things teach were nothing, but for the perceiving mind;
the blessed relations of our social existence would be
all a barren waste, if we had not a heart to feel them;
and all the tendencies and conditions of our life and
being, all our labours and pleasures, all our joys and




104           ON HUMAN NATURE.
sorrows, would be but one dark struggle or darker
despair, if we had not a moral soul and will, to bring
good out of evil, imperishable virtue out of perishable
circumstance, and immortal victory out of the everpressing strife of human eyistence.
Every blessing, then, hath the essential condition
that makes it such, in my very humanity. I am called
upon to be thankful, for food and raiment, for tne
bounties and gratuities of nature, for green fields and
whitening harvests, for peace and freedom and government; and for those blessings that are beyond and
above all-the immeasurable and eternal blessings of
religion. I am called upon to be thankful for all these
things, and I am so. But still I must say, and must so
answer, that I cannot be thankful for one of these
blessings, without being first, and last, and throughout,
thankful that I am a man.
The advantage of being a man, therefore, is what I
propose now to consider; the blessing bestowed in our
very humanity; that indeed without which we had not
the power of gratitude.
I am thankful, then, that I am a man. This is the
central fact, around which all things range themselves
in clusters of blessings.
I am thankful that I am human. I am thankful
that I am not a clod; that I am not a brute. Nay,
nor do I ask to be an angel. I am glad that I am
human. My very humanity, despite of all that is said
against it, is a blessing and a gladness to me. Although
it may sound strangely-to the thoughtless man on one
account, and to the theologian on another; yet will I
say, that I accept this humanity thankfully-with all
its imperfections, with all its weaknesses, with all its
exposures to error and sin. None but a high moral
ature could be so exposed. Although I stand amidst




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.    100
a multitude, where the infirmities of this nature meet
me on every side, in many a shaded brow and pale.cheek, in many a countenance where grief and gladness are strangely mingled, where joy itself is touched
with sadness; yet still I say, that with all the joy and
sadness of this nature, included, interwoven, and
making up one momentous, mysterious and touching
experience, I accept, I embrace, I cherish it with gratitude: I rejoice that it: is mine.
I do not wish, I repeat, to be something else. I do
not wish that I were an angel; and I do not wish that
I were like the inhabitant of some distant star. I do
not know what he is. But this humanity that throbs
in my bosom-I know what this is; it is near me, it
is dealr unto me; I rejoice that I am a man..And upon this I insist, and am going to insist, be;
cause there is, I fear, a commonly prevailing disparagement of our humanity, which leaves no proper, no
grateful sense of what it is. There is a feeling in
many minds, as if it were a misery, a misfortune, almost a disgrace to be a man. I am not speaking merely of the theological disparagement-the dull fiction
of oriental philosophy and of scholastic darknessthough that, doubtless, has helped to create the common impression, that it is but a poor advantage, but a
doubtful good, to be a man. I am not speaking alone
of that scorn and desecration, by theology, of the very
humanity which it ought to have loved and helped.
There are other causes that have tended to the same
result: human pride, misanthropy, discontent, anger
with our kind, anger with our lot; and the natural
sense too, of human ills and errors. It is curious to
see how almost all our higher literature betrays its
trust to the very humanity which it celebrates,-denies
in general what it teaches in detail-heaps satire -and




106           ON HUMAN NATURE.
scorn upon mankind, and yet makes men its heroes,
It is wonderful to see how; not authors only, but men
generally, can berate and vilify the very being that
they are. Humanity-man — these are not contrasted,
but correlative things; you cannot. eulogize the former,
and desecrate the latter; the former is the ideal, the
latter the real; the one is the picture, the other, the
original. What man is, must furnish the elements
from which we draw out the idea of what man should
be; what you think, what you feel, is human, and
that tells what humanity should be. There is doubtless a struggle between these conceptions, of the actual
humanity and the ideal humanity; and for this very
struggle too, I admire the human being. It could not
agitate inferior natures. That man can separate the
good from the evil, and set it up as a model; that he
can sigh over the evil, is a praise and a glory to him.
Ay, and that he can satirize, scorn and execrate the
evil, and can do it with such uncompromising heartiness that he goes too far, seems to me not a disreputable tendency of his nature. There is something right
then, something respectable in the leaning to darker
views. In this respect, there is something right in theology, in literature, and in common opinion. But for
the sake of justice and of gratitude, for man's sake, and
for God's sake, if I may reverently say so, let not all
this go too far; let it not spread the shadow over all,
lest it hide from us, both man and God. I must therefore resist this tendency: because it is wrong, and especially at present, because it hinders a just gratitude
to the Almighty Creator, for the nature he has given
US.
For this-what we are-is, I repeat, the central
truth around which all other truths that appeal to gratitude, do range themselves: it is the sun in the system




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.    107
of God's mercies-their common bond and enlightener.
It will not do to set up that antagonism which is commonly taught, between man and God; to say that God
indeed is altogether good, but that man is altogether
bad; that God is glorious, but that man is altogether
mean; that it is proper indeed to celebrate God's goodness and glory, but that this is especially to be done
by discrediting all worth and value in man. Who is
it, after all, that celebrates the goodness of God? It is
no other than man. The worshipper, the adorer, the
singer of praises in this world, is none other than man.
If his nature is all contrast to the diviue, what is the
value of his praise, of his judgment? Nay, how came
the divine to be known? Man, I say, is the worshipper. And what more is the angel, unless that he is so
in a higher measure, or with a purer intent. There
must then be a beauty in human as well as in angelic
nature, or all the beauty of the creation and of its
Maker, could avail nothing-were nothing, to us. I
know not what eyes look out from yonder bright orbs
of heaven; but I know that eye is not, nor soul there,
that can see any thing brighter, lovelier, more majestic,
more divine, than the glory of Him that made us: that
made the earth so fair, and the heavens so beautiful
and sublime. 7I claim kindred with those dwellers on
high. I bow with them in adoration. I join my voice
to their lofty anthem. Shall I think lightly of this
glorious affinity?
No, I am thankful that I am a man. Boldly do I
say it: that I rejoice, that I delight in my nature. I
rejoice that God has made me, and made me such ae
one-a sensitive, social, religious being —one of the
seers, one of the worshippers, one of the immortals.
Mourn I well may, that I have failed so far, so lamentably far, from what he has made me for. But still I




108           ON HUMAN NA.TURE.
must be none the less thankful for the wonderful signatures that he has set upon my being.
Does any one critically ask, why, with such repetition, I insist upon this? I answer, because I would
make, on this point, a distinct and decided impression
of what I mean to say. I mean to resist that ingratitude which holds it to be a misfortune or a mischance
to be a man. I mean, if I can, to roll off that burden
of darkness and desolation, with which our humanity
is thought to overshadow the world. It is the light in
the world, and not the darkness. It is the eye that
sees, and not the cloud that obscures. Or if there be
cloud and darkness in it, as well as over it; in it too,
and in it alone on earth, is the power of vision that
can, and does, and will see through all. If it be not,
then, I repeat, there is nothing in this world that can
see; and all, without and within, is darkness; darkness as the shadow of death-as the gloom of the
grave. No, it is a good thing to be a man, or else there
is no good in this world. Let no one's heart sink
within him, when that name, dear, and holy-the name
of MAN, is uttered. Let no one give himself t  Iull,
sighing, sorrowing, complaining, disconsolate thoughts
of his humanity. It is a high and glorious gift.
I exist. What a blessing and a wonder is that! A
few years ago, and I was not; no spot in the fair universe, held me. From dark and void nothingness, I
am called to the glad precincts of being; into the living and loving bosom of nature; into communion with
the things that are; myself —chiefest blessing! —myself among the things that are. And do I ask to
whom I owe this blessing? Whence came I —-do I
ask? What one among the mysterious powers of
heaven gave me this wonderful being? Reason answers, and Holy Writ answers, there is hut One who




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.   109
creates. And the Psalmist teaches us, and says," it
is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves."  It is
He, God, that hath called me into being; to stand beneath these shining heavens; to look around upon the
loveliness of earth; to breathe the air of verdant fields
and see the light of rising and setting suns; to behold
the moulded beauty of sloping vallies and swelling
mountains, and the flashing light of streams and ocean
waves. Every body says that this is the darkest world
in the universe. Who knows it?  Wiho knows that
there is any one among all the spheres of heaven more
beautiful than this? The old Greek sages thought
not thus-who used the same word, KOSMOS, for beauty
and for the world. Other kind of beauty there may
be, but who shall dare to say that any creation has
proceeded from God, that is not all beautiful? I do not
like that phrase —" this dark world."  Poetry may use
it, and in some relations and in some moods, there may
be a propriety in its use. But what I complain of, is,
that the feeling has sunk down into the common heart;
the unadmiring, unholy, unthankful feeling; that this
is a dark world; the darkest of all worlds. I complain
that the casual shade of poetry has settled into a fixed,
opaque incrustation over the general mind; that it is
common to feel as if this were a coarse, ungenial, ungrateful, almost an ill-made world; as if it were the
rough-hewn penitentiary of the creation, frowning upon
us, from its granite walls, and its dark and dingy
arches. And therefore I say, who knows it?  Who
knows that there is any thing in the far-lying fields
of heaven, more beautiful, of more entrancing loveliness, than the world we dwell in? I say, who knows
it?  But I might say rather, shame on the superstitious weakness, the uncultivated thought, the unkindled apathy, that finds nothing here but a prison wall,
10




110           ON HUMAN NATURE.
surrounding a convict's yard! Shame on the eye that
cannot see and on the heart that cannot feel, the wonders and beauties of this fair and lovely creation around
us! No poetry, hath it? Nay, nor no piety —none at
least that is a fit offering to the glorious Creator!
And as man stands amidst the fair creation, with
what a wonderful apparatus is he provided for communication with it; with a perception for every element; for the sweets of every bounty in nature, for
the fragrance of every field, for the soft, embracing air,
for the sounds that come from every hill and mountain
and murmuring stream and ocean wave; for the light
that beams from the far distant stars. We look upon
the lately invented electro-magnetic telegraph, as a
wonder; and it is so.  But man's whole sensitive
frame is a more wonderful telegraph. He wakes from
sleep; and all nature around becomes a living presence; life streams in through every pore of the quickfeeling vesture with which he is clothed. He listens;
and into the polished and waxen chanmbers of the ear,
comes the hum of cities, the bleating of flocks upon
the hills, the sound of the woodman's axe in the deep
forest-comes the echoing of the wide welkin above
him-comes above all, the music of human speech.
He opens his eye, and stars that rise upon the infinite
seas of space, are telegraphed to his vision.
We are proverbially insensible to the value of that
which we have always possessed; of which we cannot go back in our conscious thought, to the crigin.
If seeing were an invention, how should we admire it!
We admire the telescope —itself the product of a reasoning power which God has given us, and which
will doubtless discover yet greater things.
But suppose that the eye had at first been formed to
see only this world; and all beyond had been a wall




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.    1ll.
of darkness; and that then, at some given era, there
had been superadded to that organ, the telescopic pow
er, and upon the human eye had burst the wonders of
heaven: how dark on the page of human history,
would have lain the ages before; and how would that
era be forever celebrated, almost as the beginning of
human existence! And what is the telescope compared with this!-built at much expense; a cumbrous
weight to be carried from place to place; and constructed with elaborate mechanism to turn its axis one
way and another; while in the beggar's eye, as he
lifts it to heaven, and turns it unconsciously from point
to point, is an instrument, which all the skill of science,
aided by the wealth of empires, could never construct.
Say you not, then, even considering man in this
light, only as endowed with senses, that it is good to
be a man? And yet considering him thus, we have
only placed him upon the stage of his life's great action, and given him the materials and the instruments
with which he is to work.
Standing on this theatre, he sees, he hears, he observes, indeed; and this is wonderful. But how much
more wonderful is that transmutation, by which observation becomes knowledge; sight, perception; and
hearing, oracular wisdom! The world stands in its
majesty and beauty; but, it is transformed into another
kind of majesty and beauty by the labours of science and
art. The result-the actual state of human knowledge,
it seems to me, is worthy of more consideration than it
always receives. I cannot think that an angel, if he
were to visit this world, would look upon this structure
of its labouring wisdom with disparaging scorn. The
world has done its work-done some work, surely.
Behold the fabric of science it has raised; with its vast
and ranged collections of objects from all nature' from




112            ON HUMIAN NATURE.
fields and forests, from mountains and mines, from
woods and waters; with its curious and world-inter
preting laboratories; with its million-volumed libraries;
stored with the wisdom of ages; with its illumined
chambers of philosophy, and its dome, the grand observatory of the skies, swelling up to heaven;-and
then see how man takes from the majestic halls of
science, the principles and results which he applies to
the advancement of his comfort, civilization and welfare; how he is making nature every day more and
more his helper and his fiiend; how he takes the
swift lightning and makes it his telegraphic messenger;
how he chains to his fiery car on the land and on the
sea that elemental power which he had known before
only in the whirlwind and the storm. Nay, look at
that system of practical wisdom which he has wrought
out from the daily experience of life-the system of
common sense  that which instructs him in the knowledge of mnen and the uses of things; that aptitude and
adjustment of his faculties to every exigency; that
which, if a man utterly lacks, he ceases to be a-man,
and is pronounced a fool. Because it is called cormmon
sense, it is considered as something ordinary and indifferent.'We will never learn that the greatest things
are common; the greatest gifts, universal. N- ot the
philosopher alone is wise. Nay, every man is wiser as
a man than any man is, merely as a learned man.
All the wisdom there is in books, is not equal to the
wisdom that floats in the common air about us; the
wisdom of life; the wisdom from which books draw all
their life; the wisdom that is gained, not in the study
nor the cloister, but in the great school which God has
built-the school of life. Consider it, proud philosopher! or self-complacent man of rank or of wealth!
Suppose yourself deprived of that light of common




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.   113
sense in which the multitude walks: what then,
would your libraries or your palaces, or ypur thrones,
avail you? Avail you? They had not been. They
had not been written, nor built, nor lifted up. And
what would you be without the common food of unwritten reason?  A starveling, an idiot,.a fool. Yes,
though you sat upon a throne, you would be sent out,
like Nebuchadnezzar, to eat grass with the ox.
When I think of all that man, as an intellectual
being, has acquired and achieved, it amazes me that
any body can speak of this world as the abode of a
poor, toiling, drudging, ignorant, contemptible race. I
would beat down every aristocracy whether of birth or
learning, or wealth, that says this. I think the world
has done very well-done much, though not all that
it might. I think this a very respectable race-respectable? —why, a wonderful race. Do not answer me,
now, with a satirical thought of the poor, dwarfed, ignorant creatures that you sometimes see around you.
Do not cast their faults upon the whole family. It is
a serious matter that we are considering. It is a serious
thing to defame and belie a whole world. It is a thing
you could not do at all, but for the vagueness of your
contemplation. You could not so discredit your family, your family circle, your village, your city, your
country. Oh! no, this is too near you. Nay, and let
another speak ill of your city or your country, not to
say your family, and he will hear your indignant defence. But when you speak of the great world, you
seem to think that its shoulders are broad enough to
bear any thing. It is as if you shot an arrow into the
great, circumambient air; it can neither hit nor hurt
any body. Or it is the world in past ages that you
speak of; a dead world that cannot answer; it lies before you, quite a passive theme, and you seem to think
13*




114           ON HUMAN NATURE.
it a fine thing, to write cold history or scornful satire
upon it, as a wretched and worthless world. I cannot
agree with this unbrotherly scorn, because the world
is its object.
Nay, and there is one yet more serious aspect of this
subject; that- in which it presents a providence. It
seems to me a poor business for philosophy, first to
make the world as mean and base as it can, and then
to turn about and try to explain why it was made at
all; how its existence can be, in any way, reconciled
with the goodness of providence. A hard problem it is
then for the philosopher; too hard for him; and he
worries himself with it in vain. It gives but little satisfaction in the case, to say that, although men have
been fools, they might have been wiser if they would.
The truth is, they have been wiser than the cynical
philosopher admits. The case is not so hard as he
makes it. And he must make it better, or he can
never solve his problem. None but a more considerate and fraternal philosophy ever will solve it. On the
side of this fraternal philosophy I take my place; and
in the spirit of it, I say again, that considering myself
as an intellectual being, and pretending to be no wiser
than the average of men, I do not think it a misfortuone to be a man; I am thankful that I am a man.
And what think you, my friends, of society; that
living mechanism of hutnan relationships that spreads
itself over the world; that finer essence within it,
which as truly moves it as any power, heavy or expansive, moves your sounding manufactories or swiftflying cars? The man-machine hurries to and firo
upon the earth, moves this way and that, stretches
out its hands on every side, to toil, to barter, to unnumbered labours and enterprises; and almost ever
the motive, that which moves it, is something that




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.    115
takes hold of the comforts, affections, and hopes of
social existence. It is true that the mechanism often
works with difficulty, drags heavily, grates and screams
with harsh collision. And it is true, that the essence
of finer motive, becoming intermixed with baser, with
coarser ingredients, often clogs, obstructs, jars and deranges the free and noble action of social life. But
surely he is not wise, and will not be duly grateful,
who turns the eye of the cynic upon all this, and loses
the blessed sense of social good in its perversions.
That I can be a friend, that I can have a friend,
though it were but one in the world; that fact, that
blessedness I will set against all the sufferings of my
social nature. That there is such a place on earth as
a home; that resort, that sanctuary of in-walled and
shielded joy, I will set against all the surrounding desolations of -life. That I can be a true, social man;
that I can speak my true thought, amidst all the janglings of controversy and the warring of opinions; that
fact from within, outweighs all facts fiom without.
The truth is, that in the visible aspect and action of
society, often repulsive and annoying, we are apt to
lose the due sense of its invisible blessings. As in the
frame of nature, it is not the coarse and palpable, not
soils and rains, not even fields and flowers, that are so
beautiful, as the invisible spirit of wisdom and beauty
that pervades it; so in the frame of society, it is the
invisible, and therefore unobserved, that is most beauttfu.: And yet in the visible, I have often thought
there is more beauty than is often acknowledged.
The human countenance, I am wont to think, is more
beautiful than it is usually considered. I speak not
here of what is commonly called beauty; that which
arises from symmetry of feature and delicacy of complexion. There is a beauty in almost every countenance




116           ON iJUMAN NATURE.
-the wonderful beauty and power of expression —-that
far surpasses all that these too much lauded charms
can bestow upon any. An artist once said to me, when
I spoke of the common faces he had to paint; "no,
there is a beauty in the human countenance that I can
never paint; what I meet with, every day in the street
-the plaiiest that I meet-I can never paint its beauty."
I felt at once rebuked, and obliged too, as one that receives a wiser thought than his own. Yes, it is true,
and I see it every day. There are expressions of ingenuousness and modesty, of love and pity, breaking
out from the plainest and the roughest features; there
are evanescent shadings of thought and feeling flitting
over every countenance, that never were transferred to
the canvass. Worldly fashion may set up its laws and
its idols; but. it were a more wisely-instructed eye that
should see loveliness every, where.
Let not this be thought too trivial for this place; I
speak of the out-shining of the secret Sbul, through'the human face divine."  And indeed, how much is
secret and unseen in the frame of society! What an
invisible law is that-an invisible law of God it isthat reigns over the relationship of sex! The delicacy
of that relation is stronger than any human government; a graceful veil, and yet a linked chain. It is
like the at once attractive and repelling electric forces,
which, unchained, would explode with crash and ruin,
and yet are ever held fast by an invisible hand! Or
will you go down to the rougher paths of life? What
nerves the arm of toil? If man minded himself alone,
he would fling down the spade and the ax, and rush
to the wilderness, or roam t.hrough the world as a wilderness; and he would make the world a desert. His
home, which he sees not, perhaps, but once or twice in
a day; that home is the invisible bond of the world.




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.    117
And what is it that gives the loftiest character tc bust
ness, to trade and commerce?  What but the good,
strong and noble faith that men put in one another?
Fraud there is; but it is the exception, in the goings
on of business;. honesty is the rule, and all the firauds
in the world cannot, cannot tear the great bond of human confidence.  If they could, commerce would furl
its sail on all seas, and all the cities of the world
would crumble to ruins.  There stands a man on the
other side of the world!-whom you never saw, whom
you never will see; and yet that man's bare character,
do you hold good for a bond of thousands. And what
is the most striking feature of the political state? Not
governments, not constitutions, not laws, not enactments, not police-but the universal will of the people
to be governed by the common weal.  Take off that
restraint, and no government on earth can stand for
an hour.
We have now considered our being as sensitive, intellectual, and social, and as furnishing, in each one of
these characters, signal occasions for gratitude to its
Author.  There is one higher character presenting
still stronger claims, and yet demanding still higher
faith for its recognition; I mean, of course, the moral,
the spiritual, the divine nature that man possesses.
For here it is precisely-in this region where the moral will puts forth its power, that it encounters such difficulty and is guilty of such failure, that it seems, no
doubt, at times, as if the world were overshadowed
with sins and sorrows.
Of the actual attainments of this spiritual nature,
it is true, we must entertain but a moderate and humbling estimate. And yet I must say, that the nature
has done more and better than it always has credit




118             ON HUMAN NATURE.
for. l must confess that I am led at times to wonder, not
that the world is so bad as it is, but to wonder that it
is not worse. Human nature has been so badly treated by those who should have known it better, that its
virtues sometimes more surprise me than its vices.
We hear indeed of horrible atrocities at which society
stands aghast; but when I think of the undisciplined
strength of passion, the untamed anger that boils in
the human breast, the unschooled propensities that
rage in the human frame, I wonder rather at the limits that are set to their range.
There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them how we will.
How few men are as bad as they might be; as bad
as they are tempted to be! How many checks are
there in the moral system of our being and life! How
many painful emotions beset the evil course; how
many admonitory voices are there of sin-inflicted suffering, disease and sorrow, that warn and almost compel man to be wise! That which divines have called
"restraining grace " —that restraint indeed of the Great
Will that reigns over us —what a marvellous feature
is it in the moral economy!
And that I can suffer when I sin, that I can sorrow
for the wrong that is in me, that I can sigh and struggle to be free from it-I am glad of that. Were it not
for this moral nature, this conscience, all were wrecked; but it exists, it is strong, it works mightily in the
human heart. I know  not who makes it suffer and
sorrow and struggle as it does, but God. It seems to
me that all institutions, all preachings, all machinery
of human device, are weak, compared with this allpervading power of God that works within us. And




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.      119
indeed all other means are nothing but as they take
hold of that power.
And if by that power I can, and do, rise to virtue,
if I gain the victory over temptation, if I attain to a
true and solid peace, to an inward sufficiency, to the
supreme and absorbing love of goodness and of God,
then indeed are my feet set upon a rock, and a new
song is put into my mouth; and it is a song of thanksgiving. Nothing on earth or in heaven, can ever be
such a cause of thankfulness with me, as this.
What an interest belongs to the very strifes and tlials that may lead to this? A man who makes a fortune on the burning soil-of India, is thankful to that
country-with all its heat and dust and languor and
disease, he is thankful to it. A man who stands here
at home, with energy and opportunity to repair his
broken fortunes, blesses that opportunity and that energy. So do we stand in the field of the world.'We
may have failed to a certain extent, or we may have
failed altogether, to secure the great interest of life.
But still the opportunity for better efforts is given; time
is lengthened out; the day and the means of grace
are ours; conscience is in our hearts, and the Bible is
in our hands, and prayer may be on our lips; all is not
lost; the time past may be redeemed, the erring steps
retrieved; our very errors may teach us; our sad experience may teach us-blessed be its sadness then!and we may rise to sanctity, to blessedness and to
heaven. And if, I say again, we can and do thus succeed; if, from this often-deceiving, and ever-changing
and fleeting world, we may draw and fix within us,
one thing which is sure and steadfast and immovable
and always abounding, one feeling that is assurance
and sufficiency and victory, a happiness in wisdom, in




120             ON HUMAN NATURE.
love and'in God, which is, we know, in its very nature
everlasting, which, we feel, will never desert us, wil
never let us be unhappy, go where on earth, go where
in heaven, xwe will; what a prize, to bear a-way from
a struggling life and from the battling world, is this?
Who does not say, "thanks be to God?" And who
that understands the great, comforting and redeeming
ministration of the Gospel to this end, does not say"thanks be to God through our Lord Jesus Christ?"
Yes, my brethren, through Jesus Christ, above all.
We have not been left to struggle alone. One has
come to us, bearing the image of God, bearing the nmission of God; One, all compassion and tenderness, all
truth and loveliness, has come to us and taught us,
and helped us, and prayed for us, and died for us: and
to him, under God, do we owe the prize. And when
it is gained and borne away to heaven, then and there
shall we say, "'blessing and honour and glory and
power, be unto Him. that sitteth on the throne, and to
the Lamb forever and ever!"
And in fine, my friends, that we shall bear away
this prize from earth to heaven-is that to be lamented?  Shall that thought check and chill all our gladness and thanksgiving?
I rejoice that I am a man —a sensitive, intellectual,
social, moral being: above all, that I am a moral being.
I rejoice that I have a conscience, and a knowledge of
God. I rejoice that I am a being subject to a great,
noral trial. I lament that I have fallen, but all tho
more am I thankful that I can rise. I thank God that
I can spiritually sorrowvand struggle, and spiritually
can gain the victory. But now shall I surprise youshall I seem to say too much if I say, I thank God that
I am mortal. I thank God that he has put a limit to




AS A GROUND FOR THANKSGIVING.      121
this earthly probation. Not with grieving but with
hope, do I recognise the solemn truth that one daywhat day I know not, and for that too am I thankful
— that one day, appointed in God's wisdom, I shall die!
-yes, that I shall die!-that I shall lay aside this
body for another form of being! I would not live
always. I would not always feel the burdens and barriers with which mortality has surrounded and overlaid me. Some time or other, I would part hence;
some time or other I would that my friends should
part hence. Oh! could we go in families! But
that too, I see, would not be well. For then how
bound up in our families should we be-how selfish
and how reserved and exclusive! No, I take the great
dispensation as it is, and I am thankful for it. All its
strong bonds, all its urgent tasks, all its disciplinary
trials-I accept all, and accept all with gratitude.
Sweet, angel visits of peace are these also; thrilling
pleasures in my sensitive frame; lofty towerings and
triumphs of intellect; blessed bonds and joys of society;
the glorious vision of the infinite perfection; I am
thankful for them all. I am thankful that every age
of life has its character, task and hope; that childhood
comes forth upon the stream of life, in its frail but
fairy and gay vessel-with its guardian angel by its
side-the banks covered with flowers, and the vermilion tints of morning upon the hills; that youth stands
amidst the bright landscape, stretching its eye and its
arm to the cloud-castle of honour and hope; that manhood struggles amidst the descending storm, with resignation, with courage, with an eye fixed on heaven;
and that although shapes of wrath and terror are amidst
the elements, the guardian angel too is there, holding
its bright station in the clouds; and that when age at
11




122          ON HUMAN NATURE, ETC.
last comes, life's struggle over, life's voyage completed
-that light from heaven streams down upon the darkness and desolation of earth, and the good angel is by
its side, and pointing upward says, "thither-thither
shalt thou go"!*
* The allusion here, is to that admirable series of paintings, by
Mr. Cole, entitled " The Stream of Life."




ON HUMAN LIFE.
VIII.
THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE.
NOW A THING WAS SECRETLY BROUGHT TO ME, AND MINE EAR RECEIVED A
LITTLE THEREOF. IN THOUGHTS FROM THE VISIONS OF THE NIGHT, WHEN
DEEP SLEEP FALLETH ON MEN; FEAR CAME UPON ME, AND TREMBLING
WHICH MADE ALL MY BONES TO SHAKE. THEN A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE
MY FACE, AND THE HAIR OF MY FLESH STOOD UP. IT STOOD STILL; BUT I.
COULD NOT DISCERN THE FORM THEREOF; AN IMAGE WAS BEFORE MINE
EYES; THERE WAS SILENCE; AND -I HEARD A VOICE.-Job iv. 12-16.
HUMAN life to many, is like the vision of Eliphaz.
Dim and shadowy vails hang round its awful revelations. Teachings there are to man, in solemn and
silent hours, in thoughts from the visions of the night,
in vague impressions'and unshaped reveries; but, on
this very account, they fail to be interpreted and understood. There is much teaching; but there is also
much unbelief.
There is a scepticism, indeed, about the entire
moral significance of life, which I propose, in this discourse, to  examine.  It is a  scepticism, sometimes
taking the form of philosophy, sometimes of misanthrophy and scorn, and sometimes of heavy and hardbound worldliness, which denies that life has any lofty,
spiritual import: which resolves all into a series of
toils and trifles and vanities, or of gross and palpable
pursuits and acquisitions. It is a scepticism, not




124             ON HUMAN LIFE.
about creeds, not about Christianity; it lies farther
back-lies far deeper; it is a sceptici;m  about the
very meaning and intent of our whole existence.
This scepticism I propose to meet; and for this purpose, I propose to see what argument can be extracted
out of the very grounds on which it founds itself.
The pertinency of my text to my purpose, as I have
already intimated, lies in this; there is much of deep
import in this life, like that which Eliphaz saw in the
visions of the night-not clear, not palpable, or at least
not usually recognised and made familiar; but it
cometh, as it were in the night, when deep sleep. falleth
on men; it cometh in the still and solitary hours; it
cometh in the time of meditation or of sorrow, or of
some awful and overshadowing crisis of life. It is
secretly brought to the soul, and the ear receiveth a
little thereof. It is as a spirit that passeth before us,
and vanisheth into the night shadow; or it standeth
still, but we cannot discern the form thereof; there is
an undefined image of truth; there is silence; and at
length there is a voice.
It is of these unrecognised revelations of our present
being, that I would endeavour to give the interpretation; I would attempt to give them a voice.
But let us spread out a little in the first place, the
sceptic's argument. It says; "What is there in human
existence that accords with your lofty, Christian theory?
You may talk about the grandeur of a human life, the
sublime wants and aspirations of the human soul, the
solemn consciousness, amidst all life's cares and toils,
of an immortal destiny; it is all a beautiful dream!
Look over the world's history, and say-what intimations does it furnish of that majestic design, the
world's salvation? Look at any company of toil'ng
and plodding men in the country around yol; and




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE -:OF LIFE.       125
what are they thinking of, but. acres and crops, of
labour and the instruments of labour?. Go into the
noisy and crowded manufactory, and what is there,
but machinery-animate or inanimate; the mind as
truly girded and harnessed to the work, as the turninglathe or the banded wheel.? Gaze. upon the thronged
streets, or upon holiday crowds, mixing the oaths of the
profane with the draughts of the intemperate; and where
is the spiritual soul that you talk of? Or look at human life in a large view of it, and of what is it made up?
"Trouble and weariness "-you see that it is the
cynic's complaint-" trouble and weariness; the disappointment of inexperience or the dulness of familiarity;
the frivolity of the gay or the unprofitable sadness of
melancholy; the heavy ennui of the idle or the plodding
care of the busy; the suffering of disease or the wasted energy of health; frailty, its lot and its doom, death;
a world of things wasted, worn out, perishing in the
use, tending to nothing, and accomplishing nothing;
so complete the frivolity of life with many, that they
actually think more of the fine apparel they shall
wear, than of the inward spirit, which you say is to
inherit the immortal ages!"
All this, alas! is too true; but it is not true to the extent nor in the exclusive sense, alleged. Th/at but few
meditate on their lot as they ought, is perfectly true;
but there are impressions and convictions that come into
the mind through other channels than those of mneditation. They come perhaps, like the shadowy vision of Eliphaz, in darkness and silence-vague, indistinct, mysterious, awful; or they come in the form of certain, but
neglected and forgotten truths. And they come, too,
from those very scenes, in which the eye of the objector
e~an see nothing but material grossness or thoughtless
levity. This is what I shall especially attempt to
11*




126             ON HUMAN LIFE.
show. I shall not undertake, in this discourse, to go
farther; but I believe that I shall not perform a useless service to the true faith of our being, if I may be
able, in some measure, to unveil and bring to light,
those secret intimations which are often smothered,
indeed, but which from time to time, are flashing out
from the cloud of human cares and pursuits.' Man," it is said, " is bound up in materialism, irr -
prisoned by the senses, limited to the gross and palpable; far-reaching thoughts, soaring aspirations are
found in essays and speculations about him rather than
in his own experience; they are in books, rather than
in brick-yards and ploughed fields and tumultuous
marts."
What stupendous revelations are cloaked and almost
hidden by familiarity! This very category of scepticism; what is it, but the blind admission of the sublimest truth? A man is recognized as standing amidst
this palpable cloud of care and labour; enclosed, it is
said, shut up in sense and matter; but still a man!
A dungeon is this world, if you please so to represent
it; but in this dungeon, is a prisoner-moaning, sorrowing, sighing to be free. A wilderness world it is,
in the thought of many; but one is struggling through
this wilderness, who imparts to it a loftier grandeur
than its own; his articulate voice, his breathed prayer,
or his shout amidst the dim solitudes —nay, the very
sound of his axe in the forest depths-is sublimer than
all the solemn symphonies of autumn winds sweeping
through its majestic aisles.
Grant that matter and sense are man's teachers;
and consider these teachings in their very humblest
form, in their very lowest grade —what they teach perforce, and in spite of man's will. What are they?
Materialism itself suggests to man the thought of an




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE.        127
immaterial principle.  The senses awaken within
him the consciousness of a soul. Of a soul, I say;
and what is that? Oh! the very word, soul, is itself
soiled by a common use, till we know not what it
means. So that this universal endowment of humanity, this dread endowment, by which infinity, eternity,
nay and divinity, belong to its innate and inmost conceptions, can be at once admitted and almost overlooked, in the account of human existence.
In man the humblest instruments reveal the loftiest
energies. This is not enthusiasm, but philosophy.
Modern philosophy has distinctly unfolded this principle; that all our mental conceptions suggest their opposites; the finite, the infinite; the seen, the unseen;
time, eternity; creation, a God. The child that has
tried his eye upon surrounding objects, soon learns to
send his thought through the boundless air, and to embrace the idea of infinite space. The being that is
conscious of having lived a certain time, comes to entertain as correlative to that consciousness, the conception of eternity. These are among the fundamental
facts of all human experience. Such, to a man in distinction from an animal, is the instrumentality of his
very senses. As with a small telescope, a few feet in
length and breadth, man learns to survey heavens beyond heavens, almost infinite; so with the aid of limited senses and faculties does he rise to the conception
of what is beyond all visible heavens, beyond all conceivable time, beyond all imagined power, beauty and
glory. Such is a human life. Man stands before us,
visibly confined within the narrowest compass; and
yet from this humble frame, stream out on every side
the riays of thought, to infinity, to eternity, to omnipotence, to boundless grandeur and goodness. Let him
who will, account this existence to be nothing but van



128            ON HUMAN LIFE.
ity and dust. I must be allowed on better grounds, to
look upon it as that, in whose presence all the visible
majesty of worlds and suns and systems sink to noth
ing. Systems and suns and worlds are all comprehended in a single thought of this being, whom we do
not yet know.
But let us pass from these primary convictions which
are suggested by matter and sense, to those spheres of
human life, where many can see nothing but weary
labour, or trifling pleasure, or heavy ennui.
Labour, then-what is it, and what doth it mean?
Its fervid brow, its toiling hand, its weary step; what
do they mean? It was in the power of God to provide
for us, as he has provided for the beasts of the field
and the fowls of heaven: so that human hands should
neither toil nor spin. He who appointed the high hills
as a refuge for the wild goats, and the rocks for the
conies, might as easily have caused marble cities and
hamlets of enduring granite, to have been productions
of nature's grand masonry. In secret forges and by
eternal fires, might every instrument of convenience
and elegance have been fashioned; the winds might
have woven soft fabrics upon every tree, and a table
of abundance might have been spread in every wilderness and by every seashore. For the animal races it is
spread. Why is it not for man? Why is it especially
ordained as the lot of man, that in the sweat of his
brow he shall eat his bread? Be ye sure that it hath
a meaning. The curse, so much dreaded in the
primeval of innocence and freedom of nature, falls not
causeless on the earth. Labour is a more beneficent
ministration than man's ignorance comprehends, or
his complainings will admit. It is not mere blind
drudgery, even when its end is hidden from him. It
is all a training, it is all a discipline; a development




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF I IFE.         129
of energies a nurse of virtues, a school of improvement. Fromr the poor boy that gathers a few sticks
for his mother's hearth, to the strong man who fells
the forest oak, every human toiler, with every weary
step and every urgent task, is obeying a wisdom.far
above his own wisdom, and is fulfilling a design far
beyond his own design-his own supply and support
or another's wealth, luxury or splendour.
But now let us turn to an opposite scene of. life. I
mean that of pleasure and dissipation. Is this all
mere frivolity, a scene that -suggests no meaning
beyond its superficial aspects? Nay, my friends, what
significance is there in unsatisfying pleasure?  What
a serious thing is the reckless gaiety of a bad man?
What a picture, almost to move our awe, does vice
present to us? The desperate attempt to escape from
the ennui of an unfurnished and unsatisfied mind;
the blind and headlong impulse of the soul, to. quench
its maddening thirst for happiness in the burning
draughts of pleasure; the deep consciousness which
soon arises of guilt and infamy; the sad adieu to
honour and good fame; the shedding of silent and
bitter tears; the flush of the heart's agony over the
pale and haggard brow; the last determined and dread
sacrifice of the soul and of heaven, to one demoniac
passion; what serious things are these?  What signatures upon the soul, to show its higher nature? What
a fearful hand-writing upon the walls that surround
the deeds of darkness, duplicity and sensual crime?
The holy altar of religion hath no seriousness about
it, deeper, or I had almost said, more awful than that
which settles down upon the gaming table, or broods
oftentimes over the haunts of corrupting indulgence.
At that altar, indeed, is teaching.; words, words are
uttered here; instruction, cold instruction, alas! it




130               ON HUMAN LIFE.
may be, is delivered in consecrated walls; but if the
haunts of evil could be unveiled, if the covering could
be taken off from guilty hearts, if every sharp pang
and every lingering regret of the vitiated mind, could
send forth its moanings and sighs into the great hearing of the world; the world would stand aghast at
that dread teaching.
But besides the weariness of toil and the frivolity of
pleasure, there is another state of life that is thought
to teach nothing; and that is ennui; a state of leisure,
attended with moody reveries. The hurry of pursuit
is over, for the time; the illusions of pleasure have
vanished; and the man sits down in the solitariness
of meditation; and " weary, flat, stale and unprofitable
appear to him  all the uses of this life."  It seems-to
him, as I once heard it touchingly expressed even by
a child, "as if every thing was nothing." This has
been the occasional mood of many lofty minds, and
has often been expressed in our literature.
" Life's little stage, (says one) is a small eminence,
Inch high above the grave; that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude; we gaze around;
We read their monuments; we sigh; and while
We sigh, we sink and are what we deplored;
Lamenting, or lamented all our lot!"
"To morrow," says our-great dramatist,
"and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. * * * * * *
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
But bound up with this poor, frail life, is the mighty
thought that spurns the narrow span of all visible exist.




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE.         131
ence. Out of this nothing, springs a something-a
significant intimation, a dread revelation of the awful
powers that lie wrapped up in human existence.
Nothing more reveals the majestic import of life than
this ennui, this heart-sinking sense of the vanity of all
present acquisitions and attainments. " Man's misery,"
it has been well said, "comes of his greatness."  The
sphere of life appears small, the ordinary circle of its
avocations, narrow and confined, the common routine
of its cares insipid and unsatisfactory; why? Because
he who walks therein demands a boundless range of
objects. Why does the body seem to imprison the
soul? Because the soul asks for freedom; because it
looks forth from the narrow and grated windows of
sense upon the wide and immeasurable creation;
because it knows that around and beyond it, lie outstretched the infinite and the everlasting paths.
I have now considered some of those views of life
which are brought forward as objections against our
Christian theory of its greatness. My purpose in this
discourse is not to penetrate into the wisdom of its
deeper relations, but to confine myself to its humblest
aspects, and to things that are known and acknowledged to be matters of fact.
With this view, I proceed to observe in the last place,
that every thing in this life bears traits that may well
stir our minds to admiration and wonder.
How mysterious is the connection of mind with matter; of the act of my will with the motion of my hand;
this wonderfill telegraphic communication between the
brain and every part of the body! We talk of nerves;
but how knoweth the nerve in nly finger, of the will
that moves it? We talk of the will: but what is it,
and how does its commanding act originate? It is all
mystery. Within this folding veil of flesh, within




132             ON HUMAN LIFE.
these dark channels, every instant's action is a history
of miracles. Every familiar step is more than a story
in a land of enchantment. Were the marble statue
before us, suddenly endowed with that self-moving
power, it would not be intrinsically more wonderful
than is the action of every being around us.
The human face is itself a wonder. I do not mean
in its beauty, nor in its power of expression; but in its
variety and its individuality. What is the problem
that is here solved? Suppose it were stated thus:
given, a space nine inches long and six inches broad;
the form essentially the same, the features the same,
the colours the same; required, unnumbered hundreds
of millions of countenances so entirely different, as,
with some rare exceptions, to be completely and easily
distinguishable. Would not the whole mechanical
ingenuity of the world be thrown into utter despair of
approaching any way towards such a result? And
yet it is completely achieved in the human countenance. Yes, the familiar faces that are around us,
bear mysteries and marvels in every look.
Again, the house thou dwellest in, that familiar
abode, what holds it together, and secures it on its firm
foundation? Joint to joint, beam to beam, every post
to its socket, is swathed and fastened by the mighty
bands that hold ten thousand worlds in their orbits.
This is no phantasm of the imagination; it is the philosophical fact. All actual motion, and all seeming
rest, are determined by unnumbered, most nicely balanced, and at the same time, immeasurable influences
and attractions. Universal harmony springs from
infinite complication. And therefore, every step thou
takest in thy dwelling —still I only repeat what philosophers have proved-the momentum of every step,
I say, contributes its part to the order of the universe.




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE.        133
What then is a life, conscious of these stupendous
relations, and what are its humblest dwellings? If you
lived in a palace that covered a hundred miles of territory,
and if the stamping of your foot could convey an order to
its farthest limits; you would feel that that, indeed,
was power and grandeur. But you live in a system
of things, you dwell in a palace, whose dome is spread
out in the boundless skies; whose lights are hung in
the wide arches of heaven; whose foundations are
longer far than the earth and broader far than the sea;
and you are connected by ties of thought, and even of
mnatter, with its whole boundless extent. If your earthly dwelling, your house of life, were lifted up and borne
visibly among the stars, guarded with power and
clothed with light; you would feel that that was a sublime fortune for any being to enjoy. To ride in a royal
chariot would be a small thing compared with that.
But you are borne onward among the celestial spheres;
rolling worlds are around you; bright, starry abodes
fill all the coasts and skies of heaven; you are borne
and kept by powers, silent and unperceived indeed, but
real and boundless as the immeasurable universe.
The infinite, we allow is mysterious; but not less
so, in truth, is the finite and the small. It is said that
man cannot comprehend infinity. It is true, and yet
it is falsely said in one respect. The declaration that
we cannot understand infinity, usually conveys the
implication that we can comprehend that which is the
opposite of infinity; that is, the little scene around us.
But the humblest object beneath our eye, as completely
defies our scrutiny, as the economy of the most distant world. Every spire of grass, of which the scythe
mows down millions in an hour, holds within it secrets,
which no human penetration ever fathomed. Examine it with the microscope, and you shall find a beau1?




134             ON HUMAN LIFE.
tiful organization; channels for the vital juices to flow
in; some to nourish the stalk; others to provide for
the flower and prepare the seed; other instruments
still, to secrete the nutriment that flows up from the
soil, and to deposite and incorporate it with the plant;
and altogether, a mechanism more curious than any,
perhaps, ever formed by the ingenuity of man. And
yet there are questions here, which the profoundest
philosopher cannot answer. What is the principle of
life,-without which, though the whole organization
remains, the plant dies? And what is that wonderful
power of secretion? No man can tell. There are inscrutable mysteries, wrapped up in the foldings of that
humble spire of grass.
Sit down now, and take thy pen, and spread out thine
account, as some writers have done, of the insignificance of human life. But wilt thou pause a little and
tell me first, how that pen was formed wherewith thou
art writing, and that table whereon thy tablets are
laid?  Thou canst tell neither.  Wilt thou not pause
then, when the very instruments thou art using, should
startle thee into astonishment?  Lay thine hand
where thou wilt, and thou layest it on the hiding bosom
of mystery. Step where thou wilt, and thou dost
tread upon a land of wonder. No fabled land of enchantment ever was filled with such startling tokens.
So fraught are all things with this moral significance,
that nothing can refuse its behest. The furrows of
the field, the clods of the valley, the dull beaten path,
the insensible rock, are traced over and in every direction, with this handwriting, more significant and sublime than all the beetling ruins and all the buried
cities, that past generations have left upon the earth.
It is the handwriting of the Almighty!
In fine, the history of the humblest human life is a




MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE.        135
tale of marvels. There is no dull or unmeaning thing
in existence, did we but understand it; there is not
one of our employments, no, nor one of our states of
mind, but is, could we interpret it, as significant-not
as instructive, but as significant, as holy writ. Experience, sensation, feeling, suffering, rejoicing; what a
world of meaning and of wonder liesin the modes and
changes and strugglings and soarings of the life in
which these are bound up. If it were but new, if we
had been cast upon " this shore of being " without
those intervening steps of childhood that have now
made it familiar ground; how had we been rapt in
astonishment at every thing around, and every thing
within us!
I have endeavoured in the present discourse-perhaps in vain —to touch this sense of wonder: to arouse
attention to the startling and awful intimations, to
the striking and monitory lessons and warnings of our
present existence. And if some of the topics and suggestions of my discourse have been vague and shadowy, yet I am ready to say; better to be startled by the
shadows of truth, than to sleep beneath its noontide
ray: better to be aroused by the visions of a dream,
than to slumber on in profound unconsciousness of
all the signs and wonders of our being. Oh! that I
could tear off this dreadful common-place of life, and
show you what it is. There would be no want then,
of entertainment or excitement; no need of journeys
or shows or tales to interest us; the every-day world
would be more than theatres or spectacles; and life
all-piercing, all-spiritual, would be more than the most
vivid dream of romance; how much more than the
most eager pursuit of pleasure or profit!
My Brethren, there is a vision like that of Eliphaz,
stealing upon us, if we would mark it, through the




136              ON HUMAN LIFE.
vails of every evening's shadows, or coming in the
morning with the mysterious revival of thought and
consciousness; there is a message whispering in the
stirred leaves, or starting beneath the clods of the field,
in the life that is everywhere bursting fiom its bosom.
Every thing around us images a spiritual life; all forms,
modes, processes, changes, though we discern them
not. Our great business with life is so to read the
book of its teaching; to find that life is not the doing
of drudgeries, but the hearing of oracles! The old
mythology is but a leaf in that book, for it peopled the
world with spiritual natures.  Many-leaved science
still spreads before us the same tale of wonder. Spiritual meditation, interpreting experience, and above all,
the life of Jesus, will lead us still farther into the heart
and soul and the innermost life of all things.  It is
but a child's life, to pause and rest upon outward things,
though we call them wealth and splendour. It is to
feed ourselves with husks, instead of sustaining food.
It is to grasp the semblance, and to lose the secret and
soul of existence. It is as if a pupil should gaze all
day upon the covers of his book, and open it not, and
learn nothing. It is indeed that awful alternative
which is put by Jesus himself; to gain the worldthough it be the whole world-and to lose our own
soul.




IX.
THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.
WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU SHOULDST MAGNIFY HIM) AND SET THINE HEART
UPON HIM; AND THAT THOU SHOULDST VISIT HIM EVERY MORNING, AND TRY
HIM EVERY MOMENT?-Job vii. 17-18.
THAT we are " tried every moment," —is the clause
of the text, to which I wish in this discourse, to direct
your meditation. By which, in the sense of the passage before us, is not meant that we are continually
afflicted, but that we are constantly proved and put to
the test; that every thing which befalls us, in the
course of life and of every day, bears upon us, in the
character of a spiritual discipline, a trial of our temper
and disposition; that every thing developes in us feelings that are either right or wrong.  I have spoken in
my last discourse of the moral significance of life. I
propose to speak in this, of the possible moral use and
of the inevitable moral effect of every thing in life.
My theme, in short, is this; that every thing in life is
moral, or spiritual.
There is no conviction which is at once more rare,
and more needful for our improvement, than this. If
the language of Job's discontent and despair in the
chapter from which our text is taken, is not familiar
to many, yet to very many, life appears at least mechanical and dull.  It is not such, in fact, but it appears
such. It appears to be mere labour, mere business,
mere activity. Or it is mere pain or pleasure, mere
gain or loss, mere success or disappointment.  These
12*




138             oN HUMAN LIFE.
things, if not mechanical, have at least, to many minds,
nothing spiritual in them. And not a few pass through
the most important transactions, through the most momentous eras of their lives, and never think of them
in their highest and most interesting character. The
pervading morality, the grand spiritual import of this
earthly scene, seldom strikes their mi fods, or touches
their hearts. And if they think of ever becoming religious, they expect to be so only through retirement
from this scene, or, at least, through teachings and influences and processes far removed from the course of
their daily lives.
But now I say, in contradiction to this, that every
thing in life, is spiritual. What is man, says Job, that
thou visitest him every morning? This question, presents us, at the opening of every day, with that view
of life, which I propose to illustrate. That conscious
existence which, in the morning, you recover from the
embraces of sleep; what a testimony is it to the power
and beneficence of God? What a teacher is it, of all
devout aid reverent thoughts? You laid yourself
down and slept. You lay, unconscious, helpless, dead
to all the purposes of life, and unable by any power
of your own ever to awake. From that sleep, from
that unconsciousness, from that image of death, God
has called you to a new life; he has restored to you
the gift of existence. And now what meets you on
this threshold of renewed life? Not bright sunbeams
alone, but God's mercies visit you in every beaming
-ray and every beaming thought, and call for gratitude;
and you can neither acknowledge nor resist the call
without a moral result. That result may come upon
you,, sooner than you expect. If you rise from your
bed, with a mind undevout, ungrateful, self-indulgent,
selfish —something in your very preparations for the




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.   139
day, something that may happen in a matter slight as
that of the toilet, may disturb your serenity and cloud
your day at the beginning. You may have thought.
that it was only the prayer of the morning that had
any religion, any thing spiritual in it. But I say that
there is not an article in your wardrobe, there is not
an instrument of daily convenience to you, however
minute or otherwise indifferent, but it has a power so
far moral, that a little disarray or disorder in it, may
produce in you a temper of mind, ay, a moral state, of
the most serious character. You may not be conscious
of this; that is, you may not be distinctly sensible of
it, and yet it may be none the less true. We are told
that the earth, and every substance around us, is full
of the electric fluid; but we do not constantly perceive
it. A little friction, however, developes it, and it sends.
out a hasty spark. And so in the moral world-a
slight chafing, a single turn of some wheel in the social
mnachinery-and there comes, like the electric spark,
a flashing glance of the eye, a hasty word, perhaps a
muttered oath-that sounds ominous and awful as the
tone of distant thunder! What is it that the little machinery of the electrical operator develops? It is the
same power, that gathering its tremendous forces, rolls
through the firmament, and rends the mountains in its
might. And just as true is it, that the little round of
our daily cares and occupations, the humble mechanism of daily life, bears witness to that moral power,
which, only extended, exalted, enthroned above, is the
dread and awful Majesty of the heavens.
But let us return to our proposition. Every thing
is moral, and therefore, as we have said, great and majestic; but let us for a few moments confine ourselves
to the simple consideration, that every thing in its bear
ings and influences is moral.




140             ON HUMAN LIFE.
All times and seasons are moral; the serene and
bright morning, we have said; that wakening of all
nature to life; that silence of the early dawn, as it were
the silence of expectation! that freshening glow, that
new inspiration of life, as if it came from the breath of
heaven; but the holy eventide also, its cooling breeze,
its falling shade, its hushed and sober hour; the sultry
noontide, too, and the solemn midnight; and springtime and chastening autumn; and summer that unbars
our gates and carries us forth amidst the ever-renewed
wondlers of the world; and winter that gathers us
around the evening hearth: all these as they pass,
touch by turns the springs of the spiritual life in us, and
are conducting that life to good or evil. The very passing of time, without any reference now to its seasons,
developes in us much that is moral. For what is the
passing of time, swifter or slower; what are its lingering and its hasting, but indications, but expressions often,
of the state of our own minds; it hastes often, because
we are wisely and well employed; it lingers, it hangs
heavily upon us, because our minds are unfurnished,
unenlightened, unoccupied with good thoughts, with
the fruitful themes of virtue: or because we have lost
almost all virtue in unreasonable and outrageous impatience. Yes, the idle watch-hand often points to
something within us; the very dial-shadow falls upon
the conscience!
The course of time on earth is marked by changes
of heat and cold, storm and sunshine; all this too is
moral. The weather, dull theme of comment as it is
often found, is to be regarded with no indifference as a
moral cause. For, does it not produce unreasonable
anxieties, or absolutely sinful complainings?  Have
none who hear me ever had reason to be shocked to
find themselves angry with the elements; vexed with




EVERY THING IN LIVE IS MORAL.    141
chafing heat, or piercing cold, or the buffeting storm;
and ready when encountering nature's resistance,
almost to return buffet for buffet?
But let us turn fiom the course of inanimate nature
to matters in which our own agency is more distinct
and visible.
Go with me to any farm-house in the land, and let
us see what is passing there, and what is the lofty and
spiritual import of its humble history. It is the theatre
of strenuous toils and beseting cares. Within doors is
work to be done; that work which is proverbially
" never done:" and without, the soil is to be tilled, the
weeds and brambles are to be rooted up, fences are to
be builded-of wood or stone-and to be kept in repair;
and all this is to be done with tools and instruments
that are not perfect, but must be continually mended;
the axe and the scythe grow dull with use; the plough
and the harrow are sometimes broken; the animals
which man brings in to assist his labours, have no
instincts to make them do the very thing he wishes;
they must be trained to the yoke and the collar; with
much pains and some danger.
Now the evil in all this, is not the task that is to be
performed, but the grand mistake that is made about
the spiritual purpose and character of that task. Most
men look upon such a state of life as mere labour, if
not vexation; and many regard it as a state of inferiority and almost of degradation. They must work, in
order to obtain sustenance, and that's ab they know
about this great dispensation of labour. But why did
not the Almighty cast man's lot beneath the quiet
shades and amid embosoming groves and hills, with
no such task to perform; with nothing to do but
to rise up and eat, and to lie down and rest? Why
did he ordain that work should be done, in all the




142            ON HUMAN LIFE.
dwellings of life, and upon every productive field, and
in every busy city and on every ocean wave? Because,
to go back to the original reason-it pleased God to
give.man a nature destined to higher ends than indolent repose and irresponsible indulgence. And because,
in the next place, for developing the energies of such
a nature, work was the proper element. I am but
repeating perhaps, what I have said before to you, but
I feel that in taking this position, I am standing upon
one of the great moral landmarks which ought to guide
the course of all mankind; but on which, seen through
a mist or not seen at all, the moral fortunes of millions
are fatally wrecked. Could the toiling world but see
that the scene of their daily life is all spiritual, that
the very implements of their toil, or the fabrics they
weave, or the merchandize they barter, were all designed for spiritual ends; what a sphere for the noblest
improvement might their daily lot then be?  What
a revolution might this single truth produce in the condition and character of the whole world? But now,
for a man to gird himself for spiritual improvement;
what is it? Why, with most men, it is to cast off the
soiled and dusty garments of toil, the slough of mere
worldly drudgery as they are called; and to put on
the Sunday suit and go to church, or to sit down and
read a book. Good employments are these, but one
special design of them is, to prepare the mind for
the action of life. We are to hear and read, we are to
meditate and pray, partly at least, for this end-that
we may act well. The action of life is the great field
for spiritual improvement. There is not one task of
industry or business, whether in field or forest, on the
wharf or the exchange, but it has spiritual ends.
There is not one of the cares or crosses of our daily
labour, but it was especially ordained, to nurture in




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.    143
us patience, calmness, gentleness, disinterestedness,
magnanimity. Nor is there one tool or implement of
toil, but it is a part of the great spiritual instrutmentality.
Every thing in life, then, I repeat, is essentially
spiritual. Every relation in life is so. The relations
of parent, child, brother, sister, friend, associate, husband, wife, are throughout every living tie and
thrilling nerve that binds them together, moral. They
cannot subsist a day nor an hour, without putting the
mind to a trial of its truth, fidelity, forbearance, disinterestedness.
But let us take the case of the parent; of the young
mother, for instance. She may have passed her youth
in much thoughtlessness; in a round of fashionable
engagements that have left her little time to think,
even when approaching the most solemn relationships
of life; and she may have become a wife and mother,
before she has settled, or even meditated, any reasonable plan or principle of life and of duty. Now, I am
not about to say that the new charge committed to
her hands, brings with it many obvious duties and
strong obligations; but I desire you to observe how,
what is moral in the case, is thrust upon her; as if a
hand were suddenly stretched forth into her path, with
movement and gesture that bade her pause and consider. For what is in that path? It is a being, though
bu/t a little child, in whom is suddenly revealed that
awful attribute, them indomitable will. That will, perhaps, utters itself in a scream of passion; it stamps
upon the ground in a fury of anger; it vents itself in
tears; or flashes in lightning from the eye. Yes, the
being that a few days before was an unconscious
and helpless infant in her arms, has all at once put on
the terrific attribute of will; and its astonished guardian




144            ON HUMAN LIFE.
stands aghast, as if an uncaged lion had broken upon
her path. What, then, is in that path? I answer, it
is what nothing but moral firmness can fairly meet,
and nothing but the gentleness and patience of piety
and prayer can ever successfully and wisely manage,
control and subdue! And I say again, that if moral
action, if religious consideration was never before
awakened, that very epoch, that very hour, might
reasonably be the commencement with her, of a complete and spiritual regeneration! For nothing less
than actual regeneration from a thoughtless, self-indulgent life, ever did, or ever can, prepare any one
thoroughly and faithfully to discharge the duties of a
parent.
Again, every thing in the condition of life is moral;
wealth, the means of lavish expense, or the argument
for avaricious hoarding; poverty, the task-master that
exacts labour, or inflicts self-denial; mediocrity of
means, the necessity, the vexatious necessity, as some
will consider it, of attending to the little items of expense,
or the mortifying inferiority to others, in the splendour
of equipages and establishments; trade, the splendid
success, the fortunate speculation, the disappointed
hope, the satisfactory endorsement, the dishonoured
note, the sharp bargain-all moral; the professions
and callings of life, some making their incumbents
unreasonably proud, others making their equally useful
agents, unreasonably humble. When we look upon
things in this light, how moral is' every thing around
us! This great city is one extended scene of moral
action. There is not a blow struck in it, but has a
purpose, and a purpose ultimately good or bad, and
therefore moral. There is not an action peiformed
but it has a motive; and motives are the very sphere
of morality. These equipages in our streets, these




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.   145
houses and their furniture; what symbols are they of
what is moral, and how are they, in a thousand ways,
ministering to right or wrong feeling  You may have
thought that you were to receive the teachings of morality and religion only by resorting to church; but take
your seat in your well-furnished, perhaps, splendid
apartment, and there is not an object around you but
may minister to the good or bad state of your mind.
It is a little empire of which your mind is the creator.
From many a trade and occupation and art in life, you
have gathered contributions to its comfort or splendour.
The forest, the field, the ore-bed, the ocean; all elements, fire, water, earth, air, have yielded their supplies
to form this dwelling-place, this palace of your thoughts.
Furniture, whose materials came from beyond the sea;
polished marbles wrought from the quarries of Italy;
carpets from the looms of England; the luxurious
couch, and the shaded evening lamp; of what are all
these the symbols? What emotions do they awaken
in you? Be they emotions of pride, or be they emotions of gratitude; be they thoughts of self-indulgence
only, or thoughts, merciful thoughts, of the thousands
who are destitute of all the comforts of life; what a
moral complexion do they bear?
Nay, and this spiritual dispensation of life may press
down upon a man in a way he little thinks of. For
how possible is it, that amidst boundless wealth, in its
most gorgeous mansion, and surrounded by every
thing that can minister to pleasure, a family may be
more miserable than the poorest family in the land!the children, spoiled by indulgence, made vain and
proud by their over-estimated advantages, mnade
peevish, impatient and imbecile, by perpetual dependence on others, and not half so happy even, as
thousands of children who are half clad and unshod,
13




146             ON HUMAN LIFE.
and who never knew what it was to give a command,
their elders, injured or ruined in constitution by luxuries, enfeebled and dulled in mind by the hard tasks
that are imposed on the functions of the body, and yet
absurdly puffed up with pride that they can live splendidly and fare sumptuously every day; how possible
is it, I repeat, that coarse fare and a pallet of straw,
may turn out to be better than the bed of down, and
the loaded table, and the cellar of choice wines! Ay
the loaded table, what a long moral account, accumulating day by day, through years, may have been
written upon that table; and payment, perchance,
must be. made on the couch of agony!
Again, society is, throughout, a moral scene. I
cannot enlarge upon this point as it would be easy to
do, but must content myself with one or two observations. Conversation, forinstance, is full of inward trials
and exigencies. It is impossible that imperfect minds
should commune together without a constant trial of
their tempers and virtues. Though of the most
friendly and kindred spirit, they will have different
opinions, or varying moods; one will be quicker or
slower of apprehension than the other on some point;
one will think the other wrong, and the other will feel
as if it were unkindly or uncharitably construed; and
there will be dispute, and pertinacity, and implication,
and retort, and defence, and complaint; and well, if
there are not sarcasm and anger. And well, if these
harsh sounds do not invade the sanctuary of home!
Well, if they do not bring disturbance to the social
board, and discord amidst the voices of music and
song!
Is not every thing, then, in social life, moral?really a matter of religion, a trial of conscience? You
enter your dwelling. The first thing that you see




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.    147
and it may be a very slight thing, may call upon you
for an act of self-command. The thing may not be
as it should be; but that is not the most material consideration; that is not what most concerns you. The
material consideration is, that your mind may be put
out of its proper place, that you may not be as you
should be. You go from your door. The sight of the
first man you behold, may call for a trial of all your
virtues. You enter into the throng of society. Every
turn of your eye, may present an occasion for the
exercise of your self-respect, your calmness, your
modesty, your candour, your forgetfulness of self, your
love of others. You visit the sick, or necessitous.
Every step may be one of ostentation, or at least of
self-applause; or it may be one of true generosity and
goodness. You stand amidst the throng of men; and
your position has many relations; you are higher or
lower than others, or you are an equal and a competitor; and none of these relations can be wisely
sustained without the aid of strong religious considerations. Or, your position is fixed and unalterable. You
are a parent; and you give a command or make a
request. A thoughtful observer will perceive the very
tone of it to be moral: and a fiiend may know that it
has cost twenty years of self-discipline to form that
gentle tone! Or you are a child; and you obey or
disobey; and let me tell you that the act, nay, the very
manner of your act, is so vitally good or bad, that
it may send a thrill of gladness, or a pang, sharp as a
sword, to the heart of your parent. Or you are a
pupil; and can any act or look be indifferent, which
by its levity, or negligence, or ill-humour, adds to the
already trying task of those who spend anxious days
and nights for you?
rl1t I must leave those specifications, which I find




148             ON HUMAN LIFE.
indeed cannot well be carried into the requisite detad
in the pulpit; but I must leave them also for the sake
of presenting in close, one or two general reflections
on the whole subject.
I observe then, that the consideration of every thing
in our life as moral, as spiritual, would impart an
unequalled interest and dignity to life.
First, an unequalled interest.
It is often said that the poet or the man of genius, is
alive to a world around him, to aspects of nature and
life, which others do not perceive. This is not strictly
true; for when he describes his impressions he finds
a responsive feeling in the breasts of his readers. The
truth is, and herein lies much of his power and greatness, that he is vividly and distinctly conscious of
those things which other men feel indeed, but feel so
vaguely, that they are scarcely aware, till told of them.
So it is in spiritual things. A world of spiritual objects
and influences, and relations, lies around us all. We
all vaguely deem it to be so; but what a charmed
life; how like to that of genius or poetic inspiration, is
his, who communes with the spiritual scene around
him; who hears the voice of the spirit in every sound;
who sees its signs in every passing form of things,
and feels its impulse, in all action, passion, being!
"The kingdom of heaven," says our Saviour, "is
like a treasure hid in a field."  There is a treasure
in the field of life, richer than all its visible wealth;
which whoso finds, shall be happier than if he had
discovered a mine of gold. It is related that the mine
of Potosi was unveiled, simply by tearing a bush from
the mountain side. Thus near to us lie the mines of
wisdom; thus unsuspected they lie all around us.' The word," saith Moses, speaking of this very
wisdom, "is very nigh thee."  There is a secret in




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.    149
the simplest things, a wonder in the plainest, a charm
in the dullest. The veil that hides all this requires
but a hand stretched out to draw it aside.
We are all naturally seekers of wonders; we travel
far to see sights, to look upon the mountain height or
the rush of waters, to gaze upon galleries of art or the
majesty of old ruins; and yet a greater than all these
is here. The world-wonder is all around us; the
wonder of setting suns and evening stars; the wonder
of the magic spring time, of tufted bank and blossoming tree; the wonder of the Infinite Divinity, and of
his boundless revelation. As I stood yesterday and
looked upon a tree, I observed little jets as of smoke,
darting from one and another of its bursting buds. Oh!
that the secrets of nature might thus burst forth before
us; that the secret wisdom of the world might thus be
revealed to us! Is there any splendour to be found in
distant travels, beyond that which sets its morning
throne in the golden East; any dome sublimer than
that of heaven; any beauty fairer than that of the
verdant and blossoming earth; any place, though
invested with all the sanctities of old time, like that
home which is hushed and folded within the embrace
of the humblest wall and roof?  And yet all these-.
this is the point at which.I aim-all.these are but the
symbols of things far greater and higher. All this is
but the spirit's clothing. In this vesture of time is
wrapped the immortal nature; in this brave show of
circumstance and form, stands revealed the stupendous
reality. Break forth, earth-bound spirit! and be that
thou art, a living soul; communing with thyself, communing with God; and thou shalt find thy vision,
eternity; thine abode, infinity; thy home, in the bosom
of all-embracing love!
13*




150               ON HUMAN LIFE.
" So build we up the being that we are;
Thus deeply drinking in the soul of things,
We shall be wise perforce.
Whate'er we see,
Whate'er we feel, by agency direct
Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse
Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats
Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights
Of love divine, our intellectual soul."
And thus, in the next place, shall we find that al.
the real dignity and importance that belong to human
life, belong to every human life; i. e. to life in every
condition. It is the right mind, the right apprehension
of things only that is wanting, to make the peasant's
cottage as interesting, as intrinsically glorious, as the
prince's palace. I wish that this view of life might be
taken by us; not only because it is the right view, but
because it would tend effectually to promote human
happiness, and especially contentment. Most men look
upon their employments and abodes as common-place
and almost as mean.  The familiar objects around
them, appear to them almost as vulgar. They feel as
if there courd be no dignity nor charm in acting and
living as they are compelled to do. The plastered
wall, and the plain deal boards, the humble table,
spread with earthen, or wooden dishes; how poor does
it all seem to them! Oh! could they live in palaces
of marble, clothed with silken tapestries, and filled with
gorgeous furniture, and canopies of state —it were something. But now, to the spiritual vision, what is it all?
The great problem of humanity is wrought out in the
humblest abodes; no more than this is done in the
highest. A human heart throbs beneath the beggar's
gabardine; it is no more than this, that stirs with its
beating, the prince's mantle.  What is it, I say, that
makes life to be life indeed —makes all its grandeur




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.   151
and power? The beauty of love, the charm of friendship, the sacredness of sorrow, the heroism of patience,
the soul-exalting prayer, the noble self-sacrifice; these
are the priceless treasures and glories of humanity; and
are these things of condition?  On the contrary, are
not all places, all scenes, alike clothed with the grandeur
and charm of virtues like these? And compared with
these, what are the gildings, the gauds and shows of
wealth and splendour? Nay, compared with every
man's abode —his sky-dome and earth-dwelling-what
can any man's abode be? Thou livest in a world of
beauty and grandeur. Who liveth in a fairer, a more
magnificent world than thou? It is a dwelling which
God hath made for thee; does that consideration
deprive it of all its goodliness? And suppose thou wast
rich, and wast surrounded with all the gayety and
grandeur of wealth: how might they hide from thee,
alas! all the spiritual meanings of thy condition!
How might the stately wall and the rich ceiling hide
heaven from thy sight! Let thine eye be opened to
the vision of life; and what state then, what mere
visible grandeur, can be compared to thine? It is all
but a child's bauble, to the divine uses of things, the
glorious associations, the beatific visions that are opened
to thee! God hath thus " magnified," and to use the
strong and figurative language of our text, "set his
heart" upon the humblest fortunes of humanity.
There are those who, with a kind of noble but
mistaken aspiration, are asking for a life which shall
in its form and outward course, be more spiritual and
divine than that which they are obliged to live. They
think that if they could devote themselves entirely to
what are called labours of philanthropy, to visiting the
poor and sick, that would be well and worthy; and so
it would be. They think that if it could be inscribed




t1 52            ON HUMAN LIFE.
on their tomb-stone, that they had visited a million of
couches of disease, and carried baln and soothing to
them, that would be a glorious record; and so it would
be. But let me tell you, that the million occasions
will come, ay, and in the ordinary paths of life, in your
homes and by your fire-sides-wherein you may act
as nobly, as if all your life long, you visited beds of
sickness and pain. Yes, I say, the million occasions
will come, varying every hour, in which you may restrain your passions, subdue your hearts to gentleness
and patience, resign your own interest for another's
advantage, speak words of kindness and wisdom,
raise the fallen and cheer the fainting and sick in spirit,
and soften and assuage the weariness and bitterness of
the mortal lot. These cannot indeed be written on your
tombs, for they are not one series of specific actions, like
those of what is technically denominated philanthropy.
But in them, I say, you may discharge offices, not less
gracious to others, nor less glorious for yourselves than
the self-denials of the far-famed sisters of charity, than
the labours of Howard or Oberlin, or than the sufferings of the martyred host of God's elect. They shall
not be written on your tombs; but they are written deep
in the hearts of men-of friends, of children, of kindred
all around you: they are written in the book of the
great account!
How divine a life would this be! For want of this
spiritual insight, the earth is desolate, and the heavens
are but a sparkling vault or celestial mechanism.
Nothing but this spirit of God in us, can " create that
new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness."  For want of this, life is to many, dull and
barren, or trifling, uninteresting, unsatisfactory-withDut sentiment, without poetry and philosophy alike,
without interpretation or meaning or lofty motive,




EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL.    153
Whirled about by incessant change, making an oracle
of circumstance and an end of vanity, such persons
know not why they live. For want of this spiritual
insight, man degrades himself to the worship of condition, and loses the sense of what he is. He passes by
a grand house, or a blazoned equipage, and bows his
whole lofty being before them-forgetting that he himself is greater than a house, greater than an equlpage,
greater than the world. Oh! to think, that this walking majesty of earth should so forget itself; that this
spiritual power in man should be frittered away, and
dissipated upon trifles and vanities; how lamentable
is it! There is no Gospel for such a being; for the
Gospel lays its foundations in the spiritual nature.
There is nothing for man, but what lies in his spirit,
in spiritual insight, in spiritual interpretation. Without
this, not only is heaven nothing, but the world is
nothing. The great Apostle has resolved it all in few
words: " There is no condemnation to them who are
in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after
the spirit; but to all others there is condemnation,sorrow, pain, vanity, death. For to be carnally minded
is death but to be spiritually minded is life and peace."




X.
LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT FOR FAITH
AND VIRTUE.
BUT HE ANSWERED AND SAID, IT IS WRITTEN THAT MAN SHALL NOT LIVE BY
BREAD ALONE) BUT BY EVERY WORD THAT PROCEEDETH OUT OF THE MOUTH
OF GOD.-Matthew iv. 4.
THE necessity to man of something above all. the
resources of physical life, is the subject to which, in
this discourse, I shall invite your attention.
In two previous discourses on human life which I
have addressed to you, I have endeavoured to show, in
the first place and in general, that this life possesses a
deep moral significance, notwithstanding all that is
said of it, as a series of toils, trifles and vanities; and in
the next place, and in pursuance of the same thought,
that every thing in life is positively moral; not merely
that it is morally significant, but that it has a positive
moral efficiency for good or for evil. And now I say
in the third place, that the argument for the moral
purpose is clenched by the necessity of that purpose,
to the well being of life itself.  "Man, " says our
Saviour, with solemn authority, "shall not live by
bread alone, but "-by what? how few seem to believe
in it!-" by every word that proceedeth out of the
mouth of God."
How few seem to believe in it; how few do believe
this, in the highest sense; and yet how true is it!
Into how large a part even of the most ordinary life,




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.   1 55
enters a certain kind and degree of spirituality! You
cannot do business, without some faith in mall; that
is, in the spiritual part of man. You cannot dig in
the earth, without a reliance on the unseen result.
You cannot step or think or reason, without confiding
in the inward, the spiritual principles of your nature.
All the affections and bonds, and hopes and interests
of life, centre in the spiritual. Break that central
bond, and you know that the world would rush to
chaos.
But something higher than this indirect recognition
is demanded in our argument. Let us proceed to
take it up in form.
There are two principles then, involved in the moral
aim and embracing its whole scope, whose necessity I
propose now to consider. They are faith and virtue;
the convictions, that is to say, on which virtue reposes,
and the virtue itself. Something above a man's physical life must there be to help it something above it
in its faith-something beyond it, in its attainment.
In speaking of faith as necessary to human life, I
need not here undertake to define its nature! This
will sufficiently appear as we proceed. What I wish
to speak of, is, in general, a faith in religion; in God,
in spiritual truth and hopes. What I maintain in
general, is the indispensableness to human life, of this
religious faith. My present purpose is, to offer some
distinct and independent considerations in support of
this faith; and these considerations I find based, imbedded, deep-founded in human life. To illustrate the
general character of the view which:I wish to present,
let us make a comparison. Let it be admitted then,
and believed, on the one hand, that there is a God; let
the teachings of Jesus, also, be received; that this
God is our father; that he has a paternal interest in




156             ON HUMAN LIFE.
our welfare and improvement; that he has provided
the way and the means of our salvation from sin alld
ruin; that he hears our prayers and will help our
endeavours; that he has destined us, if faithful, to
a future and blessed and endless life; and then, how
evident is it that upon this system of faith, we can live
calmly, endure patiently, labour resolutely, deny ourselves cheerfully, hope steadfastly, and " be conquerors,"' in the great struggle of life, "' yea, and more than
conquerors, through Christ who has loved us! "  But
take away any one of these principles; and where are
wei? Say that there is no God, or that there is no
way opened for hope and prayer, and pardon and
triumph, or that there is no heaven to come, no rest
for the weary, no blessed land for the sojourner and
the pilgrim; and where are we? And what are we?
What are we, indeed, but the sport of chance, and the
victims of despair? What are we, but hapless wanderers upon the face of the desolate and forsaken earth;
surrounded by darkness, struggling with obstacles,
distracted with doubts, misled by false lights; not
merely wanderers who have lost their way, but wanderers, alas! who have no way, no prospect, no home?
What are -w.e but doomed, deserted voyagers upon the
dark and stormy sea, thrown amidst the baffling waves
without a compass, without a course, with no blessed
haven in the distance to invite us to" its welcome rest?
What now is the conclusion'from this comparison?
It is, that religious faith is indispensable to the attainment of the great ends of life. But that which is
necessary to life, must have been designed to be a part
of it. When you study the structure of an animal,
when you examine its parts, you say, " This was designed for food; there must be food for this being,
somewhere; neither growth nor life is possible without




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.  157
it."  And when  you examine the structure of a
human mind and understand its powers and wants,
you say with equal confidence, " This being was made
for faith; there must be something, somewhere, for
him to believe in; he cannot healthfully grow, he connot happily live without it."
The argument which I now urge for faith, let me
distinctly say, is not that which is suggested by worldly prudence; that religion is a good thing for the State,
useful to society, necessary for the security of property;
and therefore to be received and supported. The concession that the great interests of the world cannot be
sustained without religion, and therefore that religion
is necessary, is considered by mnany, I fear, as yielding
not to reasoning fairly, but to policy. This was the
view of religion, doubtless, which pervaded the ancient
systems of polytheism.  It was a powerful state
engine; a useful social economy; and hence, with
multitudes, it was little more than a splendid ritual.
It was not a personal thing. It was not received as
true, but only as expedient. Now that which I maintain is this; not that religion is necessary, and therefore respectable; not that religion is necessary, and
therefore to be supported in order that the people may
be restrained and managed, and heMl in check; but my
argument is, that religion is necessary, and therefore
true. The indispensableness of religion, I hold, is not
merely a reason for its being supported, but a reason
for its being believed in.
The point maintained, let me now more distinctly
observe, is this: that'in every kind of existence, in
every system of things, there are certain primary
elements or powers, which are essential to its just order
and true well-being; and that under a wise Providence, these elements must be regarded as bearing the
14




k18             rON HUMAN LIFE.
stamp of divine appointment and authority.  Find
that which is necessary to any being or thing, allnd
you find that which was designed to be a part of that
being or thing. Find that which, in the long run,
injures, hurts or hinders; find that which is fatal to
the growth, progress or perfection of any being or
thing, and you find that which does not properly belong
to it. He who would cultivate a tree, knows that a
soil, and a certain internal structure, are necessary to
that end. And if he should, with that end in view,
set himself to deprive it of those essential elements of
growth, his act would be one of perfect fatuity.
Let us dwell upon this point and the illustration of
it. a little longer.
In the human body, we say, food is necessary.
Stint it, and the body languishes; cut off the supply,
and it ceases to exist. So in the human body, the circulation of the blood is necessary. Interrupt it, and
the body is diseased; stop it, and the body dies. How
truly has our Saviour denominated his doctrine, the
very food and life-blood of the soul! " Verily, verily, I
say unto you, except ye eat the flesh and drink the
blood of the Son of Man, ye have no life in you;
whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath
eternal life;" meaning, according to a figurative and
well-known use of language at that time, his spirit and
doctrine. And how manifestly true is it! Cut off
from any soul all the principles that Jesus taught, the
faith in a God, in immortality, in virtue, in essential
rectitude; and how inevitably will it sink into sin,
misery, darkness and ruin! Nay, cut off all sense of
these truths, and the man sinks at once to the grade
of the animal.
Again, in the system of the universe, there is one
principle that is essential to its order; the principle of




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.   1.59
gravitation.  Sever this bond that holds all worlds and
systems together, and they would instantly fly into
wild and boundless chaos. But society, in its great
relations, is as much the creation of heaven, as the
system of the universe. Sever, then, all the moral
bonds that hold it together; cut off from it every conviction of truth and integrity, of an authority above it,
and of a conscience within it; and society would
immediately rush to disorder, anarchy and ruin. If,
then, to hold society together and to bind it in happy
order, religion be as necessary as gravitation is to hold
together the frame of nature, it follows that religion
is as really a principle of things as gravitation; it is
as certain and- true.
Once more; animal life has its law, instinct.  And
when we look at the races of animals, and see how
indispensable this law is to their welfare; when we see
that without this principle, they would inevitably fall
into misery and destruction, we have no doubt that
instinct is a heaven-ordained law. Equally necessary
to man, is some law. What is it?  He has appetites,
propensities, passions, like the animal; but he has
no instincts to Control them and keep them safe. What
law then must he have?  Will it be said that prudence, the love of himself, the love of happiness, is
sufficient to guide him?  That will depend upon his
idea of happiness. If it is purely sensual, then he is
left to the impulses of sense; and that too without the
guardianship of instinct, and with all the additional
peril, in which the infinite cravings of his soul put him,
and against which, indeed, no barrier of instinct or prudence could ever defend him. But if his idea of happiness includes a spiritual good, that implies a faith in
the spiritual; and this is the very faith for which I
contend. And I contend, too, that this faith, faith in




160             ON HUMAN LIFE.
moral principles, faith in virtue and in God, is as ne.
cessary for the guidance of a man, as instinct is for the
guidance of an animal. This, I believe, will not be
denied. I believe that every man must be conscious
that to be given up to his sensual impulses, without
any faith in virtue or in God, would be as certain ruin
to him, as it would be to an animal to be sent into the
world without the control of instinct. And if it be so,
then has the one principle, a places as truly appointed,
a mission as truly authentic in God's providence, as
the other.
But further: man and animal too, need more than
safety. They need some positive good, something
that satisfies. The animal has it, in the pleasures of
sensation. But will these suffice for a man?  It would
be an insult to any one, feeling as a man, formally to
answer the question. But if higher pleasures are demanded, these must be the pleasures of the soul. And
these pleasures must depend on certain principles;
they must recognise a soul; that is, they must recognise the properties and responsibilities of a soul; they
must recognise a conscience and the sense of an authority above us; and these are the principles of faith.
Moreover, the soul on earth is placed in fearful straits
of affliction and temptation. This too, it would be but
an insult to human feeling formally to prove. And in
this view, I maintain, and I only maintain what every
reflecting man must feel to be true, that no tolerable
scheme of life, no tolerable scheme of a rational, tried,
suffering, and yet improving and happy existence, can
be formed, which leaves out the religious principle,
the principle of faith. I do not ask you to receive this
as what is said in the pulpit, or, is wont to be laid
down in religious discourse; but I desire you to see
that it stands, and stands eternally, in the very truth




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.  161
of things. A man cannot suffer and be patient; he
cannot struggle and conquer; he cannot improve and
be happy, without conscience, without hope, without
God in the world. Necessity is laid upon us to embrace the great truths of religion and to live by them,
to live happily; and can the language of this necessity
be mistaken?  Can it be, that while there is one thing,
above all others, necessary to support, strengthen,
guide and comfort us; that one thing-upon whicll,
moreover, the hearts of the wise and good have ever
rested,-should be, of all things in the world, the thing
most false, treacherous, and delusive?
It would be strange indeed, if it were so; and
strange would be the assertion even to the point of
incredibility. What!-we should  say,-has every
thing in the universe certain laws and principles for
its action; the star in its orbit, the animal in its activity, the human body in its functions; and has the
human soul nothing to guide it? Nay, man as a
physical being, has strong and sure supports. Has he
none as a spiritual being?  He knows how to feed and
nourish his body; there are laws for that. Must his
soul die, for want of aliment; for want of guidance?
For his physical action too, he has laws of art. The
builder, the sower, the toiler at the oar and the anvil,
has certain principles to go by. Has the MAN none at
all?  Nay more, the wants of animal sense are regarded. In every hedge, and water-pool, and mountain
top, there is supply. For the rational soul is there no
provision?  From the lofty pine, rocked in the darkening tempest, the cry of the young raven is heard.
And for the cry and the call of all that want and
sorrow and agony that overshadow and rive the
human heart, is there no answer?
But I cannot argue the point any farther; and I
14*




162            ON HUMAN LIFE.
need not; it is too plain. The total rejection of aII
moral and religious belief, strikes out a principle from
human nature as essential to it, as gravitation is to
inanimate nature, as instinct is to animal life, or as the
circulation of the blood to the human body.
It is on this principle that it is said, " he that believeth not, shall be damned." This is apt to be regarded as a harsh declaration; but the truth is, it is
only the assertion of a simple fact; and of a fact which
every thoughtful and feeling mind knows to be true.
The Bible speaks, as we should speak to the famished
man, saying " eat —drink; or die!" Its words, " death"
and "damnation," mean nothing else but that unavoidable misery which must spring from boundless
wants unsatisfied; boundless wants which nothing but
boundless objects, the objects of faith, can satisfy.
I have now considered life as an argument, and an
independent argument for faith. It would be easy to
spread this view of life, over the whole ground of that
preliminary discussion, which introduces the evidences
of Christianity; and to show that the presumption of
reason and experience, and the whole weight of that
presumption, instead of being, as is commonly supposed, against the believer, is, in fact, in his favour. But
the space which I designed to give to this topic, is
already taken up by the few hints which I have laid
before you; and I must now pass to the other branch
of my discourse, and occupy the time that remains to
ine, with the consideration of life as an argument for
accomplishing its moral design; in other words, as a
motive to virtue. This too, as well as the former, 1
propose to consider as an independent topic.
Thus, then, I state it. Let what will be true, or be
false; admit ever so little into your creed, reject ever
so much; nay, go to the uttermost limits of skepticism




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.   163
deny revelation; deny the "elder Scripture" written
in the heart; deny the very being of a God! —what
then? I will now express no horror nor wonder,
though I might do so; I will speak to you as a calm
reasoner: and I say, what then? Why here you are,
a living being; there can be no skepticism about that;
here you are, a living being, alive to happiness, alive
to misery; here you are in vicissitude, in uncertainty, in
all the accidents of a mingled lot, in conditions and
relations that touch all the secret springs of the soul;
here you are, amidst a frail life, and daily approaching
to certain death; and if you say you have no concern nor care for the end of all this, then have you
forfeited all claim to the attributes of a reasonable
nature, and are not to be addressed as a reasonable
creature.
But no one says this. No one refuses to come
within the range of those considerations that bind him
to fulfil his destiny, to accomplish the legitimate
objects of his being, to be upright, virtuous, and pure.
No one rejects this bond in theory, however he may
resist it in practice.
Let us see, then, how strong this bond is. Let us
look at life, as a social, and as an individual lot.
God has ordained that life shall be a social condition.
We are members of a civil community. The life, the
more than life of that community, depends upon its
moral condition. Public spirit, intelligence, uprightness, temperance, kindness, domestic purity, will make
it a happy community. Prevailing selfishness, dishonesty, intemperance, libertinism, crime, will make it a
miserable community. Look then at this life which
a whole people is living. Look at the heavings of its
mighty heart, at the throbbings of the univeirsal pulse
of existence. Look at the stream of life, as it flows,




164             ON HUMAN LIFE.
with ten thousand intermingled branches and channels,
through all the homes of human love. Listen to that
sound as of many waters, that rapturous jubilee, or that
mnournfull sighing, that colnes up from the congregated
dwellings of a whole nation.
I know that to many, the Public is a kind of vague
abstraction: and that what is done against the Public,
the public interest, law, or virtue, presses lightly on the
conscience. Yet what is this Public, but a vast expansion of individual life?-an ocean of tears, an atmosphere of sighs; or a surrounding -world of joy and
gladness? It suffers with the suffering of millions.
It rejoices with the joy of millions. Who then art
thou-private man or public man, agent or contractor,
senator or magistrate, cabinet secretary or lofty president-who art thou that darest, with indignity and
wrong, to strike the bosom of the public welfare?
W~ho art thou, that with vices, like the daggers of a
parricide, darest to pierce that mighty heart, in which
the ocean of existence is flowing?
But have we, in this general view, presented all that
belongs to social life.?  No; there are other relations.
You are a parent or a child, a brother or a sister, a husband, wife, fiiend, or associate.  What an unequalled
interest lies in the virtue of every one wholn thou lovest?  Ay, in his virtue, nowhere but in his virtue, is
garnered up the incomparable treasure.  Thy brother,
thy husband, thy friend; what carest thou for, coinpared with what thou carest for his honour, his fidelity,
his kindness?  Thy parent; how venerable is his rectitude! how sacred his reputation! and what blight is
there to thee, like his dishonour! Thy child-ay, thy
child! —be thou heathen or Christian, thou would'st
have him do well: thou hast poured ou all the fulness
of parental love in the one desire, that he may do well;




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.   165
that he may be worthy of thy cares and thy freely
bestowed gains; that he may walk in the way of
honour and happiness. And yet he cannot walk one
step in that way without virtue.  Such, yes, such is
life in its relationships. A thousand clasping ties embrace it; each one sensitive and thrilling to the tcuch;
each- one like the strings of a delicate instrument, capable of sweet melodies and pleasures; but each one,
wounded, lacerated, broken, by rudeness, by anger,
and by guilty indulgence.
But that life, my friends, whose springs of powerful
action are felt in every department and relationship of
society; whose impulses are abroad everywhere, like
waves upon the boundless sea; that life gathers up
and concentrates all its energies upon the individual
mind and heart. To that individual experience —to
mine, to yours-I would last appeal.
The personal experience of life, I say; by what
strange fatality is it, that it can escape the calls which
religion and virtue make upon it?  Oh, if it were
something else; if it were something duller than it is;
if it could, by any process, be made insensible to pain
and pleasure; if the human heart were but made a
thing as hard as adamant, then were the case a different one; then might avarice, ambition, sensuality
channel out their paths in it, and make it their beaten
way, and none might wonder at it, or protest against
it. If we could but be patient under the load of a
worldly life; if we could-Oh! Heaven! how impossible!-if we could bear the burthen, as beasts of burthen bear it; then as beasts might we bend all our
thoughts to the earth; and no call from the great
heavens above us, might startle us from our plodding
ind earthly course.
But to what a being, to what a n iture, am I permit.




166             ON HUMAN LIFE.
ted in the name of truth and religion to speak?  If 1
might use the freedom with which one would speak to
a son, who was casting off all holy bonds, I should say
"you are not a stone; you are not an earth-clod; you
are not an insensible brute; yet, you ought to be such,
to refuse the call of reason and conscience. Your body
should be incapable of pain and your soul of remorse.
But such you are not, and cannot make yourself."
When the great dispensation of life presses down upon
you, my friend, how is it with you? You weep; you
suffer and sorrow. I hold every human being to that.
Think what we will; speculate as wildly, doubt as
rashly as we can; yet here is a matter of fact. Cold,
dead, earthly, or philosophic, as we may be, yet we are
beings that weep, that suffer and sorrow. What! sorrow and agony-can they dwell in the same heart with
worldliness and irreligion, and desire no other companionship? Tell me not of the recklessness of melancholy and disappointment, or the desperation of vice.
Say not, young man, that you care nothing what befalls in this miserable and worthless life. Recklessness, with its scornful lip and its smothered anger;
desperation, with its knitted brow and its glaring eye;
I have seen it; and what is it? What is it, but agony
-agony which almost chokes the voice that is all the
while striving to tell us how calm and indifferent it is?
But let us look at the matter coolly; coolly, as if it
were a matter of the most deliberate calculation. You
are a toiler in the field of life. You would not cowsent
to labour, for a week, nor for a-day; no, and you will
not lift one burthen from the earth, without a recoinpense. Are you willing to bear those burthens of the
heart, fear, anxiety, disappointment, trouble-compared with which the severest toil is a pleasure and a pastime; and all this without any object or use? You




ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE.   167
are a lover of pleasure. And you would not voluntarily forego an hour's pleasure without some object to
be gained by it, the preservation of health, or the prospect of future, compensatory enjoyments. Are you
willing then to suffer; to be sick or afflicted-for so,
from time to time, does the dispensation of life press
upon you-are you willing to have days and months
lost to comfort and joy, overshadowed with calamity
and grief, without any advantage, any compensation?
You are a dealer in the merchandise of this world.
And you would not, without a return, barter away the
most trifling article of that merchandise.  Will you
thus barter away the dearest. treasures of your heart.
the very sufferings of your heart? Will you sell the
very life-blood from your failing frame and fading cheek.
will you sell tears of bitterness and groans of anguish,
for nothing? Can human nature, frail, feeling, sensitive, sorrowing human nature, afford to suffer for nothing?
I have touched now upon the darker colouring of
human experience; but that experience, whether bright
or dark, is all vivid; it is all, according to the measure
of every one's power, earnest and affecting; it is all in
its indications, solemn and sublime; it is all moving
and monitory. In youth, in age, it is so; in mature
vigour, in failing and declining strength; in health and
in sickness; in joy and in sorrow; in the musings of
solitudle, and amidst the throng of men; in privacy and
amidst the anxieties and intrigues of public station;
In thie bosom of domestic quietude, and alike in the
press and shock of battle; every where, human life is
a great and solemn dispensation. Man, suffering, enjoying, loving', hating hoping, fearing; now soaring
to heaven, and now s'nking to the grave; man is ever
the creature of a high and stupendous destiny. In his




168            ON HUMAN LIFE.
bosom is w rapped up, a momentous, an all-comprehending experience, whose unfolding is to be, in ages and
worlds unknown. Around this great action of existence, the curtains of time are drawn, but there are
openings through them, to the visions of eternity. God
from on high looks down upon this scene of human
probation; Jesus hath interposed for it, with his teachings and his blood; heaven above waits with expectation; hell from beneath is moved at the fearful crisis;
every thing, every thing that exists around us, every
movement in nature, every counsel of providence, every
interposition of heavenly grace, centres upon one point
-upon one point-the fidelity of man 
Will he not be faithful? Will he not be thoughtful?
Will he not do the work, that is given him to do? To
his lot-such a lot; to his wants, weighing upon
him like mountains; to his sufferings, lacerating his
bosom with agony; to his joys, offering foretastes of
heaven; to all this tried and teaching life, will he not
be faithful?  Will not you? Shall not I, my brother?
If not, what remains-what can remain, to be done
for us? If we will not hear these things, neither should
we believe, though one rose from the dead. No;
though the ghosts of the departed and the remembered,
should come at midnight through the barred doors of
our dwellings; though the sheeted- dead should stalk
through the very aisles of our churches; they could not
more powerfully teach us than the dread realities of
life; nay more, and those memories of misspent years
too, those ghosts of.departed opportunities, that point
to our consciences and point to eternity, saying, "work
while the day lasts, for the night of death cometh in
which no man can work!"




XI.
LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.
UNTO THE PURE ARE ALL THINGS PURE.-Epistle of Paul to Titus i. 15.
AND to expand the same sentiment a little; all things
bear to us, a character corresponding with the state of
our own minds. Life is what we manke it; and the
world is what we make it.
I can conceive that to some who hear me, this may
appear to be a very singular, if not extravagant statement. You look upon this life and upon this world,
and you derive from them, it may be, a very different
impression. You see the earth perhaps, only as a collection of blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and
powers. You look upon the mountains that stand
fast for ever; you look upon the seas, that roll upon
every shore their ceaseless tides; you walk through
the annual round of the seasons; all things seem to be
fixed, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest,
growth and decay; and so they are. But does not
the mind, after all, spread its own hue over all these
scenes? Does not the cheerful man make a cheerful
world? Does not the sorrowing man make a gloomy
world?  Does not every mind make its own world?
Does it not, as if indeed a portion of the Divinity were
imparted to it; does it not almost create the scene
around it? Its power, in fact, scarcely falls short of
15




170             ON HUMAN LIFE.
the theory of those philosophers, who have supposed
that the world had no existence at all, but in our own
minds. So again with regard to human life: it seems
to many, probably, unconscious as they are of the
mental and moral powers which control it, as if it
were made up of fixed conditions, and of immense and
impassable distinctions. But upon all conditions presses down one impartial law.  To all situations, to all
fortunes high or low, the mind gives their character.
They are in effect, not what they are in themselves, but
what they are to the feeling of their possessors. Tlihe
king upon his throne and amidst his court may be a
mean, degraded, miserable man; a slave to ambition,
to voluptuousness, to fear, to every low passion. The
peasant in his cottage, may be the real monarch; the
moral master of his fate; the free and lofty being,
more than a prince in happiness, more than a king in
honour. And shall the mere names which these men
bear, blind us to the actual positions which they occupy amidst God's creation?  No; beneath the all-powerful law of the heart, the master, is often a slave; and
the slave-is master.
It has been maintained, I know, in opposition to the
view which we take of life, that man is the creature
of circumstances. But what is there in the circumstances of the slave to make him free in spirit, or of
the monarch to make him timid and time-serving?
This doctrine of fate-that man is but a bubble upon
the sea of his fortunes, that he is borne a helpless
and irresponsible. being upon the tide of events, —is no
new doctrine, as some of its modern advocates seem
to suppose; it has always formed a leading part of the
creed of Atheism. But I ask if the reverse of this doctrine is not obviously true? Do not different men
bring out of the same circumstances totally differ.




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.          171.
ent results? Does not that very difficulty, distress,
poverty or misfortune, which breaks down one man,
build up another and make him strong? It is the
very attribute, the glory of a man; it is the very
power and mastery of that will which constitutes one
of his chief distinctions from the brute, that he can
bend the circumstances of his condition to the intellectual and moral purposes of his nature.
But it may be said, that the mind itself, is the offspring of culture; that is to say, the creature of
circumstances. This is true, indeed, of early childhood. But the moment that the faculty of moral will
is developed, a new element is introduced, which
changes the whole complexion of the argument. Then
a new power is brought upon the scene, and it is a ruling power. It is delegated power from heaven. There
never was a being sunk'so low, but God has thus
given him the power to rise. God commands him to
rise, and therefore, it is certain, that he can rise. Every
man has the power and every man should use it, to
make all situation, all trials and temptations, conspire
to the promotion of his virtue and happiness. In this,
then, the only intelligible sense, man, so far from being
the creature of circumstances, creates them, controls
them, makes them, that is to say, to be all they are
of evil or good to him as a moral being.
Life then is what we make it, and the world is what
we make it. Even our temporary moods of mind, and
much more, our permanent character, whether social
or religious, may be appealed to in illustration of this
truth.
I. Observe, in the first place, the effect of our most
casual moods of mind.
It is the same creation upon which the eyes of the
cheerful and the melancholy man are fixed; yet how




172             ON HUMAN LIFE.
different are the aspects which it bears to them! To
the one it is all beauty and gladness; "the waves of
ocean roll in light, and the mountains are covered
with day." It seems to him as if life went forth rejoicing upon every bright wave, and every shining
bough, shaken in the breeze. It seems as if there
were more than the eye seeth; a presence, a presence
of deep joy, among the hills and the valleys, and upon
the bright waters. But now the gloomy man, stricken
and sad at heart, stands idly or mournfully gazing at
the same scene, and what is it? What is it, to him?
The very light,-" Bright effluence of bright essence
increate,"-yet the very light seems to him as a leaden pall thrown over the face of nature. All things
wear to his eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. The
great train of the seasons is passing before him, but he
sighs and turns away, as if it were the train of a funeral procession; and he wonders within himself at the
poetic representations and sentimental rhapsodies that
are lavished upon a world so utterly miserable. Here
then, are two different worlds in which these two
classes of beings live; and they are formed and made
what they are out of the very same scene, only by different states of mind in the beholders. The eye
maketh that which it looks upon. The ear maketh
its own melodies or discords. The world without
reflects the world within.
II. Again, this life, this world is what we make
it, by our social character; by our adaptation, or
want of adaptation, to its social conditions, relationships and pursuits. To the selfish, to the cold and
insensible, to the haughty and presuming, to the proud
who demand more than they are likely to receive, to
the jealous, who are always afraid they shall not receive enough, to the unreasonably sensitive about




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.           173
others' good or ill opinion, and in fine, to the violators
of social laws, of all sorts, the rude, the violent, the
dishonest and the sensual; to all these, the social condition, from its very nature will present annoyances,
disappointments and pains, appropriate to their several
characters. Every disposition and behaviour has a
kind of magnetic attraction, by which it draws to it.
its like. Selfishness will hardly be a central point
around which the benevolent affections will revolve;
the cold-hearted may expect to be treated with coldness,
and the proud with haughtiness; the passionate with
anger, and the violent with rudeness; and those who
forget the rights of others, must not be surprised if
their own are forgotten; and those who forget their
dignity, who stoop to the lowest embraces of sense, must
not wonder, if others are not concerned to find their
prostrate honour, and to lift it up to the remembrance
and respect of the world. Thus, the bad make the
social world they live in. So, also, do the good. To
the gentle, how many will be gentle; to the kind, how
many will be kind! How many does a lovely example win to goodness! How many does meekness subdue to a like temper, when they come into its presence!
How many does sanctity purify! How many does it
command to put away all earthly defilements, when
they step upon its holy ground! Yes, a good man, a
really good man, will find that there is goodness in
the world; and an honest man will find that there is
honesty in the world; a man of principle will find
principle; yes, a principle of religious integrity, in the
hearts of others. I know that this is sometimes denied,
and denied with much scorn and self-complacency.
But when a man says that true religious virtue is all
a pretence, though the charge is put forward in quite
another guise, I confess that I most of all suspect the
15*




174              ON HUMAN LIFE.
-heart of the complainant. I suspect that it is a heart,
itself estranged from truth and sanctity, that can find
no truth nor sincerity in all the religious virtue that
is around it. True, most true, most lamentably true
it is; nothing is so: lamentably true, as that there is
too little religious fervour in the world; but still there is
a feeling; there is some religious sensibility, the most
precious deposite in the heart of society; there is some
anxiety, on this great theme, holy and dear, to him
whose mind is touched with that inexpressible emotion;
and he whose mind is so touched, will as certainly
find those deep tokens of the soul's life, as the kindling
eye will find beauty amidst the creation, or as the
attuned ear will find the sweet tone of music amidst
the discords of nature.  Thus it is, that the mind discovers social virtue and develops the social world
around it. The corrupt mind elicits what is bad; and
the pure mind brings out what is good.
But the pure mind makes its own social world, in
another sense. It not only unfolds that world to itself, but all its relations to society are sanctified; the
otherwise rough contracts of life are softened to it, and
its way is graciously made smooth and easy. The
general complaint is, that society is full of mistrust and
embarrassment, of competitions, and misunderstandings, and unkind criticisms and unworthy jealousies.
But let any one bear within him  a humble mind; let
him be too modest to make any unreasonable demands
upon others, too mistrustful and tenderly solicitous
about the keeping of his own heart, to be severe or
censorious: let him simply be a good man, full of true
and pure love to those around him, full of love to God,
full of holy indifference to earthly vanities, full of the
heavenward thought, that soars far beyond them; and
what, now, has this man to do with worldly strifes and




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.            175
intrigues, with poor questions of precedence, and the
small items of unsettled disputes and unsatisfied suspicions.? An excellent simplicity that cannot understand them, a high aim that cannot bend its eye upon
them, a generous feeling that cannot enter into them,
a goodness that melts all difference into harmony; this
is the wise man's protection and blessing.
Ill. I have spoken of the world of nature; and of
the world of society. There is also a world of events,
of temptations and trials and blessings; and this, too,
is what we make it. It is what we make it by our
religious character.
There are no blessings-and it is a stupendous truth
that I utter-there are no blessings which the mind
may not convert into the bitterest of evils; and there
are no trials, which it may not transform into the most
noble and divine of blessings.  There are no temptations from which' the virtue they assail, may not gain
strength, instead of. falling a sacrifice to them. I
know that the virtue often falls. I know that the
temptations have great power. But what is their
power? It lies in the weakness of our virtue. Their
power lies not in them, but in us, in the treason of our
own hearts. To the pure, all things are pure. The
proffer of dishonest gain, of guilty pleasure, makes them
more pure; raises their virtue to the height of towering indignation. The fair occasion, the safe opportunity, the goodly chance of victory, with which sin
approaches the heart to ensnare and conquer it, all are
turned into defeat and disgrace for,the tempter, and
into the triumph and confirmation of virtue. But to
the impure, to the dishonest, false-hearted, corrupt and
sensual, occasions come every day, and in every scene,
and through every avenue of thought and imagination.
Tlo the impure occasions come, did I say? rather do




176             ON HUMAN LIFE.
they make occasions; or if opportunities come not,
evil thoughts come; no hallowed shrine, no holy temple, no sphere of life, though consecrated to purity and
innocence, can keep them out. So speaketh the sacred text, and in this very striking language: " To the
pure all things are pure; but to them that are defiled
and unbelieving, nothing is pure; for even their mind
and conscienee is defiled."
Thus might we pass in survey all the circumstances
of man's earthly condition, and bring from every state
and pursuit of human life, the same conclusion. Upon
the irreligious man, the material world has the effect
to occupy him and estrange him from God; but to the
devout man, the same scene is a constant ministration
of high and holy thoughts. Thus also, the business
of this world, while it absorbs, corrupts and degrades
one mind, builds up another in the most noble independence, integrity and generosity.'So too pleasure,
which to some is a noxious poison, is to others, a
healthful refreshment. The scene is the same. The
same event happeneth to all.  Life is substantially
the same thing to all who partake of its lot. Yet some
rise to virtue and glory; and others sink, from the
same discipline, from the same privileges, to shame
and perdition.
Life then, I repeat, is what we make it, and the
world is what we make it. Life, that is to say, takes
its colouring from our own minds; the world as the
scene of our welfare or wo, is, so to speak, moulded
in the bosom of human experience. The archetypes,
the ideal forms of things without-if not as some philosophers have said, in a metaphysical sense, yet in a
moral sense-they exist within us. The world is the
mirror of the soul. Life is the history, not of outward events, not of outward events chiefly; but life,




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT,           177
human life, is the history of a mind. To the pure, all
things are pure. To the joyous, all things are joyous.
To the gloomy, all things are gloomy. To the good,
all things are good. To the bad, all things are bad.
The world is nothing but a mass of materials, subject
to a great moral experiment. The human breast is the
laboratory. We work up those materials into what
forms we please. This illustration too, if any one
should take me too literally, will furnish the proper
qualification. The materials, indeed, are not absolutely under our control. They obey the laws of a higher
power. Those laws, too, are fixed laws. Yet the
chemist in his laboratory, accomplishes all that he rationally desires to accomplish.  The elements are
enough under his command to answer all his purposes.
Nay, if they did not furnish difficulties and require
experiments, his science would not exist; his knowledge would be intuition. So with the moral experimenter. He has to overcome difficulties, to solve
questions; still, within the range of rational wishes,
and in submission to the power of God, he can work
out what results he pleases; and if there were no
difficulties, there would be no virtue, no moral science
of life.
I am sensible that I have dwelt at considerable
length upon the proofs of my doctrine; but I must
beg your indulgence to some farther consideration of
it, in application to two states of mind; I mean to
complaint and discouragement. These states of mind
have, indeed, the same leaning, but still they are very
different. Complaint is bold and open-mouthed, and
speaks like one injured and wronged. Discouragement is timid and silent: it does not consider whether
it is wronged, but it knows that it is depressed, and at
times almost crushed to the earth. There are many




178             ON HUMAN LIFE.
rminds to be found in one or other of these c, nilitions
Indeed, I think that the largest amount of human suf
fering may be found in the form either of complainl
or of discouragement; and if there be any thiing in the
doctrine of this discourse, to disarm the one, or to relieve the other, it well deserves a place in our meditations.
Our complaints of life, mainly proceed upon the
ground, that for our unhappiness, something is in fault
besides ourselves; and I maintain that this ground is
not fairly taken. We complain of the world; we complain of our situation in the world.
Let us look a moment at this last point; what is
called a situation in the world. In the first place, it is
commonly what we make it, in a literal sense. We
are high or low, rich or poor, honoured or disgraced,
usually, just in proportion as we have been industrious
or idle, studious or negligent, virtuous or vicious.
But in the next place, suppose that without any fault
of our own, our situation is a trying one. Doubtless
it is so, in many instances. But then I say that the
main point affecting our happiness in this case, is not
our situation, but the spirit with which we meet it. In
the humblest conditions, are found happy men; in the
highest, unhappy men. And so little has mere condition to do with happiness, that a just observation, I
am persuaded, will find about an equal proportion of
it, among the poor and the rich, the high and the low.
"But my relation to the persons or things around me,"
one.may say, " is peculiarly trying; neither did I
choose the relation; I would gladly escape from it."
Still, I answer, a right spirit may bring from this very
relation, the noblest virtue and the noblest enjoyment,
"Ah! the right spirit!"-it may be said —' to obtain
that is my greatest difficulty. Doubtless, if I had the




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.           179
spirit of an angel, or of an Apostle, I might get along
very well. Then I should not be vexed, nor angered,
nor depressed. But the very effort to gain that serene
and patient mind, is painful, and often unsuccessful."
Yes, and the ill success is the pain. It is not true
that thorough, faithful endeavour to improve is unhappy; that honest endeavour I mean, which is always
successful. On the contrary, it is, this side heaven,
the highest happiness. The misery of the effort is
owing to its insufficiency. The misery then, is mainly
our own fault.
On every account therefore, I must confess, that I
am disposed to entertain a very ill opinion of misery.
Whether regarded as proceeding from a man's condition or from his own mind, I cannot think well of it.
I cannot look upon it with the favour which is accorded to it by much modern poetry and sentiment.
These sentimental sighings over human misfortune
which we hear, are fit only for children, or at least for
the mind's childhood. You may say if you will, that
the preacher's heart is hard when he avers this. or that
he knows not trial or grief; but if you do, it will be
because you do not understand the preacher's argument; no, nor his mind neither. What I say to you
I say to myself; the mind's misery, is chiefly, its own
fault. Sentimental sighings there may be in early
youth, and in a youthful and immature poetry; but he
wTho has come to the manhood of reason and experience, should know, what is true, that the mind's
misery is chiefly its own fault; nay more, and is appointed, under the good providence of God, as the
punisher and corrector of its fault.. Trial is indeed a
part of our lot; but suffering is not to be confounded
with trial. Nay, amidst the severest trials, the mind',
happiness may be the greatest that it ever knew. It




180             ON HUMAN LIFE.
has been so, in a body racked with pain; nay, and in
a body consumed by the fire of the martyr's sacrifice.
I am willing, however, to allow that some exceptions
are to be made; as for instance, in the first burst of
grief or in the pains of lingering disease. The mind
must have time for reflection, and it must have strength
left to do its work. But its very work, its very office
of reflection, is to bring good out of evil, happiness out
of trial. And when it is rigidly guided, this work it
will do; to this'result it will come. In the long run,
it will be happy, just in proportion to its fidelity and
wisdom. Life will be what it makes life to be, and the
world will be what the mind makes it. With artificial wants, with ill-regulated desires, with selfish
and sensitive feelings of its own cherishing, the mind
must be miserable. And. what then, is its 1misery?
Hath it not planted in its own path the thorns that
annoy it? And' doth not the hand that planted grasp
them?  Is not the very loudness of the complaint, but
the louder confession, on the part of him who makes it?
The complaint nevertheless with some, is very loud.
"It is not a happy world," a man says, "but a very
miserable world; those who consider themselves saints
may talk about a kind Providence; he cannot see much
of it: those who have all their wishes gratified may
think it is very well; but he never had his wishes
gratified; and nobody cares whether he is gratified or
not; every body is proud and selfish," he says; "if
there is so much goodness in the world, he wishes he
could see some of it. This beautiful world! as some
people call it; for his part he never saw any thing beautiful in it; but he has seen troubles and vexations,
clouds and storms enough; and he has had long, tedious, weary days, and dark and dull nights; if he
could sleep through his whole life, and never want




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.           181
any thing, it would be a comfort."  Mistaken man!
doubly mistaken; mistaken about the world, mistaken in thyself; the world thou complainest of, is not
God's world, but thy world; it is not the world which
God made, but it is the world which thou hast made
for thyself. The fatal blight, the dreary dullness, the
scene so distasteful and dismal; is all in thyself. The
void, the blank, amidst the whole rich and full universe,
Is in thy heart. Fill thy heart with goodness, and
thou wilt find that the world is full of good. Kindle
a light within, and then the world will shine brightly
around thee. But till then, though all the luminaries
of heaven shed down their entire and concentrated radiance upon this world, it would be dark to thee. "The
light that should be in thee, is darkness; and how
great is that darkness!"
But I must turn in close, to address myself for a moment, to a very different state of mind, and that is discouragement. Complaint is to be blamed; but there
is a heavy and uncomplaining discouragement pressing upon many minds, which demands a kinder
consideration. They have tried and not succeeded;
they have tried again, and failed-of the ends, the
objects, which they sought; and they say,'at length,
" we give over; we can never do any thing in this
world; ill fortune has taken the field against us, and
we will battle with it no longer." Yet more to be
pitied are those who have never had even the courage
to strive; who, fi'om their very cradle, have felt themselves depressed by untoward circumstances, by humble
state or humble talents: Oftentimes the mind in such
a case is, in culture and power, far beyond its own estimate; but it has no aptitude for worldly success; it
has no power to cause itself to be appreciated by others;
it has no charm of person or speech; it is neglected by
16




1S2            ON HUMAN LIFE.
society, where almost every one is too much occupied
with his own advancement to think of pining merit;
it is left to silent and solitary hours of discouragement and despondency. And in such hours-perhaps
there are some here present who can bear me witnessthe thoughts that sink deeply into the heart, though
never it may be, breathed in words, are such as these:
"My chance in this world, is a poor one; I have
neither wealth, nor talents, nor family; I have nothing
to give me importance; I have no friends to help me
forward, or to introduce me favourably to the world;
I have no path open to me; my succees is poor, even
my expectation is poor. Let the fortunate be thankful,
but I am not fortunate; the great prizes are not for
me; despond I needs must, for hope I have none; I
will sit down in silence, and eat the bread of a neglected lot; I will weep; but even that is useless; away
then, hope! away tears!-I will bear my heart calmly,
though sadly, in its way, through a cold, ungenial,
unkind world."
And yet above this man is spread the sublimity of
heaven, around him the beauty of earth; to this man is
unfolded the vision of God; for this man Christ hath
died, and to him, heaven is unveiled; before this man
lies the page of wisdom and inspiration; and wisdom
and sanctity, it is still given him to learn and gain;
wisdom and sanctity, inward, all-sufficing and eternal.
The universe is full and rich for him. The heaven
of heavens invites him to its abode!
Oh! the intolerable worldliness of the world!-the
worldliness of fashion and fashionable opinion! the
worldliness of our eager throngs, and our gay watering-places, and our crowded cities, and our aspiring
literature, and our busy commerce! Distinction! to
be raised a little above the rest; to be talked of and




LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.           183
pointed at, more than others' this hath blinded us to
the infinite good that is offered to all men. And this
distinction; what is it, after all? Suppose that you
were the greatest of the great; one raised above kings;
one to whom courts and powers and principalities
paid homage, and around whom admiring crowds gathered at every step. I tell you that I would rather
have arrived at one profound conclusion of the sage's
meditation in his dim study, than to win that gaze of
the multitude. I tell you that I had rather gain the
friendship and love of one pure and lofty mind, than
to gain that empty applause of a court or a kingdom.
What then must it be to gain the approval, the friendship, the love of that ONE, infinitely great-infinitely dear to the whole pure and happy creation?
Before these awful and sublime realities of truth
and sanctity, sink! all worldly distinction, and worldly imaginations! Discouragement and despondency!
-for a creature to whom God hath offered the loftiest
opportunity and hope in the universe? A humble,
depressed, unfortunate lot*!-for him, before whom are
spread the boundless regions of truth, and wisdom, and
joy? A  poor chance!-for him  who may gain
heaven? Ah! sir, thy poverty, thy misfortune, is all
in thyself. In the realm of God's beneficence, is an
infinite fullness; and it all may be yours. Even to
the despised and persecuted Christians of old the
Apostle said this; and it is still, and for ever true, to
all who can receive it. "Therefore," says he, in his
lofty reasoning, "let no man glory in men; for all
things are yours; whether the world, or life, or death,
or things present or things to come; all are yours, and
ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's!"




XII.
ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE.
THB LORD IS GOOD TO ALL, AND HIS TENDER MERCIES ARE OVER ALL mS
vWORKS.-Psalm cxlv. 9.
WIAT I wish to suggest for your consideration from
these words, is not the goodness of God only, but his
goodness to all. I wish, in other words, to examine
the prevailing opinion, that there is a great inequality
in the distribution of the blessings of life. In opposition to this opinion, I take up the words of the text.
The Lord is good to all. It is not said merely that
his tender mercies are over his works, but that they
are over all his works. His providence is not only
kind, but its kindness extends to every human being.
There is no general view of life, perhaps, with which
the minds of men are more strongly impressed, than
with the apparent inequalities of the human lot.  It
is probably the most prolific source of all secret repining and open complaint. Affliction of a severe kind,
comes but seldom; but this inequality in the state of
life is permanent. It is perfectly obvious too. Every
one can see the difference between his situation in life,
his dwelling, his equipage, and the observance which
is paid to him; and those which belong to his more
prosperous, wealthy or honoured neighbour.  T'he
distinctions of life, indeed, chiefly consist of the glare
of outward things, and therefore more powerfully
impress the senses.




INEQUALITY OF LOT.             185
Now if it can be made to appear that there is in
fact, considerable deception in these estimates; that
things are far more impartially balanced in the system
of providence at large, than is commonly imagined;
that inequality is not the rule of its operations, but
only the exception to the rule; it would serve the important purpose of making us more contented with our
lot; more happy in the opportunities and mearfs of
happiness that are given to us all; and more submissive and grateful, I would hope, to that Being who
has so equally and so bountifully distributed them.
To this subject then, let me direct your thoughts
this morning.
I. And in the first place you see, at once, an instance
and an illustration of this impartiality of Divine Providence, in the inequalities caused by nature; in the
allotments of climate, temperature, soil and scenery.
There is no one of us, perhaps, whose thoughts have
not sometimes wandered to fairer climes than our own,
to lands of richer productions and more luxuriant
beauty; to those isles and shores of the classic East,
where all the glory of man has faded indeed, where
all the monuments of his power and art have fallen
to decay, but where nature lives forever, and forever
spreads its unfading charm; to the verdant and sunny
vales of the South, regions of eternal Spring, where
the circling seasons, as they pass, let fall no chill nor
blight upon the fresh and fragrant bosom of the earth.
But is there no counterpart to this scene? Where
does the volcano lift up its subterraneous thunders,
and pour forth its flaming deluge?  It is in these very
regions of eternal Spring. It is on the green and
flowery mount, on the vine-clad hills; fast by the
quiet fold of the shepherd, and amidst the rejoicings
of the vintage. Whence comes the fearful rumour ot
16*




LS6             ON HUMAN LIFE.
the earthquake, that has whelmed a city in ruins? It
comes from the land of the diamond and the cane;
from the hills of Ophir; from groves of the palm and
the olive; from valleys loaded with fruits; and fanned
with aromatic gales; where if nature is more energetic to produce, she is also more energetic to destroy.
Where does the dire pestilence walk in darkness, and
the fell destruction waste at noon-day? Amidst groves
of spices, and beneath. bowers of luxuriance; and the
beam that lights its victims to their tomb, is the brightest beam  of heaven, and the scenes of which they
take their last hasty leave, are the fairest that nature
displays; as if life and death were intended to be set
in the most visible and vivid contrast. And where,
but there also, is that worse than plague and pestilence and earthquake, that degradation of the mind,
that wide-spreading pestilence of the soul, that listless
indolence, which only arouses, to deeds of passion!
Let the millions of Southern Asia tell. Let Turkey,
so often drenched with blood, answer. Let the wandering Arab, let the stupid Hottentot, let the slothful
and sensual inhabitants of the fair isles of the Pacific,
teach us. Who would not rather struggle with fiercer
elements, than to sink an ignoble prey to the soft lan
guors of pleasure and the besotting indulgerfces ol
passion? Who would not far prefer our wintry storm
and "the hoarse sighings of the East wind," as it
sweeps around us, if they will brace the mind to
nobler attainments, and the heart to better duties?
There is one class of virtues that is fostered by the
rigours of our climate, which deserves to be particularly noticed. I mean the domestic virtues. We are
compelled, by the inclemency of our seasons, not only
to have some permanent place of abode, but to resort
to it. In milder regions, men live abroad; they are




INEQUALITY OF LOT.            187
scarcely obliged to have any domicil.  We are compelled to live at home; and we attach a meaning to the
termn, and we hallow it with feelings that were unknown to the polished Greek and the voluptuous Asiatic. It is the angry and lowering sky of winter, that
lights up the cheerful fire in our dwellings, and draws
around the friendly circle.  It is the cheerlessness of
every thing abroad, that leads us to find or make
pleasures within; to resort to. books and the interchange of thought; to multiply the sources of knowledge and strengthen the ties of affection. It is the
frowning face of nature, like the dark cloud of adversity, that lends attraction to all the sympathies and
joys of home.
II. But I come now in the second place to consider
the impartiality of Divine Providence, in the condition
of human life. Life-to borrow a comparison from
the science of political economy-life, like nature, is a
system of checks and balances. Every power of conferring happiness, is limited or else counteracted, by
some other power either of good or evil.  There is no
blessing or benefit, but it has some drawback upon it;
and there is no inconvenience nor calamity, but it enjoys some compensation. This results from the very
nature of things. You cannot enjoy things incompatible. You cannot at once enjoy, for instance, the
pleasures of the. country and the town. You cannot
mingle the quietude of obscurity with the emoluments
and honours of office. You cannot have at the same
time, the benefits of affliction and the joys of prosperity. If you would reach the loftiest virtue, you must
sometimes endure sickness and pain, and you must,
sometimes, be bowed down with sorrow. If you would
have perpetual ease and indulgence, you must resign




188             ON HUMAN LIFE.
something of noble fortitude, holy patience, and of the
blessed triumphs of faith.
The inequalities which appear in the condition of
human life, relate chiefly to the possessions, the employments, or the distinctions of society. If we should
examine these, we should probably find that they are
of less importance to our happiness than is commonly
imagined. Indeed, we know that they all depend
chiefly on the use that js made of them; and their use
depends upon the mind. Distinction and mediocrity,
leisure and toil, wealth and poverty, have no intrinsic
power of happiness or misery in their disposal. There
is a principle within, that is to render them good or
evil.
But, not at present to insist on this; these circumstances of inequality, in themselves, are less than they
seem. It is common, I know, to hear of the prerogatives, the power, the independence, of the higher classes of society. But Divine Providence acknowledges
no such nobility; no such exemption firom the wants
of the human lot. It. teaches us very little about prerogative or independence, however the pride of man
may flatter him. No tower of pride was ever high
enough, to lift its possessor above the trials and fears
and frailties of humanity. No human hand ever built
the wall, nor ever shall, that will keep out affliction,
pain and infirmity. Sickness, sorrow, trouble, deat h,
are all-levelling dispensations. They know none high
nor low. The chief wants of life, too, the great necessities of the human soul, give exemption to none.
They make all poor, all weak. They put supplication in the mouth of every human being, as truly as
hi that of the meanest beggar.
Now consider society for one moment, in regard to




INEQUALITY OF LOT.              189
its employments. And there is not, perhaps, a greater
infatuation in the world, than for a man of active and
industrious habits, to look with envy or repining upon
the ease and leisure of his neighbour. Employment,
activity, is one of the fundamental laws of human
happiness. Ah! the laborious indolence of him who
has nothing to do; the preying weariness, the stagnant ennui of him who has nothing to obtain; the
heavy hours which roll over him, like the waters of a
Lethean sea, that has not yet quite drowned the senses
in their oblivious stupor; the dull comfort of having
finished a day  the dreariness in prospect of another
to come; in one word, the terrible visitation of ar.
avenging Providence to him that lives to himself!
But I need not dwell on a case so obvious, and proceed, at once, to mention the distinction of wealth and
poverty.
It must not be denied that poverty, abject and desperate poverty, is a great evil; but this is not a commnon
lot, and it still more rarely occurs in this country, without faults or vices, which should forbid all complaint.
Neither shall it here be urged, on the other hand, that
lriches are acquired with many labours and kept with
many cares and anxieties; for so also it may be said,
and truly said, has poverty its toils and anxieties.
The true answer to all difficulties on this subject,
seems to be, that a " man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of things which he possesseth." The answer, in short, may be reduced to a plain matter of fact.
There is about as much cheerfulness among the poor
as among the rich. And I suspect, about as much contentment too. For we might add, that a man's life, if
it consist at all in his possessions, does not consist in
what he possesses, but in what he thinks himself to,
possess  Wealth is a comparative term. The desire




190             ON HUMAN LIFE.
of property grows, and at the same time the estimate
of it lessens, with its accumulation. And thus it may
come to pass, that he who possesses thousands may
less feel himself to be rich, and to all substantial purposes, may actually be less rich, than he who enjoys a
sufficiency.
But not to urge this point, we say, that a man's life
does not consist in these things. Happiness, enjoyment, the buoyant spirits of life, the joys of humanity,
do not consist in them. They do not depend on this
distinction, of being poor or rich. As it is with the
earth, that there are living springs within it, which
will burst forth somewhere, and that they are often
most clear and healthful in tne most sterile and rugged
spots; so it is with the human heart.  There are
fountains of gladness in it: and why should they
not revive the weary?  Why should they not cool
the brow of labour, and the lips that are parched
with toil?  Why should they not refresh the poor
man? Nay, but they do; and they refresh him the
more, because he is poor and weary. Man may hew
out to himself cisterns, and how often are they broken
cisterns, which are scrupulously and proudly guarded
from his poorer fellow-man: but the great fountains
which God has opened are for all. This and that
man may endeavour to appropriate them to himself;
he may guide them to his reservoir; he may cause
them to gush forth in artificial fountains and to fall itl
artificial showers in his gardens; but it is artificial
still; and one draught of the pure well-spring of
honest, homely happiness, is better than them all; and
the shower which heaven sends, falls upon the rich
and the poor, upon the high and the low alike; and
with still more impartial favour, descends upon the
good and the evil, upon the just and the unjust.




INEQUALITY OF LOT.             1.91
III. This impartiality will be still more manifest, it
wve reflect, in the third place, that far the greatest and
most numerous of the divine favours are granted to all,
without any discrimination.
Look, in the first place, at the natural gifts of Providence. The beauty of the earth, the glories of the
sky; the vision of the sun and the stars; the beneficent laws of universal being; the frame of society
and of government; protecting justice and Almighty
providence; whose are these?  What power of appropriation can say of any one of these, " this is mine
and not another's?" And what one of these would
you part with for the wealth of the Indies, or all the
splendors of rank or office?  Again, your eye-sightthat regal glance that commands in one act, the outspread and all-surrounding beauty of the fair universe
-would you exchange it for a sceptre, or a crown?
And the ear-that gathers unto its hidden chambers all
music and gladness-would you give it for a kingdom?  And that wonderful gift, speech-that breathes
its mysterious accents into the listening soul of thy
friend; that sends forth its viewless messages through
the still air, and imprints them at once upon the ears
of thousands; would you barter that gift for the renown of Plato or of Milton?
No, there are unappropriated blessings, blessings
which none can appropriate, in every element of
nature, in every region of existence, in every inspiration of life, which are infinitely better than all that can
be hoarded in treasure, or borne on the breath of fame.
All, of which any human being can say, "it is mine,"
is a toy, is a trifle, compared with what God has provided for the great family of his children! Is he poor
to whom the great store-house of nature is opened, or
does he think himself poor because it is God who has




192            ON HUMAN LIFE.
made him rich? Does he complain that he canno,
have a magnificent palace to dwell in, who dwells in
this splendid theatre of the universe; that he cannot
behold swelling domes and painted walls, who beholds
the " dread magnificence of heaven," and the pictured
earth and sky?  Do you regret the want of attendants, of a train of servants, to anticipate every wish
and bring every comfort at your bidding? Yet how
small a thing is it to be waited on, compared with the
privilege of being yourself active; compared with the
vigour of health and the free use of your limbs and
senses?  Is it a hardship that your table does not
groan with luxuries? But how much better than all
luxury, is simple appetite!
The very circumstances which gain for the distinctions of life such an undue and delusive estimation,
are such as ought to make us cautious about the estimate we put upon them. They are distinctions, and
therefore likely to be overrated; but is that a good and
sound reason why we should affix to them an undue
importance? Are the palaces of kings to be regarded
with more interest, than the humbler roofs that shelter millions of human beings?  What more is the marriage-of a queen-to the individual mind-though surrounded with the splendor and state of a kingdom;
though accompanied with shining troops and announced by roaring cannon; what more is it than that marriage of hearts, that is every day consummated beneath a thousand lowly roofs? The distinctions of
life, too, are mostly factitious; the work of art, and
man's device. They are man's gifts, rather than God's
gifts; and for that reason I would esteem them less.
They are fluctuating also, and therefore attract notice,
but on that account too, are less valuable. They are
palpable to the senses, attended with noise and show




INEQUALITY OF LOT.             193
and therefore likely to be over-estimated. While those
vast benefits which all share and which are always the
same, which come in the ordinary course of things,
which do not disturb the ordinary and even tenor of
_ife, pass by unheeded. The resounding chariot, as it
rolls on with princely state and magnificence, is gazed
upon with admiration and perhaps with envy. But
morning comes forth in the east, and from his glorious chariot-wheels scatters light over the heavens and
spreads life and beauty through the world: morning
after morning comes, and noontide sets its throne in
the southern sky, and the day finishes its splendid revolution in heaven, without exciting, perhaps, a comment or a reflection. The pageant of fashion passes,
and has the notice of many an eye, perhaps, to which
it is all in vain that the seasons pass by in their glory;
that nature arrays herself in robes of light and beauty,
and fills the earth with her train. To want what
another possesses, to be outstripped in the race of
honour or gain, to lose some of the nominal treasures
of life, may be enough with some of us, to disturb
and irritate us altogether; and such an one shall
think little of it that he has life itself and that he
enjoys it; it shall be nothing to him that he has quiet
sleep in the night season, and that all the bounties of
the day are spread before him; that he has friends
and domestic joys, and the living fountain of cheerful
spirits and affectionate pleasures within him.
Nor must we stop here in our estimate. There is
an infinite sum of blessings which have not yet been
included in the account; and these, like all the richest
gifts of heaven, are open and free to all; I mean the
gifts, the virtues, the blessings of religion.
It has already, indeed, sufficiently appeared, not only
that the inequalities in the allotments of Providence
17




194             ON HUMAN LIFE.
are attended with a system  of compensations and
drawbacks, which make them far less than they seem;
and also on account of the vast blessings which are
diffused every where and dispensed to all, that inequality, instead of being the rule of the Divine dealings, is only a slight exception to them. But we come
now to a principle, that absorbs all other considerations; virtue, the only intrinsic, infinite, everlasting
good, is accessible to all. If there were ever so strong
and apparently just charges of partiality against the
Divine Providence, this principle would be sufficient to
vindicate it. "0   God!"  exclaims the Persian poet
Sadi, " have pity on the wicked! for thou hast done
every thing for the good, in having made them good."
How false and earthly are our notions of what
is evil! How possible is it that all advantages besides religion, may prove the greatest calamities!
How possible is it that distinction, that successful ambition, that popular applause, may be the most injurious, the most fatal evil that could befall us! How
possible that wealth may be turned into the very worst
of curses, by the self-indulgence, the dissipation, the
vanity or hardness of heart that it may produce!
And there is a judgment too, short of the judgment of
heaven, that pronounces it to be so; the judgment of
every right and noble sentiment, of all good sense, of
all true friendship. There is a friend, not a flatterer,
who, as he witnesses in some one, this sad dereliction,
this poor exultation of vanity, this miserable bondage
to flattery, or this direful success of some dark temptation-who, as he witnesses this, will say in his secret
thoughts, with the Persian sage, "Oh! God, have
pity on the wicked; have pity on my friend! would
that he were poor and unnoticed, would that he were
neglected or forsaken, rather than thus! " It is there.




TNEQUALITY OF LOT.             195
fore a matter of doubt whether those things which we
crave as blessings, would really be such to us. And
then, as to the trials of life, their unequalled benefits
are a sufficient answer to every objection that can be
brought against their unequal distribution.
We hear it said that there is much evil in the world;
and this or that scene of suffering is brought as an example of the partial dealings of heaven; and it is felt,
if it is not said, perhaps, that "God's ways are unequal." But the strongest objector on this ground, I
think, would yield, if he saw that the attendant and
fruit of all this suffering, were a fortitude, a cheerfulness, a heavenliness, that shed brighter hues than
those of earth, upon the dark scene of calamity and
sorrow. I have seen suffering, sorrow, bereavement,
all that is darkest in human fortunes, clothed with a
virtue so bright and beautiful, that sympathy was almost lost in the feeling of congratulation and joy.  I
have heard more than one sufferer say, " I am thankful; God is good to me;" and when I heard that, I
said, "it is good to be afflicted."  There is, indeed,
much evil in the world; but without it, there would
not be much virtue.  The poor, the sick and the afflicted, could be relieved fiom their trials at once, if it
were best for them: but if they understood their own
welfare, they would not desire exemption from their
part in human trials. There might be a world of ease
and indulgence and pleasure; but "it is a world." to
use the language of another, "from which, if the option were given, a noble spirit would gladly hasten
into that better world of difficulty and virtue and
conscience, which is the scene of our present existence."
In fine, religion is a blessing so transcendent, as to
make it of little consequence what else wre have, or




196             ON HUMAN LIFE.
what else we want.  It is enough for us, it is enough
for us all; for him who is poor, for him who is neglected, for him who is disappointed and sorrowful; it
is enough for him, though there were nothing else,
that he may be good and happy forever.  In comparison with this, to be rich, to be prosperous, and merely that, is the most trifling thing that can be imagined.
Is it not enough for us, my brethren, that we may
gain those precious treasures of the soul, which the
world cannot give nor take away; that the joys and
consolations and hopes of the Spirit and Gospel of
Christ may be ours? Has not he a sufficiency; is not
his heart full; is not his blessedness complete, who can
say, " Whom  have I in heaven but thee, and there is
none upon earth that I desire besides thee: all things
else may fail; my heart may lose its power, and my
strength its firmness; but thou art the strength of my
heart, and my portion forever."
The lesson, my friends, which these reflections lay
before us, is this: to learn that we are all partakers of
one lot, children of one Father; to learn in whatsoever state we are, therewith to be content, and therein
to be grateful.  If you are ever tempted to discontent
and murmuring, ask yourself, ask the Spirit within
you, formed for happiness, for glory and virtue, of
what you shall complain. Ask the ten thousand inercies of your lives, of what you shall complain: or go
and ask the bounties of nature; ask the sun that
shines cheerfully upon you; ask the beneficent seasons as they roll; of what you shall complain; ask —
ask-of your Maker; but God forbid that you or I
should be guilty of the heinous ingratitude! No, my
friends, let us fix our thoughts rather, upon the full and
overflowing beneficence of heaven, upon the love of
God. Let us fix our affections upon it, and then we




INEQUALITY OF LOT.           197
shall have a sufficiency; then, though some inay want
and others may complain; though dissatisfaction may
prey upon the worldly, and envy may corrode the
hearts of the jealous and discontented; for us there
shall be a sufficiency indeed; for us there shall be a
treasure which the world canarot give, nor change, nor
disturb; "an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled,
and that fadeth not away."
17*




XIII.
ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE.
FOR THR CREATURE [that is man] WAS MADE SUBJECT TO VANITY, [that u
to s$ufering] NOT WILLINGLY, BUT BY REASON OF HIM [or at the will of him]
WHO HATH SUBJECTED THE SAME IN HOPE.-Romans viii. 20
IN considering the spiritual philosophy of life, we
cannot avoid the problem of human misery. The reality presses us on very side, and philosophy demands
to sit in judgment on the fact.
I have often wondered that, with such themes as are
presented to the pulpit, it could ever have been dull;
still more that it should be proverbially dull.  So practical are these themes, so profound, so intimate with all
human experience, that I cannot conceive, what is to
be understood, save through utter perversion, by a dull
religion, a dull congregation, or a dull pulpit. If there
were an invading army just landed upon our shores;
if there were a conflagration or a pestilence sweeping
through our city, and we were assembled here to consider what was to be done; in all seriousness and most
advisedly do I say, that no questions could be raised,
on such an occasion, more vital to our welfare, than
those which present themselves to us here, on every
Sunday. Take off the covering of outward form and
demeanour from the heart of society, and what do we
see?  Is there not a struggle and a war going on; not
upon our borders, but in the midst of us, in our dwellings, and in our very souls; a war, not for territory,




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.             199
aor for visible freedom; but for happiness, for virtue,
for Inward freedom?  Are not misery and vice, as
they were fire and pestilence, pressing, urging, threatening to sweep through this city, every day?  Is not
an interest involved in every day's action, thought,
purpose, feeling, that is dearer than merchandise,
pleasure, luxury, condition; dearer than life itself?
Does any one say, that religion is some abstract concern, some visionary matter, fit only for weak enthusiasts or doting fools; which has nothing to do with
him nor with his real welfare; a thing indifferent,
gone and given over to indifference, beyond all hope of
recovery; in which he cannot, for his life, interest
himself? Ay, proud philosopher! or vain worldling!
sayest thou that? Is misery something abstract;
with which thou canst not interest thyself?  Is sinthat source of misery; is the wrong thought, the
wrong deed, the deed folded, muffled in darkness, the
thought shut up in the secret breast, which neither
flashing eye nor flushed cheek may tell; is this, I say,
something abstract and indifferent?  And is the holy
peace of conscience, the joy of virtue, a thing for which
a human being need not, cannot care? Nay, these
are the great, invisible, eternal realities of our life, of
our very nature!
I have said that suffering, as the most stupendous
fact in human experience, as the profoundest problem
in our religious philosophy, presses us on every side.
I will not mock you with formal proofs of its existence.
And do not think either, that on this subject, I will go
into detail or description.  One may easily understand
human experience, interpret the universal consciousness too well, to think that either needful or tolerable.
I will not speak of sicknesses or disappointments or bereavements, many though they are. I will not speak




200               ON HUMAN LIFE.
of the minds, more in number than we think, that bear
the one, solitary, deep-embosomed grief:
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws,
In dark shade alike o'er their joys and their woes.
To which life nothing brighter nor darker can bring,
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting.
I will not speak of the sighing that rises up from all
the world, for a happiness unfound.  But I point you
to that which is seldom expressed, to that which lies
deeper than all, that eternal want; which lies as a
heavy residuum at the bottom of the cup of life; which
albeit unperceived amidst the flowings and gushings
of pleasure, yet when the waters are low, ever disturbs
that fountain-head, that living cup of joy, with impatience, anxiety and blind up-heaving effort after something good. Yes, the creature, the human being is
made subject to this.  There is a wanting and a wanting, and an ever wanting, of what is never, never on
earth, to be obtained!  For let us be just here.  Religion itself does not altogether assuage that feeling;
" for even we ourselves," says the Apostle, "groan
within ourselves." No; religion itself does not suppress that groan; though it does show, and therein is
a most blessed visitation, that it can satisfy that feeling as nothing else can, and that it has in it, the elements for satisfying it fully and infinitely.
I dwell somewhat upon this point as a matter of
fact, my brethren, because I conceive that it is one
office of the preacher, as it is of the poet and philosopher, to unfold the human heart and nature, more fully
to itself. Strange as the opinion may be thought, I do
not believe that men generally know how unhappy, at
any rate how far from happiness, they are.  That stupendous fact, the soul's misery, is covered up with business, -cares, pleasures and vanities. Were human life




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.           201
unveiled to its depths; were the soul, disrobed of all
overlayings and debarred from all opiates, to come
down, down to its own naked resources, it seems to me
at times, that religion would need no other argument.
With such apprehension at least as I have of this subject, I feel obliged to preach, as to some, and not a few,
who not having taken the religious view of their existence, have come to look upon life with a dull and
saddened eye.  I believe there are not a few-it may
be that they are of the more solitary in the world, and
who have not as many stirring objects and prospects in
life as others-who look upon the path that stretches
before them as cheerless, and threatening to be more
and more so as it advances; who say in their silent
thoughts, "I shall live, perhaps, too long! I shall live,
perhaps, till I am neglected, passed by, forgotten! I
shall live, possibly, till I am a burden to others and to
myself! Oh! what may my state be before I die!"
Yes, "the creature was made subject to misery;"
and if you will find a rational being, not under that
law, you must seek him, without the bounds of this
world.
To this case then, to this great problem involved in
human existence, let us give our thoughts this evening.
And in the first place, I would say, let not the vast
amount of happiness in this world, be forgotten in the
sense of its miseries.
They who say that this is a miserable world, or that
this is a miserable life, say not well. It is misanthropy, or a diseased imagination only, that says this.
Life is liable to misery, but misery is not its very being;
it is not a miserable existence. Witness-I know not
what things to say, or how many. The eye is opened
to a world of beauty, and to a heaven, all sublimity




202             ON HUMAN LIFE.
and loveliness. The ear heareth tones and voices that
touch the heart withjoy, with rapture. The great,
wide atmosphere, breathes upon us, bathes us with softness and fragrance. Then look deeper. How many
conditions are happy!  Childhood is happy; and
youth is prevailingly happy: and prosperity hath its
joy, and wealth its satisfaction; and the warm blood
that flows in the ruddy cheek and sinewy arm of
honest poverty, is a still better gift. No song is so
hearty and cheering, none that steals forth from the
windows of gay saloons, as the song of honest labour
among the hills and mountains. Oh! to be a manwith the true energies and affections of a man; all
men feel it to be good. To be a healthful, strong,
true-hearted, and loving man; how much better is it,
than to be the minion, or master of any condition —
lord, landgrave, king, or Cmsar!  How many affections too are happy; gratitude, generosity, pity, love,
and the consciousness of being beloved! And to bow
the heart, in lowliness and adoration, before the Infinite, all-blessing, ever-blessed One; to see in the allsurrounding brightness and glory, not beauty and majesty only, but the all-Beautiful, all-Majestic, all-Conscious Mind and Spirit of love; this is to be filled
with more than created fulness ~ it is to be filled with
all the fulness of God!
A world Where such things are, a world above all,
where such a presence is, seemeth to me, a goodly
world. I look around upon it, I meditate upon it, I feel
its blessings and beatitudes; and I say, surely it is a
world of plenteousness and beauty and gladness, of
loves and friendships, of blessed homes and holy altars,
of sacred communions and lofty aspirations and immortal prospects; and I remember that He who m ade
it, looked upon it, and saw that it was very good.




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.            203
And strange it seemeth, indeed, to our earlier contemplation of it, that in such a world, and beneath
the bright skies, there should be the dark stroke of calamity-a serpent winding through this Eden of our
existence.
But it is here; and now let us draw nearer, and behold this wonder beneath the heavens-misery!
What is its nature?  What account are we to take
of it?  What are we to think of it?  On this point,
I must pray your attention to something of detail and
speculation; though I must be, necessarily, brief.
What then is the nature of misery? Is it an evil
principle, or a good principle in the universe?  Is it
designed to do us harm, or to do us good?  Doubtless
the latter; and this can be shown without any very
extended or laborious argument.
Misery then, evidently springs from  two causes:
from the perfection of our nature, and from the imperfection of our treatment of it; that is, from our ignorance, error, and sin.
I say, that misery springs, first, from the perfection
or excellence of our nature.  Thus remorse, a pained
conscience, that greatest, and though half-benumbed,
most wide-spread of all misery, never would afflict us,
had we not a moral nature.  Make us animals, and
we should feel nothing of this. So of our intellectual
nature; let poor, low instinct take its place, and we
should never stiffer from ignorance, error, or mistake.
And our very bodies owe many of their sufferings and
diseases to the delicacy of our nerves, fibres, and senses. Gird a man with the mail of leviathan; arm
him with hoofs and claws; and he would have but
few hurts, diseases, or pains.  But now he is clothed
with these vails of living tissues, with this vesture of
sensitive feeling, spread all over his frame, that his




204              ON HUMAN LIFE.
whole body may be an exquisite instrument of corn
munication with the whole surrounding universe; that
earth, air, sky, waters, all their visions, all their melodies, may visit his soul through every pore, and every
sense. In such a frame, suffering evidently is the incident, not the intent. And then, in fine, if you ask,
whence comes this ever-craving desire of more, more;
more happiness, more good, more of every thing that
it grasps; what does this show primarily, but the extent of the grasp, the largeness of the capacity, the
greatness of the nature?  That universal sighing, of
which I have spoken, which is forever saying, " who
will show me any good?" comes not from the dens
and keeps of animals, but from the dwellings of
thoughtful, meditative, and immortal men.
But in the next place, I say, that our misery cometh
from the imperfection of our treatment of this elevated and much-needing nature; from our ignorance,
error, and sin.  We do not satisfy this nature, and it
suffers, from vague, ever-craving want. We cannot
satisfy it, perhaps; which only the more shows its
greatness; but we do not, what we can, to satisfy it.
We wound it too by transgression, and it groans over
the abuse. We err perhaps from want of reflection,
and the consequences teach us wisdom. The child
that puts his hand in the fire, will not put it there
again. A cut finger is a brief lesson, a short copy writ
in blood, to teach discretion. The man is taught to
transfer that lesson to the whole scene of life. All
elements, all the laws of things around us, minister to
this end; and thus, through the paths of painful error
and mistake, it is the design of providence to lead us
to truth and happiness.
Is then, the principle of misery in this view, an evil
principle? If erring but taught us to err; if mistakes




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.             205
confirmed us in imprudence; if the pains of imperfection
only fastened its bonds upon us, and the miseries of sin
had a natural tendency to make us its slaves, then
were all this suffering, only evil. But the evident truth
on the contrary is, that it all tends and is designed, to
produce amendment, improvement.  This -so clearly
results from the principles' of reason, and is so uniformly sustained by the testimony of scripture, that I do
not think it necessary to quote from the one, nor any
farther to argue from the other.
Misery then is a beneficent principle in the universe.
He who subjected the creature to misery, subjected him
in hope. There is a brightness beyond that dark cloud.
It is not an inexplicable, unutterable, implacable, dark
doom, this ministration of misery; it is meant for good.
It is meant to be a ministration to virtue and to happiness. I say, to virtue and happiness. These are the
specifications of what I mean, when I say that suffering is a beneficent principle. It springs from the perfection or excellence of our nature, and thus far certainly, all is well with our argument. It springs from
imperfection in our treatment of it; but it is designed
to remove that imperfection; and still therefore the
path of our argument, though it lead over desolations
and ruins, is clear and bright.  But still further I say,
that it is not an abstract argument; a mere fair theory
having no foundation in truth and fact.
I will reason from your own experience.  The pained thought, the painful feeling in you; tell me what
it is, and I will tell you, how it is made to work out
good for you. Is it ennui, satiety, want? All this
urges and compels you to seek for action, enlargement,
supply.  Is it that most sad and painful conviction,
the conviction of deficiency or of sin?  This directly
teaches you to seek for virtue, improvement; forpardon,
18




206             ON HUMAN LIFE.
and the blessedness of pardon. Is it the sorrow of unrequited affection, or a sighing for friendship, in this
cold and selfish world too seldom found?  This is an
occasion for the loftiest generosity, magnanimity and
candour. Is it sickness or bereavement, the body's
pain or the heart's desolation? Fortitude, faith, patience, trust in heaven, the hope of heaven; these are
so much meant as the end, that, indeed, there are no
other resources for pain and deprivation.
And these happy results, I say, have not failed to be
produced in the experience of multitudes.  It is no
visionary dreaming of which I have spoken, but.a
matter of fact.  Even as Christ was made perfect
through sufferings, so are his followers. How many
have said, in their thoughts, when at last the true light
has broken upon them —" Ah! it is no contradiction;
the dark path does lead to light; pain is a means of
pleasure; misery of happiness; penitential grief, of
virtue; loss, deprivation, sorrow, are the elements, or
rather they are the means, of all that is best in my
character; it is fortunate for me that I have suffered; it is good for me that I have been afflicted; it is
better, how far better with me now, than if I had
been always and only happy."
Nay, and even from that comparison, by which past
suffering enhances all present and coming enjoyment,
I could draw an argument almost sufficient for its vindication in the great scheme of providence. The pains
of a sick and dying child, are often referred to, as the
most mysterious things in providence; but that child,
it should be remembered, may be, and probably will be,
happier forever, for that dark cloud that brooded over
the cradle of its infancy. And for myself I must say,
that if I were now standing on the verge of a tried life
with the prospects of everlasting happiness before me,




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.             207
I should not regret that I had been a sufferer; I
should count it all joy rather, and be sure that my
eternal joy would be dearer for it.
But this is not, it is true, the chief consideration.
Suffering is the discipline of virtue, that which nourishes, invigorates, perfects it. Suffering, I repeat, is the
discipline of virtue; of that which is infinitely better
than happiness, and yet which embraces all essential
happiness in it.  Virtue is the prize, of the severely
contested race, of the hard-fought battle; and it is
worth all the strifes and wounds of the conflict.
This is the view, which we ought, I think, manfully
and courageously to take of our present condition.
Partly from our natural weakness, partly from want of
reflection, and partly from the discouraging aspects
which infidel philosophy and ascetic superstition,
have thrown over human life, we have acquired a
timidity, a pusillanimity, a peevishness, a habit of
complaining, which enhances all our sorrows.  Dark
enough they are, without needing to be darkened by
gloomy theories. Enough do we tremble under them,
without requiring the misgivings of cherished fear and
weakness. Philosophy, religion, virtue should speak
to man, not in a voice, all pity, not in a voice, all terror; but rather in that trumpet tone that arouses and
cheers the warrior to battle.
With a brave and strong heart should man go forth
to battle with calamity.  He shall not let it be his
master, but rather shall he master it; yea, he shall be
as an artificer, who taketh in his hand an instrument
to work out some beautiful work. When Sir Walter
Raleigh took in his hand the axe, that was in a few
moments to deprive him of life, and felt its keen edge,
he said, smiling, " this is a sharp medicine, but it will
cure all diseases?' Indeed, the manner in which the




208             ON HUMAN LIFE.
brave English Noblemen and Clergy of the olden time
went to death, even when it was to appease the jealousy
or wrath of unjust monarchs, is illustrative of the
spirit I would  recommend.  Fortitude, manliness,
cheerfulness, with modesty and humility, dressed them,
even on the scaffold, in robes of eternal honour. And
surely he who takes an instrument in his hand, which
is not to slay him, but with which he may work out
the model and perfection of every virtue in him, should
take it with resolution and courage; should say,
" with this sore pain or bitter sorrow, is a good and
noble work for me to do, and well and nobly will I
strive to do it. I will not blench nor fly from what
my Father above, has appointed me. I will not drown
my senses and faculties with opiates to escape it. I
will not forsake the post of trial and peril." Do you remember that noble boy who stood on the burning deck
at the battle of the Nile?  Many voices around said,
" come down!-come away!"  But the confiding child
said, "father, shall I come?"  Alas! that father's voice
was hushed in death; and his child kept his post till
he sunk in the whelming flame.  Oh! noble child!
thou teachest us firmly to stand in our lot, till the great
word of providence shall bid us fly, or bid us sink!
But while I speak thus, think me not insensible to
the severity of man's sufferings.  I know what human
nerves and sinews and feelings are. When the sharp
sword enters the very bosom, the iron enters the very
soul-I see what must follow. I see the uplifted
hands, the writhen brow, the written agonyqin the eye.
But God's mercy, which "tempers the blast to the
shorn lamb," does not suffer these to be the ordinary
and permanent forms of affliction.  No, thou sittest
down in thy still chamber; and sad memories come
there; or it may be, strange trials gather under thy




THE MISERIES OF LIFE.             209
brooding thought.  Thou art to die; or thy friend
must die; or worse still, thy fiiend is faithless.  Or
thou sayest that coming life is dark- and desolate.
And now as thou sittest there, I will speak to thee;
and I say —though sighs will burst from thy almost
broken heart, yet when they come back in echoes fiom
the silent walls, let them teach thee. Let them tell
thee that God wills not thy destruction, thy suffering
for its own sake; wills thee not, cannot will thee, any
evil; how could that thought come from the bosom of
infinite love! No, let thy sorrows tell thee, that God
wills thy repentance, thy virtue, thy happiness, thy
preparation for infinite happiness! Let that thought
spread holy light through thy darkened chamber.
That which is against thee, is not as that which is for
thee. Calamity, a dark speck in thy sky, seemeth to
be against thee; but God's goodness, the all-embracing
light and power of the universe, forever lives, and
shines around thee and for thee.
" Evil and good, before him stand
Their mission to perform."
The angel of gladness is there; but the angel of affliction is. there too; and both alike for good.  May
the angel of gladness visit us as often as is good foi
us!-I pray for it. But that angel of affliction! what
shall we say to it? Shall we not say, " come thou
too, when our Father willeth; come thou, when need
is; with saddened brow and pitying eye, come; and
take us on thy wings, and bear us up to hope, to happiness, to heaven; to that presence where is fulness
of joy, to that right hand, where are pleasures for
evermore!"
There is one further thought which I must not fail
to submit to you, on this subject, before I leave it.
The greatness of our sufferings points to a correspond18*




210             ON HUMAN LIFE.
ent greatness in the end to be gained. When I see
what men are suffering around me, I cannot help feeling that it was meant, not only that they should be far
better than they are, but far better than they often
think of being. The end must rise higher and brighter before us, before we can look through this dark
cloud of human calamity. The struggle, the wounds,
the carnage and desolation of a battle, would overwhelm me with horror, if it were not fought for fieedom, for the fireside; to protect infancy from ruthless
butchery, and the purity of our homes from brutal
wrong.  So is the battle of this life, a bewildering
maze of misery and despair, till we see the high prize
that is set before it. You would not send your son to
travel through a barren and desolate wilderness, or to
make a long and tedious voyage to an unhealthy clime,
but for some great object: say, to make a fortune
thereby. And any way, it seems to your parental affection, a strange and almost cruel proceeding. Nor
would the merciful Father of life, have sent his earthly
children to struggle through all the sorrows, the pains
and perils of this world, but to attain to the grandeur
of a moral fortune, worth all the strife and endurance.
No, all this is not ordained in vain, nor in reckless indifference to what we suffer; but for an end, for a
high  end, for an end higher than we think for.
Troubles, disappointments, afflictions, sorrows, press
us on every side, that we may rise upward, upward,
ever upward. And believe me, in thus rising upward,
you shall find the very flames that you give to calamity, gradually changing. Misery, strictly speaking and
in its full meaning, does not belong to a good mind.
Misery shall pass into suffering, and suffering into discipline, and discipline into virtue, and virtue into
heaven. So let it pass with you. Bend now patient



THE MISERIES OF LIFE.            211
ly and meekly, in that lowly " worship of sorrow," till
in God's time, it become the worship of joy, of proportionably higher joy; in that world where there shall
be no more sorrow nor pain nor crying; where all tears
shall be wiped from your eyes; where beamings of
heaven in your countenance, shall grow brighter by
comparison with all the darkness of earth.
And remember too, that your forerunner into that
blessed life, passed through this same worship of sorrow. A man of sorrows was that Divine Master, and
acquainted with grief.  This is the great Sabbath of
the year* that commemorates his triumph over sorrow
and pain and death. And what were the instruments,
the means, the ministers of that very victory, that last
victory? The rage of men, and the fierceness of torture; the arraignment before enemies-mocking, smiting, scourging; the thorny crown, the bitter cross, the
barred tomb   With these he fought, through these
he conquered, and from these he rose to heaven. And
believe me, in something must every disciple be like
the master. Clothed in some vesture of pain, of sorrow or of affliction, must he fight the great battle and
win the great victory. When I stand in the presence
of that high example, I cannot listen to poor, unmanly,
unchristian complainings. I would not have its disciples account too much of their griefs. Rather would
I say, courage! ye that bear the great, the sublime lot
of sorrow!  It is not forever that ye suffer. It is not
for naught, that ye suffer. It is not without end, that
ye suffer. God wills it. He spared not his own Son
fromn it.  God wills it. It'is the ordinance of his wisdom for us.  Nay, it is the ordinance of Infinite love,
to procure for us an infinite glory and beatitude.
* Easter Sunday.




XIV.
ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.
O GooD THOU HAST TAUGHT ME FROM MY YOUTH.-Psalm lXXi. I7.
LIFE is a school. This world is a house of instruction. It is not a prison nor a penitentiary, nor a palace
of ease, nor an amphitheatre for games and spectacles;
it is a school.  Aind this view  of life is the only one
that goes to the depths of the philosophy of life; the
only one that answers the great question, solves the
great problem of life. For what is life given? If for
enjoyment alone, if for suffering merely, it is a chaos
of contradictions. But if for moral and spiritual learning, then everything is full of significance, full of wisdom.  And this view too, is of the utmost practical importance.  It immediately presents to us and presses
upon us the question: what are we learning? And
is not this, truly, the great question? When your son
comes home to you at the annual vacation, it is the
first question in your thoughts concerning him; and
you ask him, or you ask for the certificates and testimonials of his teachers, to give you some evidence of
his learning. At every passing term in the great school
of life, also, this is the all-important question.  What
has a man got, from the experience, discipline, opportunity of any past period?  Not, what has he gatherod together in the shape of any tangible good; but
what has he got-in that other and eternal treasurer




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.             213
house, his mind!  Not, what of outward acconlodation the litcral scholar has had, should we think it
mulch worth our while to inquire; not whether his text
books had been in splendid bindings; not whether his
study-table had been of rich cabinet-work, and his
chair softly cushioned; not whether the school-house
in which le had studied, were of majestic size, or
adorned with columns and porticoes; let himn have got a
good education, and it would be comparatively of little
moment, how or where he got it. We should not ask
what honours he had obtained, but as proofs of his
progress. Let him have graduated at the most illustrious university, or have gained, through some mistake, its highest distinctions, and still be essentially deficient in mind or in accomplishment; and that fatal
defect would sink into every parent's heart, as a heavy
and unalleviated disappointment. And are such questions and considerations any less appropriate to the
great school of life; whose entire course is an education for virtue, happiness, and heaven?  "O God!"
exclaims the Psalmist, "thou hast taught me from my
youth."
Life, I repeat, is a school. The periods of life, are
its terms; all human conditions are but its forms; all
human employments, its lessons. Families are the
primary departments of this moral education; the
various circles of society, its advanced stages; kingdoms are its universities; the world is but the material
structure, built for the administration of its teachings;
and it is lifted up in the heavens and borne through its
annual circuits, for no end but this.
Life, I say again, is a school: and all its periods, infancy, youth, manhood and age, have their appropriate
tasks in this school.
With what an early care and wonderful apparatus,




214             ON HUMAN LIFE.
does Providence begin the work of human education!
An infant being is cast upon the lap of nature, not to
be supported or nourished only, but to be instructed.
The world is its school. All elements around, are its
teachers. Long ere it is placed on the first form before
the human master, it has been at school; insomuch
that a distinguished statesman has said with equal
truth and originality, that he had probably obtained
more ideas by the age of five or six years, than he has
acquired ever since. And what a wonderful ministration is it! What mighty masters are there for the
training of infancy, in the powers of surrounding nature! With a finer influence than any human dictation, they penetrate the secret places of that embryo
soul, and bring it into life and light. From the soft
breathings of Spring to the rough blasts of Winter,
each one pours a blessing upon its favourite child, expanding its frame for action, or fortifying it for endurance. You seek for celebrated schools and distinguished teachers for your children; and it is well.
Or you cannot afford to give themr these advantages,
and you regret it.  But consider what you, have.
Talk we of far-sought and expensive processes of education? That infant eye hath its master in the sun;
that infant ear is attuned by the melodies and harmonies of the wide, the boundless creation. The goings
on of the heavens and the earth, are the courses of
childhood's lessons. The shows that are painted on
the dome of the sky and on the uplifted mountains,
and on the spreading plains and seas, are its pictured
diagrams. Immensity, infinity, eternity, are its teachers.  The great universe is the shrine, frorm  which
oracles, oracles by day and by night, are forever uttered. Well may it be said that " of such;" of beings so
cared for, " is the kingdom of heaven." Well and fitly




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.            215
is it written of him, who comprehended the wondrous
birth of humanity and the gracious and sublime providence of heaven over it, that " he took little children in
his arms and blessed them."
So begins the education of man in the school of life.
It were easy, did the time permit, to pursue it into its
successive stages; into the period of youth, when the
senses not yet vitiated, are to be refined into grace and
beauty, and the soul is to be developed into reason and
virtue; of manhood, when the strength of the ripened
passions is to be held under the control of wisdom, and
the matured energies of the higher nature, are to be
directed to the accomplishment of worthy and noble
ends; of age, which is to finish with dignity, the work
begun with ardour; which is to learn patience in
weakness, to gather up the fruits of experience into
maxims of wisdom, to cause virtuous activity to subside into pious contemplation, and to gaze upon the
visions of heaven, through the parting veils of earth.
But in the next place, life presents lessons in its
various pursuits and conditions, in its ordinances and
events. Riches and poverty, gayeties and sorrows,
marriages and funerals, the ties of life bound or broken,
fit and fortunate or untoward and painful, are all lessons.
They are not only appointments, but they are lessons. They are not things which must be, but things
which are meant. Events are not blindly and carelessly flung together, in a strange chance-medley: providence is not schooling one man, and another screening fromt the fiery trial of its lessons; it has no rich
favourites nor poor victims; one event happeneth to
all; one end, one design, concerneth, urgeth all men.
Hast thou been prosperous?  Thou hast been at
school; that is all; thou hast been at school. Thou




216            ON HUMAN LIFE.
thoughtest perhaps, that it was a great thing, and that
thou wert some great one; but thou art only just a
pupil. Thou thoughtest that thou wast master and
hadst nothing to do but to direct and command; but I
tell thee that there is a Master above thee; the Master
of life; and that He looks not at thy splendid state
nor thy many pretensions; not at the aids and appliances of thy learning; but simply at thy learning.
As an earthly teacher puts the poor boy and the rich,
upon the same form, and knows no difference between
them but their progress; so it is with thee and thy
poor neighbour   What then hast thou learnt fiom
thy prosperity?  This is the question that I am
asking, that all men are asking, when any one has
suddenly grown prosperous, or has been a long
time so.  And I have heard men say in a grave
tone, " he cannot bear it! he has become passionate,
proud,:self-sufficient, and disagreeable."  Ah! fallen,
disgraced man! even in the world's account. But
what, I say again, hast thou learnt fiom prosperity?
Moderation, temperance, candour, modesty, gratitude to
God, generosity to man? Well done, good and faithful! thou hast honour with heaven and with men.
But what, again I say, hast thou learnt from thy prosperity? Selfishness, self-indulgence and sin; to forget
or overlook thy less fortunate fellow; to forget thy
God?  Then wert thou an unworthy and dishonoured being, though thou hadst been nursed in the bosom
of the proudest affluence, or hadst taken thy degrees
from the lineage of an hundred noble descents; yes,
as truly dishonoured, before the eye of heaven, though
dwelling in splendour and luxury, as if thou wert
lying, the victim of beggary and vice by the hedge or
upon the dung-hill. It is the scholar, not the school, at




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.            217
which the most ordinary human equity looks; and let
us not think that the equity of heaven will look beneath that lofty mark.
But art thou, to whom I speak, a poor man? Thou,
too, art at school. Take care that thou learn, rather
than complain. Keep thine integrity, thy candour and
kindness of heart. Beware of envy; beware of bondage; keep thy self-respect. The body's toil is nothing.
Beware of the mind's drudgery and degradation. I do
not say, be always poor. Better thy condition if thou
canst. But be more anxious to better thy soul. Be
willing, while thou art poor, patiently to learn the lessons of poverty; fortitude, cheerfulness, contentment,
trust in God.  The tasks I know are hard; deprivation, toil, the care of children. Thou must wake early:
thy children, perhaps, will wake thee; thou canst not
put them away from thee to a distant nursery. Fret
not thyself because of this; but. cheerfully address thyself to thy task; learn patience, calmness, self-command, disinterestedness, love. With these the humblest dwelling may be hallowed, and so made dearer
and nobler, than the proudest mansion of self-indulgent ease and luxury. But above all things, if thou
art poor, beware that thou lose not thine independence.
Cast not thyself, a creature poorer than poor, an indolent, helpless, despised beggar, on the kindness of
others. Choose to have God for thy master, rather
than man. Escape not from his school, either by dishonesty or alms-taking, lest thou fall into that state
worse than disgrace, where thou shalt have no respect
for thyself. Thou mayest come out of that school;
yet beware that thou come not out as a truant, but as
a noble scholar. The world itself doth not ask of the
candidates for its honours, whether they studied in a
palace or a cottage, but what they have acquired and
19




218             ON HUMAN LIFE.
what they are; and heaven, let us again be assured
will ask no inferior title to its glories and rewards.
Again, the entire social condition of humanity is a
school. The ties of society affectingly teach us to love
one another. A parent, a child, a husband or wife or
associate without love, is nothing but a cold marble
image; or rather a machine, an annoyance, a something in the way to vex and pain us. The social relations not only teach love, but demand it. Show me
a society, no matter how intelligent, and accomplished
and refined, but where love is not; where there is ambition, jealousy and distrust; not simplicity, confidence
and kindness; and you show nme an unhappy society.
All will complain of it. Its punctilious decorum, its
polished insincerity, its " threatening urbanity," gives
no satisfaction to any of its members. What is the
difficulty?  What does it want? I answer, it wants
love: and if it will not have that, it must suffer; and
it ought to suffer.
But the social state, also powerfully teaches modesty and meekness. All cannot be great; and nobody
may reasonably expect all the world to be engaged
with lauding his merits. All cannot be great; and we
have happily fallen upon times, when none can be distinguished as a few have been in the days of semi-barbarous ignorance. All cannot be great; for then nobody were.  The mighty mass of human claims
presses down all individual ambition. Were it not so,
it were not easy to see where that ambition would
stop. Well that it be schooled to reason; and society,
without knowing it, is an efficient master for that end.
Is any one vexed and sore under neglect?  Does he
walk through the street unmarked, and say, that he
deserves to be saluted oftener and with more respect?
Does the pang of envy shoot through his heart, when




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.            219
notice is bestowed on others, whom he thinks less
worthy than he is?  Perhaps, society is unjust to
him?  What then? What shall he do? What can
he do, but learn humility and patience and quietness?
Perhaps the lesson is roughly and unkindly given.
Then must society, through its very imperfection,
teach us to be superior to its opinion; and our care
must be, not to be cynical and bitter, but gentle,
candid and affectionate still.
Society is doubtless often right in its neglect or its
condemnation; but certainly it is sometimes wrong.
It seems to be the lot, the chance, the fortune, the accident of some to be known, admired, and celebrated-.
Adulation and praise are poured out at their feet while
they live, and upon their tomb when they die. But
thousands of others intrinsically just as interesting,
with sentiments that mount as high on earth, and will
flourish as fair in heaven, live unpraised and die unknown. Nay, and the very delicacy of some minds
forbids their being generally known and appreciated.
Tact, facility, readiness, conversation, personal recommendations, manners and connexions, help on some;
and all these may be wanting to minds that have none
the less worth and beauty. Who then would garner
up his heart in the opinion of this world? Yet neither
let us hate it; but let its imperfection minister to our
perfection.
There are also broken ties; and sometimes the holiest ties wear themselves out; like imperfect things,
alas! as they are. What, then, is to be learnt?  I
answer, a great lesson. What is to be done? A great
duty. To be just; to be true; to cherish a divine
candour; to make the best of.that which seems not
well; to pour not vingar upon the galling chain, but
the oil of gentleness and forbearance. So shall many




220             ON HUMAN LIFE.
a wound be healed; and the hearts shall be knit to
gether in a better bond than that of hasty impulse 
the bond of mutual improvement, strengthening mu.,
tual love.
But not to insist more at large upon the disciplinary
character of all the conditions of life and society, let us
consider, for a moment farther, some of its events and
ordinances.
Amidst all the gayety and splendour of life there is a
dark spot; over its brightest career, there comes a
sudden and overshadowing cloud; in the midst of its
loud and restless activity there is a deep pause and an
awful silence; what a lesson is death!-death, that
stops the warm current and the vital breath, and freezes
mortal hearts in fear and wonder; death, that quells
all human power, and quenches all human pride;
death, "the dread teacher," the awful admonisher,
that tells man of this life's frailty, and of a judgment
to come. What a lesson is death! Stern, cold, inexorable, irresistible-the collected might of the world
cannot stay it, nor ward it off; the breath that is parting from the lips of king, or beggar, the breath that
scarcely stirs the hushed air-that little breath-the
wealth of empires cannot buy it, nor bring it back for a
moment. What a lesson is this to proclaim our own
frailty, and a power beyond us! It is a fearful lesson;
it is never familiar. That which lays its hands upon
all, walks through the earth, as a dread mystery. Its
mandate falls upon the ear in as fearful accents now,
as when it said to the first man, " thou shalt die! dust
thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." It is a
universal lesson. It is read everywhere. Its message
comes every year, every day. The years past are filled with its sad and solemn mementos; and could a
prophet now stand in the midst of us and announce




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.            221
the future; to more than one of us, would he say, " set
thy house in order; for this year thou shalt die."
Yes, death is a teacher. I have seen upon the wall
of our school-rooms, the diagram, that sets forth some
humble theorem; but what, a hand-writing is traced
by the finger of death upon the walls of every human
habitation!  And what does it teach?  Duty; to act
our part well; to fulfil the work assigned us. Other
questions, questions of pride and ambition and pleasure, may press themselves upon a man's life; but
when he is dying, when he is dead, there is but one
question-but one question: has he lived well? I
have seen an old man upon his bier; and I said, " hath
he done the work of many years faithfully? hath he
come to his end like a shock of corn fully ripe? Then
all is well. There is no evil in death, but what life
makes."  I have seen one fall amidst life's cares,
manly or matronly, and when the end came, not like a
catastrophe, not as unlooked for; when it came as that
which had been much thought upon and always prepared for; when I saw the head meekly bowed to the
visitation or the eye raised in calm bright hope to
heaven, or when the confidence of long intimate friendship knows that it would be raised there though the
kind veil of delirium  be spread over it; I said, " the
work is done, the victory is gained; thanks be to God
who giveth that victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."
I have seen an infant form, sweetly reposing on its last
couch, as if death had lost all its terrors, and had become as one of the cherubim of heaven; and I said,
" ah! how many live so, that they will yet wish that
they had died, with that innocent child! "
Among our Christian ordinances, Brethren, there is
one that celebrates the victory over death; and there
is one, that is appropriate to the beginning of life.




222             ON HUMAN LIFE.
They are both teachers. Baptismal waters, the em
blems of a purity received from God and to be watched
over for God;- the consecration unto obedience to the
great truths of Christianity; to the doctrine of the
Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost; these teach
us, parents, of a charge to be solemnly kept, of duties
to be faithfully rendered. The sacramental table;
what is it but an altar, set up amidst the realm of death,
to the hope of everlasting life? To keep us in mind
of hirn who conquered death, and brought life and immortality to light; who gave his life a ransom  for
many; who became a curse for us that we might be
redeemed from  the curse of sin; who died that we
might live forever; lo! these symbols that are set forth
from time to time in the house of God, in the school
of Christ! Touching memorials of pain and sorrow
and patient endurance! Blessed omens, on God's altar,
of peace and forgiveness and glorious victory!
Such, my friends, are some of the lessons of the
school of life. Indulge me in one or two observations
on the general character of this school, and I shall
have completed my present design.
Life is a finely attempered, and at the same time a
very trying school.
It is finely attempered; that is, it is carefully adjusted, in all its arrangements and tasks, to man's powers and passions.  There is no extravagance in its
teachings; nothing is done for the sake of present effect. It excites man, but it does not excite him too
much. Indeed, so carefillly adjusted are all things to
this raging love of excitement, so admirably fitted to
hold this passion in check, and to attemper all things
to what man can bear, that I cannot help seeing in
this feature of life, intrinsic and wonderful evidence of
a wise and over-ruling Order. Men often complain




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.            223
that life is dull, tame and drudging.  But how unwisely were it arranged, if it were all one gala-day of
enjoyment or transport,!  And when men make their
own schools of too much excitement, their parties, controversies, associations and enterprises; how soon do
the heavy realities of life fasten upon the chariotwheels of success when they are ready to take fire, and
hold them back to a moderated movement!
Everything, I say, is tempered in the system of
things to which we belong. The human passions, and
the correspondent powers of impression which man
possesses, are all kept within certain limits. I think
sometimes of angel forms on earth; of a gracefulness
and beauty more than mortal; of a flash or a glance
of the eye in the eloquent man, that should rend and
inflame a thousand hearts, as lightning does the, gnarled oak; but do we not see that for the sensitive frame
of man, enough excitement is already provided; that
the moderated tone of things is all man's ear could
bear; the softened and shaded hue, enough for his eye;
the expressions of countenance and gesture, such as
they are, enough for his heart! Nay, how often is the
excitement of thought and feeling so great, that but
for the interruptions of humble cares and trifles-the
interpositions of a wise providence-the mind and
frame would sink under them  entirely! It would
seem delightful, no doubt, in the pilgrimage of life, to
walk through unending galleries of paintings and
statues; but human life is not such; it is a school.
It is a trying school.  It is a school, very trying to
faith, to endurance and to endeavour. There are mysteries in it. As to the pupil in a human school, there
are lessons of which he does not understand the full
intent and bearing, as he is obliged to take some, things




224             ON HUMAN LIFE.
on trust; so it is in the great school of providence.
There are hard lessons to be got in this school. As
the pupil is often obliged to bend all his faculties to
the task before him, and tears sometimes fall on the
page he is studying; so it is in the school of God's
providence; there are hard lessons in it.
In short, the whole course of human life is a conflict with difficulties; and if rightly conducted, a progress in improvement. In both these respects, man
holds a position peculiar, and distinct from that of the
animal races. They are not at school. They never
improve. With them too, all is facility; while with
man comparatively, all is difficulty. Look at the anthill, or the hive of bees. See how the tenant of the
one, is provided with feet, so constructed that he can
run all over his house, outside and inside —no heavy
and toilsome steps required to go upward or downward;
and how the wings of the other, enable him to fly
through the air, and achieve the journey of days in an
hour. Man's steps compared with these, are the steps
of toilsome endeavour.
Why is this so?  Why is man clothed with this
cumbrous mass of flesh? Because it is a more perfect instrument for the mind's culture, though that
end is not to be wrought out without difficulty. Why are
his steps slow and toilsome?  Because they are the
steps of improvement. Why is he at school? That
he may learn. Why is the lesson hard? That, lie
may rise high on the scale of advancement.
Nor is it ever too late for him to learn. This is a
distinct consideration; but let me dwell a moment
upon it in close. Nor, I say, is it ever too late for man
to learn. If any man thinks that his time has gone
by, let me take leave to contradict that dangerous as.




THE SCHOOL OF LIFE.              225
sumption. Life is a school; the whole of life. There
never comes a time, even amidst the decays of age,
when it is fit to lay aside the eagerness of acquisition
or the cheerfulness of endeavour. I protest utterly
against the common idea of growing old. I hold that
it is an unchristian, a heathen idea.   It may befit
those who expect to lay down and end their being in
the grave, but not those who look upon the grave as
the birth-place of immortality. I look for old age as,
saving its infirmities, a cheerful and happy time.  I
think that the affections are often full as warm then,
as they ever are. Well may the affections of piety
be so! They are approaching near to the rest that remaineth; they almost grasp the prize that shall crown
them; they are ready to say, with aged Simeon, " now
let thy servant depart."  The battle is almost fought;
the victory is near at hand.' Why," —does any one
still ask-" why does the battle press hard to the very
end? Why is it ordained for man that he shall walk,
all through the course of life, in patience and strife,
and sometimes in darkness?"  Because from patience
is to come perfection. Because, from strife, is to come
triumph.  Because, from the dark cloud, is to come the
lightning-flash, that opens the way to eternity 
Christian! hast thou been faithful in the school of
life?  Art thou faithful to all its lessons?  Or hast
thou, negligent man! been placed in this great school,
only to learn nothing, and hast not cared whether thou
didst learn or not.  Have the years passed over thee,
only to witness thy sloth and indifference? Hast thou
been zealous to acquire every thing but virtue, but the
favour of thy God?
But art thou faithful, Christian?  God help thee to
be yet more so, in years to come. And remember for




226             ON HUMAN LIFE.
thine encouragement, what is written.' These things
saith the first and the last, who was dead and is alive;
I know thy works and tribulation and poverty, (but
thou art rich;) fear none of those things which thou
shalt suffer; be faithful unto death, and I will give thee
a crown of life."




XV.
ON THE VALUE OF LIFE.
(Preached on New-Year's day.
AND JOB SPAKE AND SAID, LET THE DAY PERISH, WHEREIN I WAS BORN.Job iii. 2-3.
THERE is a worldly habit of viewing this life, and
especially of depreciating its value, against which, in
this discourse, I wish to contend. It is the view of
life which many of the heathens entertained, and
which better became them, than those who hold the
faith of Christians.  "When we reflect," says one of
the Grecian sages, " on the destiny that awaits man on
earth, we ought to bedew his cradle with our tears."
Job's contempt of life, so energetically expressed in the
chapter from which my text is taken, was of the same
character. We may observe, however, that Job's contempt of life, consisted not with the views entertained
by the children of the ancient dispensation, and was
emphatically rebuked, in common with all his impious
complaints, in the sequel of that affecting story. The
birth of a child among the Hebrews was hailed with
joy, and its birth-day was made a festival.
But there are times and seasons, events and influences in life, which awaken in many, sentiments
similar to those of Job, and which require to be considered.
The sensibility of youth sometimes takes this direction. It is true, indeed, that, to the youthful mind,




228              ON HUMAN LIFE.
life for a while is filled with brightness and hope. It
is the promised season of activity and enjoyment, of
manly independence, of successful business, or of
glorious ambition; the season of noble enterprises and
lofty attainments. There is a time, when the youthful fancy is kindling with the anticipations of an ideal
world; when it is thinking of friendship and honour of
another sort than those which are commonly found in
the world; when its promised mansion is the abode of
perfect happiness, and its paths as they stretch into life,
seem to it as the paths that shine brighter and brighter
forever.
But over all these glowing expectations, there usually comes, sooner or later, a dark eclipse; and it is in
the first shock of disappointed hope, before the season
of youth is yet fully past, that we are probably exposed
to take the most opposite and disconsolate views of
life. It is here that we find real, in opposition to factitious sentimentalism.  Before this great shock to
early hope comes, the sentimental character is apt to
be affectation, and afterwards it is liable to be misanthropy.  But now it is a genuine and ingenuous sorrow, at finding life so different from what it expected.
There is a painful and unwelcome effort to give up
many cherished habits of thinking about it.  The
mind encounters the chilling selfishness of the world,
and it feels the miserable insufficiency of the world to
satisfy its longings after happiness; and life loses many,
of the bright hues, that had gilded its morning season.
Indeed, when we take into account the unwonted and
multiplied cares of this period, the want of that familiarity and habit which renders the ways and manners
of life easy, the difficulties and embarrassments that
beset the youthful adventurer, the anxiety about establishing a character and taking a place in the world,




THE VALUE OF LIFE.               229
and above all, perhaps, the want of self-discipline;
when we take all this into the account, to say nothing
of the freshness of disappointment, we may well doubt
whether the period of entrance into life, is the happiest,
though it is commonly looked upon as such. It is not.
perhaps, till men proceed farther in the way, that they
are prepared, either rightly to estimate or fully to enjoy
it. And it is worthy of notice in this connection, that
those diseases which spring from mental anxiety, are
accounted, by physicians, to be the most prevalent between the ages of twenty and forty.
Manhood arrives at a conclusion unfvourable to
life, by a different process. It is not the limited view
occasioned by disappointment, that brings it to think
poorly of life; but it assumes to hold the'larger view
taken by experience and reflection. It professes to
have proved this life, and found it little worth. It has
deliberately made up its mind, that life is far more
miserable than happy.  Its employments, it finds, are
tedious, and its schemes are baffled. Its friendships
are broken, or its friends are dead.  Its pleasures pall
and its honours fade.  Its paths are beaten and familiar and dull. It has grasped the good of life; and
every thing grasped loses half of its charm; in the
hand of possession everything is shrivelled and shrunk
to insignificance.
Is this manhood, then, sad or sentimental?  No;
farthest possible from it. Sentiment, it holds to be ridiculous; sadness, absurd.  It smiles, in recklessness.
It is merry, in despite. It sports away a life, not
worth a nobler thought, or else it wears away a life,
not worth a nobler aim, than to get tolerably through
it. This is a worldly manhood; and no wonder
that its estimate of the value of existence is low and
earthly.
20




230             ON HUMAN LIFE.
Poetry has often ministered to a state of mind, loftier
indeed, but of alike complexion.  "Life," says the
Grecian Pindar, "is the dream of a shadow."
"What," says the melancholy Kirk White" What is this passing life?
A peevish April day:
A little sun, a little rain,
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away."
The melancholy of Byron is of a darker complexion; one might anticipate, indeed, that his misanthropy, as well as gloom, would repel every reader;
and yet a critic has observed that this is the very quality which has caught and held the ear of the sympathizing world. If the world does sympathize with it,
it is time that the Christian preacher should raise his
voice against it.  One may justly feel, indeed, for the
sufferings as well as perversions of that extraordinary
mind; but its skepticism and scorn must not be
suffered to fling their shadows across the world, without rebuke or remonstrance.  Its sufferings, indeed, are
a striking proof, which the Christian teacher might well
adduce, of the tendency of earthly passion and unbelief
to darken all the way of human life.
The pulpit, also, I must allow, has fallen, under the
charge of leaning to the dark side of things. It may
be said, perhaps, that if its instructions are to have any
bias, it- is expedient that it should lean to the dark side.
But error or mistake is not to be vindicated by its expediency, or its power to affect the mind. And its expediency, in fact, if not its power, in this case, is to be
doubted.  Men of reflection and discernment are, and
ought to be, dissatisfied with disproportionate and extravagant statements, made with a view to support
the claims of an ascetic piety, or a cynical morality




THE VALUE OF LIFE.             231
And one mistake, the preacher may find is to the hear
er, an intrenchment strong, against a hundred of his
arguments.
It is true, also, that religious men in general, have
been accustomed to talk gloomily of the present state.
I do not mean such religious men as the wise and holy
saints of old. Let the rejoicing apostles, rejoicing in
the midst of the greatest calamities; let the mild cheerfulness of their Master, stand as monuments against
the perversions of later times. It has strangely come
to be thought a mark of great piety towards God to
disparage, if not to despise, the state which he has ordained for us; and the claims of this world have been
absurdly set up, not in comparison only, but in competition, with the claims of another; as if both were
not parts of one system; as if a man could not-make
the best of this world and of another at the satme
time; as if we should learn to think better of other
works and dispensations of God, by thinking meanly
of these. Jesus and his apostles did not teach us to
contemn our present condition. They taught that
every creature and every appointment of God is good,
and to be received thankfully. They did not look
upon life as so much time lost; they did not regard its
employments as trifles unworthy of immortal beings;
they did not tell their followers to fold their arms as if
in disdain of their state and species; but it is evident
that they looked soberly and cheerfully upon the world,
as the theatre of worthy action, of exalted usefulness,
and of rational and innocent enjoyment.
But I am considering the disparaging views of life;
and against these views, whether sentimental, worldly,
poetical or religious, I must contend. I firmly maintain, that with all its evils, life is a blessing. There
is a presumptive argument for this, of the greatest




232              ON HUMAN LIFE
strength. To deny that life is a blessing is to destroy
the very basis of all religion, natural and revealed;
and the argument I am engaged upon therefore, well
deserves attention. For the very foundation of all religion, is laid in the belief that God is good. But if
life is an evil and a curse, there can be no such belief,
rationally entertained. The Scriptures do not prove,
nor pretend to prove, that God is good. They assume
that truth as already certain. But what makes it certain? Where does, or can the proof come from? Obviously, from this world, and from nowhere else. Nowhere else can our knowledge extend, to gather proof.
Nay more, I say, the proof must come from this life,
and from nothing else. For it avails not, if life itself
is doomed to be unhappy-it avails not to the argument to say that this world is fair and glorious. It
avails not -to say that this outward frame of things,
this vast habitation of life, is beautiful.  The architecture of an Infirmary may be beautiful, and the
towers of a prison may be built on the grandest scale
of architectural magnificence; but it would little avail
the victims of sickness or bondage. And so if this
life is a doomed life, doomed by its very conditions to
sufferings far greater than its pleasures; if it is a curse
and not a blessing; if sighs and groans must rise fromn
it, more frequent and loud; than voices of joy and gladness, it will avail but little that heaven spreads its
majestic dome over our misery; that the mountain
walls, which echo our griefs, are clothed with grandeur
and might; or that the earth, which bears the burthen
of our woes, is paved with granite and marble, or covered with verdure and beauty.
Let him then, who says that this life is not a blessing; let him who levels his satire at humaltity and human existence, as mean and contemptible; let him




THE VALUE OF LIFE.               233
who with the philosophic pride of a Voltaire or a Gibbon looks upon this world as the habitation of a
miserable race, fit only for mockery and scorn, or who
with the religious melancholy of Thomas a Kempis
or of Brainard, overshadows this world with the gloom
of his imagination, till it seems a dungeon or a prison,
which has no blessing to offer but escape from it; let
all such consider that they are extinguishing the primal
light of faith and hope and happiness. If life is not a
blessing, if the world is not a goodly world, if residence in it is not a favoured condition, then religion
has lost its basis, truth its foundation in the goodness
of God; then it matters not what else is true or not
true; speculation is vain and faith is vain; and all
that pertains to man's highest being, is whelmed in the
ruins of misanthropy, melancholy and despair.
The argument in this view is well deserving of at
tention. Considered as a merely speculative point, it
is nevertheless one on which every thing hangs. And
this indeed is the consideration which I have been
stating; that the whole superstructure of religious
truth is based upon this foundation truth-that life
is a blessing.
And that this is Riot a mere assumption, I infer in the
next place, from experience. And there are two points
in this experience to be noticed. First, the love of life
proves it is a blessing. If it is not, why are men so
attached to it?  Will it be said, that it is " the dread
of something after death," that binds man to life? But
make the case a fair one for the argument: say, for instance, that the souls of men sleep, after death, till the
resurrection; and would not almost every man rather
live on, during the intermediate space, than to sink to
that temporary oblivion?
But to refer in the next place to a consideration still
20*




234             ON HUMAN LIFE.
plainer and less embarrassed; why are we so attached
to our local situation in life, to our home, to the spot
that gave us birth, or to any place, no matter how unsightly or barren,-though it were the rudest mountain or rock,-on which the history of years had been
written? Will it be said, that it is habit which endears
our residence? But what kind of habit? A habit of
being miserable?  The question needsno reply. Will
you refer me to the pathetic story of the aged prisoner
of the Bastile, who, on being released and coming
forth into the world, desired to return to his prison;
and argue from this, that a man may learn to love,
even, the glooms of a dungeon, provided they become
habitual? But why did that aged prisoner desire to
return? It was not because he loved the cold shadow
of his prison-walls: but it was, as the story informs us,
because his friends were gone from the earth; it was
because no living creature knew him, that the world
was darker to him, than the gloomy dungeons of the.Bastile. It shows how dear are the ties of kindred
and society. It shows how strong and how sweet are
those social affections, which we never appreciate, till
we are cut off from their joys; which glide from heart
to heart, as the sunbeams pass unobserved, in the daylight of prosperity; but if a ray of that social kindness visits the prison of our sickness and affliction, it
comes to us like a beam of heaven. And though we
had worn out a life in confinement, we go back again
to meet that beam of heaven, the smile of society;
and if we do not find it, we had rather return to the
silent walls that know us, than to dwell in a world that
knows us not.
"' But after all, and as a matter of fact, how many
miseries," it may be said, " are bound up with this life,
too deeply interwoven with it, and too keenly felt, tc




THE VALUE OF LIFE.              235
allow it to be called a favoured and happy life! Besides
evils of common occurrence and account, besides sickness and pain and poverty, besides disappointment and
bereavement and sorrow, how many evils are there that
are not embraced in the common estimate; evils that
are secret and silent, that dwell deep in the recesses of
life, that do not come forth to draw the public gaze or
to awaken the public sympathy! How many are there
who never tell their grief; how many who spread a
fair and smiling exterior over an aching heart.!"
Alas! it is but too easy to make out a strong statement: and yet the very strength of the statement, the
strong feeling, at least, with which it is made, disproves
the cynical argument. The truth is, and it is obvious,
that misery makes a greater impression upon us, than
happiness. Why? Because, misery is not the habit
of our minds. It is a strange and unwonted guest, and
we are more conscious of its presence. Happiness-not
to speak now of any very high quality or entirely satisfying state of mind, but only of a general easiness,
cheerfulness and comfort-happiness, I say, dwells with
us. and we forget it; it does not excite us; it does not
disturb the order and course of our thoughts. All our
impressions about affliction, on the other hand, show
that it is more rare, and at the same time, more regarded. It creates a sensation and stir in the world.
When death enters among us, it spreads a groan
through our dwellings; it clothes them with unwonted
and sympathizing grief. Thus, afflictions are like
epochs in life. We remember them as we do the storm
and earthquake, because they are out of the common
course of things. They stand like disastrous events in
a table of chronology, recorded because they are extraordinary; and with whole periods of prosperity between. Thus do we mark out and signalize the times




236             ON HUMAN LIFE.
of calamity; but how many happy days pass; unnot.
ed periods in the table of life's chronology; unrecorded
either in the book of memory or in the scanty annals
of our thanksgiving? How many happy months are
swept beneath the silent wingr of time, and leave no
name nor record in our hearts! how little are we able,
much as we may be disposed, to call up fiom the dim
remembrances of the year that is just ended, the peaceful moments, the easy sensations, the, bright thoughts,
the movements of kind and blessed affections, in which
life has flowed on, bearing us almost unconsciously
upon its bosom, because it has borne us calmly and
gently! Sweet moments of quietness and affection!
glad hours of joy and hope! days, ye many days begun and ended in health and happiness! times and
seasons of heaven's gracious beneficence! stand before
us yet again, in the light of memory, and command
us to be thankful and to prize as we ought, the gift.
of life.
But, my brethren, I must not content myself with a
bare defence of life as against a skeptical or cynical
spirit, or as against the errors and mistakes of religion.
I must not content myself with a view of the palpable
and acknowledged blessings of life. Life is more than
what is palpable, or often acknowledged. I contend
against the cynical and the superstitious disparage-ment of life, not alone as wrong and as fatal indeed to
all religion; but I contend against it as fatal to the
highest improvement of life. I say, that life is not
only good, but that it was made to be glorious. Ay,
and it has been glorious in the experience of millions.
The glory of all human virtue arrays it. The glory
of sanctity and beneficence and heroism is upon it.
The crown of a thousand martyrdoms is upon its
brow.




THE VALUE OF LIFE.              237
Through this visible and sometimes darkened life,
it was intended that the brightness of the soul should
shine; and that it should shine through all its surrounding cares and labours. The humblest life which
any one of us leads may be what has been expressively
denominated "the life of God in the soul."  It may
hold a felt connection with its infinite source. It may
derive an inexpressible sublimity from that connection.
Yes, ny Brethren, there may be something of God in
our daily life; something of might in this frail inner
man; something of immortality in this momentary
and transient being.
This mind-I survey it with awe, with wonderencompassed with flesh, fenced around with barriers of
sense; yet it breaks every bound, and stretches away,
on every side, into infinity. It is not upon the line
only of its eternal duration, that it goes forth, forth
firom this day of its new annual period, through the
periods of immortality; but its thoughts, like diverging
rays, spread themselves abroad and far, far into the
boundless, the imlneasurable, the infinite. And these
diverging rays may be like cords to lift up to heaven.
What a glorious thing, then, is this life! To know its
wonderful Author; to bring down wisdom from the
eternal stars; to bear upward its homage, its gratitude, its love to the Ruler of all worlds; what glory in
the created universe is there, surpassing this? " Thou
crownest it, says the Psalmist, thou crownest it with
glory and honour; thou hast made it a little lower than
the angelic life."
Am I asked, then, what is life? 1 say, in answer.
that it is good. God saw and pronounced that it was
good, when he made it. Man feels that it is good
when lie preserves it. It is good in the unnumbered
sources of happiness around it. It is good in the ten




238              ON HUMAN LIFE.
thousand buoyant and happy affections within it. It
is good in its connection with infinite goodness, and in
its hope of infinite glory beyond it. True, our life is
fiail in its earthly state, and it has often bowed down
with earthly burthens; but still it endures and revives
and flourishes; still it is redeemed from destruction,
and crowned with loving kindness and tender mercy.
Frail too, and yet strong is it, in its heavenly nature.
The immortal is clothed with mortality; and the incorruptible with corruption. It is like an instrument
formed for heavenly melody; whose materials were
taken indeed, from the mouldering and unsightly forest; but lo! the hand of the artificer has been upon
it; it is curiously wrought; it is fearfully and wonderfully made; it is fashioned for every tone of gladness
and triumph. It may be relaxed, but it can be strung
again. It may send forth a mournful strain; but it is
formed also for the music of heavenly joy. Even its
sadness is i' pleasing and mournful to the soul." Even
suffering is hallowed and dear. Life has that value,
that even misery cannot destroy it. It neutralizes
grief, and makes it a source of deep and sacred interest. Ah! holy hours of suffering and sorrow; hours
of communion with the great and triumphant Sufferer;
who that has passed through your silent moments of
prayer and resignation and trust, would give you up,
for all the brightness of prosperity?
Am I still asked what is life?  I answer, that it is
a great and sublime gift. Those felicitations with
which this renewed season of it is welcomed, are but
a fit tribute to its value, and to the gladness which belongs to it.  "Happy," says the general voice, " happy
New-Year!" to all who live to see it. Life is felt to
be a great and gracious boon, by all who enjoy its
light; and this is not too much felt. It is the wonder




THE VALUE OF LIFE.               239
ful creation of God; and it cannot be too much ad —
mired.  It is light sprung from void darkness; it is
power waked from inertness and impotence; it is being
created fiom nothing; well may the contrast enkindle wonder and delight. It is a stream from the infinite and overflowing goodness; and from its first gushing forth to its mingling with the ocean of eternity,
that goodness attends it. Yes: life, despite of all that
cynics or sentimentalists say, is a great and glorious
gift. There is gladness in its infant voices. There is
joy in the buoyant step of its youth. There is deep
satisfaction in its strong maturity. There is holy
peace in its quiet age. There is good for the good;
there is virtue for the faithfill; there is victory for the
valiant.  There is spirituality for the spiritual; and,
there is, even in this humble life, an infinity for the
boundless in desire.  There are blessings upon its
birth; there is hope in its death; and there is-to
consummate all there is eternity in its prospect.
As I have discoursed upon this theme, it is possible
that some may have thought that it has nothing to do
with religion; that it is a subject merely for fine sentiments and for nothing more.  Let me tell such a
thinker that this subject has not only much to do with
religion every way, but that it furnishes, in fact, a test
of our religion.  To the low-minded, debased and sensual, this life must, doubtless, be something very poor,
indifferent and common-place; it must be a beaten
path, a dull scene, shut in on every side, by the earthly, palpable, and gross. But break down the barriers
of sense; open the windows of faith; fling wide the
gates that darken the sensual world, and let the light
of heaven pour in upon it; and then what is this life?
How changed is it! how new! a new heavens, indeed,
and a new earth.  Yes, this earth which binds one




240              ON HUMAN LIFE.
man in chains, is to the other, the starting place, the
goal of immortality. This earth which buries one
man in the rubbish of dull cares and wearying vanities, is to the other, the lofty mount of meditation,
where heaven and infinity and eternity are spread before him and around him. Yes, my friend, the life
thou leadest, the life thou thinkest of, is the interpreter
of thine inward being. Such as life is to thee, such
thou art. If it is low and mean, and base, if it is a
mere money-getting or pleasure-seeking or honour-craving life, so art thou. Be thou lofty-minded, pure and
holy; and life shall be to thee the beginning of heaven, the threshold of immortality.




XVI.
LIFE"S CONSOLATIONS IN VIEW OF DEATH.
JESUS SAID UNTO HER) I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.-John xi. X2
THESE words, my brethren, so stupendous in their
import, so majestic in their tone; when and where
were they uttered? They were uttered in a world of
the dying; in a world which is the tomb of all past
generations; in a world from whose dreary caverns,
from whose dark catacombs, and alike from whose
proud mausoleums and towering pyramids, no word
ever issued that spake of any thing but death. They
were uttered in an hour, when bereavement, dimmed
with tears and fainting with sorrow, was sighing for
help more than human.
It was at Bethany. You remember the affecting
story of Mary, and Martha her sister, and of Lazarus
their brother. So simply and truly is it told, that it
seems as if it were the relation of what had taken
place in any village around us. " Now a certain man,
named Lazarus of Bethany, was sick."  How does
such an event, when it becomes sufficiently marked
with peril to attract attention, spread anxiety and apprehension through a whole neighbourhood. Life pauses, and is suspended on the result. "Lazarus was
sick."  What fears, watchings, and agonies of solicitude, hover around the sick man's couch; none but
the inmates of his dwelling can know. It was in such
an emergency that Mary and Martha, fearful and trou21




242             ON HUMAN LIFE.
bled, sent a message to their chief comforter and friend,
saying, "behold, he whom thou lovest, is sick."  Jesus, for reasons perhaps beyond our knowledge, does
not immediately answer the call of distress. He remains two days in the same place. Then the dreaded
event had taken place; all was over; and he calmly
says to his disciples, " our friend Lazarus sleepeth."
So does he contemplate death, not as a dread catastrophe, but as a quiet sleep; a sacred repose, succeeding the weary and troubled day of life. Beautifully
says our great dramatist,
"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."
But so does it not appear to the bereaved and sorrowing sisters. They are plunged into the deepest distress. It is a time of mourning in that still and desolate house at Bethany. The dead is buried; but grief
lives, and the hours pass in silent agony.  The sympathizing neighbours from the village are still there;
and many friends from Jerusalem are with the afflicted sisters to comfort them concerning their brother.
At length, the Master approaches.  Martha, ever
more alert and attentive to what is passing, first hearing of it, goes forth to meet him. Soon however she
returns, and says to Mary, her sister, secretly, gives
her a private intimation-how much passes in the
dumb show, in whispers, where deep grief is!-she says,
in a low tone, "the Master is come, and calleth for
thee. And as soon as she heard that, she arose
quickly and came unto him."  The language of both
when they met him is the same, turns upon the same
point: "Lord, if thou hadst been here, our brother had
not died." What natural and living truth is there, in
this simple trait of feeling! How natural is it for the
bereaved to think that if this or that had been done;




LIFE S CONSOLATIONS.          243
if this or that physician had been called; if some other
course had been adopted, or some other plan or clime
had favoured, the blow might have been averted. The
thoughts all shrink from the awful certainty, revert to
the possibility of its having been avoided; and catch
at all possible suppositions to find: relief.  But the
awful certainty nevertheless overwhelmed the mourning sisters; "the end had come; their brother was
dead —was dead! no help now; no change to come
over that still sleep;" so mourned they; and Jesus
beholding their distress, groaned in spirit and was
troubled. "Jesus wept.?' He was not one, who, with
cold philosophy or misplaced rapture in his countenance, looked on bereavement and agony-looked on
death. He was not one who forbade tears and sorrows. He was not one who approached the grave with
an air of triumph, though he had gained a victory over
it; but it is written, that " again groaning within himself, he came to the grave." No, humanity shudders,
and trembles, ani groans when it comes there; and
may not, by any true religion, be denied these testimonies to its frailty.
But still there were words of soothing and comfort
uttered by our Saviour on this occasion; and let us
now turn to them and consider their import. "Martha
said to Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here. my brother
had not died.  But I know that even now. whatsoever
thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.  Jesus saith
unto her, thy brother shall rise again.  lBartha saith
unto him, I know he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day." She had probable beard the
doctrine of a future life from himself; but alas! that
life seemsfar off; dim shadows spread themselves over
the everlasting fields; they seem  unreal to a person oF Martha's turn of mind; she wants her brother




244             ON HUMAN LIFE.
again a.s he was but now by her side; she entertains
some hope that Jesus will restore him; she says, "even
now, I know that whatsoever thou wilt ask of God,
God will give it thee." Jesus does not reply to this
suggestion; he does not tell her whether her brother
shall immediately come back to her; but utters himself in a more general and a grander truth. "I am
the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die; believest thou this?" As if he had said, be not too
curious nor anxious in your thoughts, but confide, Martha, in me.  You believe in a future resurrection,
or renewal of life; you hope for the immediate resurrection of your brother; but be satisfied with this, " I
am the Resurrection;" all that resurrection, renewal
of life, heavenly happiness means, is embodied, consummated, fulfilled in me. Nay, it is not some future
return to being of which I speak; he that liveth and
believeth in me, shall never die.'Already, he hath
begun to live immortally.  Death is for the body; but
for that soul, no death. Its affections are in their very
nature immortal; and have in them the very elements
of undecaying happiness.
Let us attend a moment to the two part? of this instruction; what our Saviour uttered as already the
belief of Martha; and what he added in the emphatic declaration, "I am the Resurrection and the
Life."
" Thy brother shall live again"-thy brother! Not
some undefined spirituality, not some new and strange
being shall go forth beyond the mortal bourne; but
life —life, in its character, its affections, its spiritual
identity, such as it is here; thy brother shall rise
again."  He is not lost to thee; he shall not be so




LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS.           245
spiritually changed as to be forever lost to thee.  On
some other shore-as if he had only gone to another
hemisphere, instead of another world; on some other
shore, thou shalt find him again-find thy brother.
Thus much must have been taught, or there had been
no pertinency, no comfort in the teaching. To have
only said that in the eternal revolutions and metamorphoses of being, life, existence should in some sense be
continued, or that all souls should be re-absorbed into
the Parent Soul, would have been nothing, to this
mourning sister. Without conscious identity, indeed,
without continued existence, a future life has no intelligible meaning.; and certainly without it, there could
be no such thing as reward or retribution. And since
the social element is an essential part of our nature,
that element must be found in a nature which is the
same: and that being so, to suppose that friends
should meet and commune together, without recognition, is as absurd, as it would be unsatisfactory.
IMost clearly-to confine ourselves to the case before
us —such a promise of future existence, that is, of a
vague, indefinite, unremembering existence, would be
no comfort to sorrowing friendship. To individual expectation it would be something, but to bereaved affection, nothing. It is to such sorrow, one of the bitterest in this world-that of a sister left alone in the
world-that Jesus speaks; and he says, " thy brother
sh.all live again.'
"Thy brother shall live again."  What words are
these to be uttered-amidst the wrecks of time, the
memorials of buried nations, the earth-mounds swelling far and wide above the silent dust of all that
has ever lived and breathed in the visible creation!
Whence comes such stupendous, such amazing words
as these?  From beyond the regions of all visible life,
21*




246             ON HUMAN LIFE.
they come. From the dark earth beneath us, no voice
issues; fromn the shining walls of heaven, no angel
forms beckon us. Silence, dust, death are here; no
more: the earth entombs us, the heavens crush us, till
those words come to us, heaven-sent, from the great
realm of invisible life.  0 blessed revelation! Life
there is for us, somewhere; I ask not where. I can
wait God's time for that. Blessed fields there are somewhere in the great embosoming universe of God, that
stretch onward and onward forever, and the happy
walk there. There shall we find our lost ones, and be
with them  evermore. "Father," said our Saviour
when he was about to depart, "I will that they whom
thou hast given me, be with me, where I am."  Shall
that prayer be answered? Then shall there be a glorious fellowship of good men with Jesus and with one
another. Are we not sometimes when we think of
-this, like Paul, " in a strait between two"-between
the claims of friendship on earth and of friendship in
heaven, and ready to say, " for us it is better to depart and be with Christ?" Are we not ready to
say, as the disciples did of Lazarus-when our beloved ones are gone from us —" let us go and die with
them?"
And then in addition to this inexpressible comfort and
hope, what is it that our Saviour so emphatically says
to Martha?  "I am the Resurrection and the Life."
Something in addition, we may well suppose it must
be. And I. understand it to be this: He that believeth
on ne, that is, receiveth me-hath the spirit, the spiritual life that is in me, the same love-of God, the same
trust in God, is already living an immortal life. He
shall never die. That in him which partakes of my
inward life, shall never die. It is essentially immortal,: and immortally blessed; and no dark eclipse shall




LIFE'S CONSOLATION.             247
come over it, between death and the resurrection, to
bury it in the gloom of utter unconsciousness, or to
cause it to wander like a shadow in the dim realms of
an intermediate state.  " I am the Resurrection. Thy
brother who hath part in me, lives now, as truly as I
live." As he says in another place, " I am the bread of
life; he that eateth me, even he shall live through me;
so he says, " I am the Resurrection and the Life; and
to him that is partner and partaker with me, belongeth
not death, but only resurrection, continued life, life
everlasting."
Let us now proceed to consider one or two further
grounds for consolation that are suggested by this
teaching of our Saviour.
That which he especially proposes to his bereaved
friends at Bethany, is faith in him. It was a faith in
him as the Saviour of the world, as one who was commissioned to bring life and immortality clearly to light,
as one who through his own death and resurrection
should open the way to heaven. But we should not
do justice to this sentiment of faith, if we did not
regard it as something more than any mere view of
him as Saviour; if we did not regard it as the most
intimate participation of the spiritual life that was in
him. That participation embraces, doubtless, general
purity of heart and life, a humble resignation to God's
will, a thoughtful consideration of the wise purposes
and necessary uses of affliction; but especially it embraces as the sum and source of all, the love of God.
Faith in Christ, is nothing more emphatically than it is
the love of God, his Father. Upon nothing does he
more earnestly insist, and upon this he especially insists as the pledge and the test of fidelity to him.
To this, then, let mne particularly direct your atten




248             ON HUMAN LIFE.
tion as the most essential part of that faith which is to
comfort us.
It is the love of God only that can produce a just
sense of his love to us. It is only a deep and true sense
of his love to us, that can assuage the wounds of our
affliction. This results from the very nature of things.
It is not a technical dogma, but a living and practical
truth. It is not a truth merely for certain persons
called Christians, who are supposed to understand
this language; but it is a truth for all men.  We
suffer under the government of God. It is his will
that has appointed to us change, trial, bereavement,
sorrow, death. The dispensation therefore will be
coloured to us throughout-it will be darkened or
brightened all over, by our views of its great Ordainer.
Ah! it is a doubt here; it is some distrust or difficulty,
of want of vital faith on this point, that often adds the
bitterest sting to human affliction. When all is well
with us, we can say that God is good, and think that
we have some love to him; but when the blow of calamity or death falls upon our dearest possessions,
strikes down innocent childhood, or lovely youth, or
the needed maturity of all human virtue or source of
all earthly help and comfort —strikes from our side,
that which we could least of all spare; oh! it seems
to us a cruel, cruel blow!-and we say, perhaps, in our
distracted thoughts, "is God good, to inflict it upon us.
He could have saved, and he did not; he would not.
Why would he not?  Does he love us; and yet afflict
us so?-yet crush us, break us down, and blight all
our hopes? Is this a loving dispensation?"
My friends, there is but one remedy for all this; the
love, the true, pure, childlike love of God: such love
and trust as Jesus felt; even as he, the smitten, af.




LIFE'S CONSOLATION.           249
flicted, cast down, betrayed, crucified; who was urged,
in the extremity of his sorrow to say, " Father, if it be
possible, remove this cup from me;" yet immediately
added, " Father, not my will, but thine be done."  This
is our example. This is our only salvation. Nothing
but this love of God, can yield us comfort; If there is
no ground for this, then there is no place for consolation in the universe. T'here may be enduring, there
may be forgetting; but there can be no consolation.
If there is ground for this love and trust, who in the
day of trouble will not pray God to breathe it into his
broken heart?
I have said that doubt, distrust, want of faith, is our
difficulty. And yet, how can we doubt? How can the
Infinite Being be any thing but good? What motive,
what reason, what possibility I had almost said, can
there be to Infinite power, Infinite sufficiency, to be any
thing but good? How can we-except it be in some
momentary paroxysm  of grief-how, I say, can we
doubt? How doubt, beneath these shining heavens;
amidst the riches, the plenitude, the brightness and
beauty of the whole creation; with capacities of
thought, of improvement, of happiness in ourselves
that almost transcend expression; nay, and with sorrows too, that proclaim the loss of objects so inexpressibly dear! Whence but from love in God, could have
come a love in us so intense, so transporting, so full of
joy and blessedness; nay, and so full too of pain and
anguish? No! such a love in me assures me that it
had its origin in love. Could the Being who made me
intelligent, have been himself without intelligence?
Nor could the Being want love, who has made me so
to love, so to sorrow for what I love. By my very sorrows, then, I know that God loves me; I say not
whether with approbation, but with an infinite kind



250              ON HUMAN LIFE.
ness, an infinite pity. What I need is, but to feel it,
to pray for that feeling, to meditate upon all, that
should bring that feeling into my heart; to take refuge amidst my sorrows, in the assurance that God
loves me; that he does not willingly grieve or afflict
me; that he chastens me for my profiting; that he
could not show so much love for me, by leaving me
unchastened, untried, undisciplined.  "W Ve have had
fathers of our flesh who chastened us"-put us to
tasks, trials, griefs; " and we gave them reverence" --
felt, amidst all, that they were good. " Shall we not
much rather be in subjection to the Father of our spirits and live?"  Great is the faith that must save us.
It is a faith in the Infinite; a faith in the Infinite love
of God!
From this faith arises another ground of consolation. It is, not only that all is well; but that in the
great order of things, that which particularly concerns
us-enters into our peculiar suffering, is well. Our
case, perhaps, is bereavement, heavy and sorrowful bereavement. Is it a messenger of wrath? Is any one
of its circumstances, of its peculiarities-so poignant
and piercing to us-an indication of divine anger?
Awful thought! Immitigable calamity, if it were so!
But no; it is appointed in love. Can God do any
thing for anger's sake?  To me, it were not God, of
whom this could be said.  Let it be, that a bad man
has died. Has God made him die, because he hated
him? I believe it not. If he has lost his being, I believe that it is well that he has lost it. If hlie has gone to
retribution, I believe it is well that he has gone to that
retribution; that nothing could be better for him, being
what it is. If I were that unhappy being, I would say,
"let me be in the hands of the infinitely good God,
rather than any where else."  But. if it is a good being




LIFE'S CONSOLATION.          251
that has gone from me, an innocent child, or one clothed with every lovely virtue, one whom Jesus loved as
he loved the dear brother in Bethany; to what joys
unspeakable has that being gone! In the bosom of
God, in the bosom of infinite love, all with him is well.
Could that departed one speak to us, that lovely and
loving one, invested with the radiance and surrounded
with the bliss of some heavenly land; would not the
language be-" mourn not for me, or mourn not as
having no hope. Dishonour not the good and blessed
One, my Father and your Father, by any distrust or
doubt. Mourn for me, remember me, as I too remember you, long for you; but mourn with humble patience and calm sustaining faith."
How is it with us, my brethren, in this world?  and
what, in contemplation of death, would we say to
those that we shall leave behind us? "Grieve not for
me," would not one say?-or " grieve not too much,
when I am gone.- I cannot bear that you should suffer that awful agony, that desolating sorrow, that is
often seen in the house of mourning. Remembered I
would be; oh! let ine have a memorial in some living, affectionate hearts! I would never be forgotten;
I would never have it felt tlhat the tie with me is
broken: but let the memory of me be calm, patient,
sacred, gently sorrowing if need be, but yet ever partaking of the blessedness of that love which death
cannot quench. Let not my name gather about it an
awfulness or a sacredness, such that it may not be uttered in the places where I have lived; or if in the
sanctuary where it is kept, there is a delicacy that forbids the easy utterance of it, still let it not be invested
with gloom and sadness. Think of me when I am
gorie, as one who thought much on death; who had
thoughts of it, more and greater than he could in the




252             ON HUMAN LIFE.
ordinary goings on of life, find fit occasion to utter. If
you could wish that I had said more to you, on this
and many other themes, yet give the confidence, that
you must ask, for that secret world within us all, that
world of a thousand tender thoughts and feelings, for
which language has no expression. Think of me as
still possessing those thoughts and feelings, as still the
same to you, as one that loves you still; for death
shall not destroy in us, that image of Christ, a pure
and holy love. If I retain my consciousness, I must
still think of you; with more than all the love I ever
felt; it cannot be otherwise. And if I am to sleep till
the resurrection, though my hope is far different: believing in Jesus, my hope is that I am already of the
Resurrection; yet if it be so, that God has ordained
that pause in my existence, it is surely for a wise purpose; it is doubtless best for me; and to the ever good
and blessed will of God, I calmly and humbly submit
myself: to that ever gracious will, I pray you to be
patiently and cheerfully resigned. How much better
is it than your will or mine! What boundless good
may we not expect, from an Infihite Will, prompted
by an Infinite Love! Lift up your lowly thoughts to
this: lift them up to the heavenly regions, to the
boundless universe, to the all-embracing eternity; and
in these contemplations lose the too keen sense of this
breathing hour of time, of this world of dust and shadows-and of brightness and beauty, too: for all is
good; all in earth and in heaven, in time and eternity, is good."
Thus, I conceive, might a wise and good man, about
to depart from this life, speak to those whom he was
to leave behind him. And thus might those who have
died in infant innocence; thus might angel-children
speak from some brighter sphere. And if it were wis



LIFE'S CONSOLATIONS,            253
dom thus to speak, then let that wisdom sink into our
hearts, and bring there its consolation. Perfect relief
from suffering it cannot bring; sorrow we may, we
must; many and bitter pains must we bear in this
mortal lot; Jesus wept over such pains, and we may
weep over them; but let us be wise; let us be trustful; let the love of God fill our hearts; let the heavenly consolation help us, all that it can. It can help
us much. It is not mere breath of words to say that
God is good, that all is right, all is well; all that concerns us is the care of Infinite Love. It is not a mere
religious common-place, to say that submission, trust,
love can help us.  More than eye ever saw or the ear
ever heard, or the worldly heart ever conceived, can a
deep, humble, child-like, loving piety bring help and
comfort in the hours of mortal sorroxv and bitterness.
Believest thou this?  This was our Saviour's question
to Martha, in her distress. " He that believeth on me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live. And he that
lieveth and believeth on me, shall never die. Believest
thou this?"  This humble-believing, this heart-believing, my friends, is what we need-must have-must
seek. The breathing of the life of Jesus in us, the
bright cloud around us, in which he walked, this can
comfort us beyond all that we know, all that we imagine. May we find that comfort! Forlorn, forsaken;
or deprived, destitute; or bereaved, broken-hearted;
whatever be our strait or sorrowv; may we find that
comfort!
My Brethren, I have been communing now, with
affliction. It is a holy and delicate office; and I have
been afraid, when speaking with all the earnestness I
felt, lest I should not speak with all the delicacy I
ought; lest I should only add to grief, by touching its
wound. But I felt that I was coming to meet sorrow;
22




254             ON HUMAN LIFE.
I know that I often come to meet it here; it has of
late, occupied much of my mind; and I could not refiain from offering my humble aid for its relief.
I reflected too that I was coming this morning, to
this sacred table,* this altar reared for the comfort of
all believing souls; reared by dying hands, to the resurrection, to the hope of everlasting life. It was the
same night in which he was betrayed: it was when
he was about to die, that Jesus set forth in the form
of a feast, this solemn and cheering memorial of himself; and uttered many soothing and consoling words
to his disciples. He did not build a tomb, by which
to be remembered; but he appointed a feast of remembrance. He did not tell his disciples to put on sackcloth; but to clothe themselves with the recollections
of him, as with the robe of immortality. Death indeed,.was a dread to him; and he shrunk fiom it. It
was a grief to his disciples; and he recognised it as
such, and so dealt with it. But he showed to them a
trust in God, a loving submission to the Father, that
could stay the soul. He spoke of a victory over death.
He assured them that man's last enemy was conquered. Here then amidst these memorials of death, let
us meditate upon the life everlasting. Let us carry
out thoughts to that world where Christ is, and where
he prayed that all who love him, might be with him;
where, we believe, they are with him. Let our faith
rise so high —God grant it!-that we can say: " Oh!
grave, where is thy victory? Oh! death, where is thy
sting? Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory,
through Jesus Christ, our Lord!"
* Preached before the Communion.




XVII.
THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF
CHRIST.
IN HIM WAS LIFE, AND THE LIFE WAS THE LIGHT OF MEN.-John i. 4.
THE words, " life and light," are constantly used by
the Apostle John, after a manner long familiar in the
Hebrew writings, for spiritual happiness, and spiritual
truth.  The inmost and truest life of man, the life of
his life, is spiritual life-is, in other words, purity, love,
goodness; and this inward purity, love, goodness, is
the very light of life; that which brightens, blesses,
guides it.
I have little respect for the ingenuity that is always
striving to work out from  the simple language of
Scripture, fanciful and far-fetched meanings; but it
would seem, in the passage before us, as if John intended to state one of the deepest truths in the very
firame of our being; and that is, that goodness is the
fountain of wisdom.
Give me your patience a moment, and I will attempt
to explain this proposition.  " In it, was life;" that is,
in this manifested and all-creating energy, this outflowing of the power of God, was a divine and infinite
love and joy; and this life was the light of men.
That is to say-love first, then light.  Light does not
create love; but love creates light. The good heart
nuly can understand the good teaching.  The doctrine of truth that guides a man, comes from the divi



256             ON HUMAN LIFE.
nity of goodness that inspires him. But, it will be
said, does not a man become holy or good, in view of
truth? I answer, that he cannot view the truth, but
through the medium of love. It is the loving view
only, that is effective; that is any view at all. I must
desire you to observe that I am speaking now of the
primary convictions of a man, and not of the secon
dary influences that operate upon him. Light may
strengthen love; a knowledge of the works and ways
of God may have this effect, and it is properly presented for this purpose. But light cannot originate
love. If love were not implanted in man's original
and inmost being; if there were not placed there, the
moral or spiritual feeling, that loves while it perceives
goodness; all the speculative light *in the universe,
would leave man's nature, still and forever cold and
dead as a stone. In short, loveliness is a quality which
i.othing but love can perceive. God cannot be known
in his highest, that is, in his spiritual and holy nature,
except by those who love him.
Now of this life and light, as we are immediately
afterwards taught, Jesus Christ, not as a teacher mere
ly, but as a being, is to us the great and appointed
source. And therefore when Thomas says, "how can
we know the way of which thou speakest," Jesus answers, " I am the way, and the truth and the life; no
man cometh to the Father but by me." That is, no
man can truly come to God, but in that spirit of filial
love, of which I am the example.
In our humanity there is a problem. In Christ only
is it perfectly solved. The speculative solution of that
problem, is philosophy.  The practical solution is a
good life; and the only perfect solution is, the life of
Christ. "In him was life, and the life was the light
of men."




THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED.    257
In him, I say, was solved the problem of life. What
is that problem?  What are the questions which it
presents? They are these: Is there anything that
can be achieved in life, in which our nature can find
full satisfaction and sufficiency? And if there be any
such thing, any such end of life; then is there any
adaptation of things to that end?  Are there any
means or helps provided in life, for its attainment?
Now the end must be the highest condition of our
highest nature; and that end, we say, is virtue, sanctity, blessedness. And the helps or means are found
in the whole discipline of life. But the end was perfectly accomplished in Christ, and it was accomplished
through the very means which are appointed to us.
" He was tempted in all points as we are, yet without
sin;" and "he was made thus perfect through sufferings."
Our Saviour evidently regarded himself as sustaining this relation to human life; the enlightener of its
darkness, the interpreter of its mystery, the solver of
its problem. " I am the light of the world," he says;
"he that followeth me, shall not walk in darkness,
but shall have the light of life."  And again: "I am
come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth
on me, should not abide in darkness." It was not for
abstract teaching to men'that he came, but for actual
guidance in their daily abodes. It was not to deliver
doctrines alone, nor to utter or echo back the intuitive
convictions of our own minds, but to live a life and to
die a death; and so to live and to die, as to cast light
upon the dark paths in which we walk.
I need not say that there is darkness in the paths
of men; that they stumble at difficulties, are ensnared
by temptations, are perplexed by doubts; that they
are anxious and troubled and fearful; that pain and
22*




25S             ON HUMAN LIFE.
affliction and Jorrow often gather around the steps of
their earthly pilgrimage. All this is written upon the
very tablet of the human heart. And I do not say
that all this is to be erased; but only that it is to be
seen and read in a new light. I do not say that ills
and trials and sufferings are to De removed fiom life;
but only that over this scene of mortal trouble a new
heaven is to be spread; and that the light of that
heaven is Christ, the sun of righteousness.
To human pride, this may be a hard saying; to human philosophy, learning, and grandeur, it may be a
hard saying; but still it is true, that the simple life of
Christ, studied, understood and imitated, would shed a
brighter light than all earthly wisdom  can find, upon
the dark trials and mysteries of our lot. It is true that
whatever you most need or sigh for, whatever you most
want, to still the troubles of your heart or compose the
agitations of your mind, the simple life of Jesus can
teach you.
To show this, I need only take the most ordinary
admissions from the lips of any Christian, or I may
say, of almost any.unbeliever.
Suppose that the world were filled with beings like
Jesus. Would not all the great ills of society be instantly relieved? Would you not immediately dismiss all your anxieties concerning it; perfectly sure
that all was going on well? Would not all coercion,
infliction, injury, injustice, and all the greatest suffering of life, disappear at once? If, at the stretching
out of some wonder-working wand, that change could
take place, would not the change be greater far, than
if every house, hovel and prison on earth, were instantly turned into a palace of ease and abundance and
splendour? Happy then would be these " human
years~ " and the eternal ages would roll on in bright.




THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVE D.    259
ness and beauty! The " still, sad music of humanity,)'
that sounds through the world, now in the swellings of
grief, and now in pensive melancholy, would be exchanged for anthems, lifted up to the march of time,
and bursting out from the heart of the world!
But let us make another supposition, and bring it
still nearer to ourselves. Were any one of us a perfect
imitator of Christ; were any one of us clothed with
the divinity of his virtue and faith; do you not perceive what the effect would be? Look around upon
the circle of life's ills and trials, and observe the effect.
Did sensual passions assail you? How weak would
be their solicitation to the divine beatitude of your
own heart! You would say, " I have meat to eat that
ye know not of." Did want tempt you to do wrongly,
or curiosity to do rashly? You would say to the one,
" man shall not live by bread alone; there is a higher
life which I must live;" and to the other, " thou shalt
not tempt the Lord thy God." Did ambition spread
its kingdoms and thrones before you, and ask you to
swerve from your great allegiance? Your reply would
be ready: " Get thee hence, Satan, for it is written,
thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only
shalt thou serve." Did the storm of injury beat upon
your head, or its silent shaft pierce your heart'.In
meekness you would bow that head, in prayer, that
heart; saying,' Father forgive them, for they know
not what they do." What sorrow could. reach you;
what pain, what anguish, that would not be soothed
by a faith and a love like that of Jesus? And what
blessing could light on you, that would not be brightened by a filial piety and gratitude like his? The
world around you would be new, and the heavens
over you would be new; for they would be all, and all
around their ample range, and all through their glo



260)           ON HUMAN LIFE.
rious splendours, the presence and the visitation of a
Father. And you yourself, would be a new creature;
and you would enjoy a happiness new, and now scarcely known on earth.
And I cannot help observing here, that if such be
the spontaneous conviction of every mind at all acquainted with Christianity, what a powerful independent argument there is for receiving Christ as a guide
and example! It were an anomaly, indeed, to the
eye of reason, to reject the solemn and self-claimed
mission of one, whom it would be happiness to follow,
whom it would be perfection to imitate. Yet if the
former, the special mission, were rejected; if it were,
as it may be, by possibility, honestly rejected; what is
a man to think of himself, who passes by, and discards
the latter, the teaching of the life of Christ? Let it
be the man, Rousseau, or the man, Hume, or any man
in these days, who says that he believes nothing in
churches or miracles or missions from  heaven. But
he admits, as they did and as every one must, that in
Jesus Christ was the most perfect unfolding of all
divine beauty and holiness that the world ever saw
What, I say, is he to do with this undeniable and
undenied Gospel of the life of Jesus?  Blessed is he,
if he receives it; that is unquestionable. All who
read of him, all the world, admits that. But what
shall we say if he rejects it?  If any one could be
clothed with the eloquence of Cicero or the wisdom of
Socrates, and would not., all the world would pronounce him a fool, would say that he had denied his
humanity. And surely if any one could be invested
with all the beauty and grandeur of the life of Jesus,
and would not; he must be stricken with utter moral
fatuity; he must be accounted to have denied his
highest humanity. The interpretation of his case is




THE PROBLEM  OF LIFE SOLVED.         261
as plain as words can make it; and it is this  "light
has come into the worldc, and men have loved darkness
rather than light, because their deeds are evil."
"In him was life," says our text, " and the life was
the light of men."
I have attempted to bring home the conviction of
this, simply by bringing before your minds the supposition that the world, and we ourselves, were like him.
But as no conviction, I think, at the present stage of
our Christian progress, is so important as this, let me
attempt to impress it, by another course of reflections.
I say of our Christian progress. We have cleared away
many obstacles, as we think, and have come near to
the simplicity of the Gospel. No complicated ecclesiastical organization nor scholastic creed, stands between us and the solemn verities of Christianity.  I
am not now pronouncing upon those accumulations
of human devices; but I mean especially to say, that
no mystical notions of their necessity or importance,
mingle themselves with our ideas of acceptance. We
have come to stand before the simple, naked shrine of
the original Gospel. We have come, through many
human teachings and human admonitions, to Christ
himself. But little will it avail us to have come so
far, if we take not one step farther. Now, what I
think we need is, to enter more deeply into the study
and understanding of what Christ was.
This, let us attempt. And I pray you and myself,
Brethren, not to be content with the little that can now
be said; but let us carefully read the Gospels for ourselves, and lay the law of the life of Christ, with rigo.
rous precision to our own lives, and see where they fail
and come short. It is true indeed, and I would urge
nothing beyond the truth, that the life of Jesus is not,
in every respect, an example for us. That is to say




262             ON HUMAN LIFE.
the manner of his life was, in some respects, different
from what ours can, or should be. lie was a teacher;
and the most of us are necessarily and lawfully engaged in the business of life. He was sent on a peculiar mission; and none of us have such a mission.
But the spirit that was in him, may be in us. To
some of the traits of this spirit, as the only sources of
light and help to us, let me now briefly direct your
attention.
And first, consider his self-renunciation. How entire that self-renunciation was; how completely his
aims went beyond personal ease and selfish gratification; how all his thoughts and words and actions
were employed upon the work for which he was sent
into the world; how his whole life, as well as his
death, was an offering to that cause; I need not tell
you. Indeed, so entirely is this his accredited character; so completely is he set apart in our thoughts not
only to a peculiar office, but set apart too and separated firom all human interests and affections, that we
are liable to do his character in this respect, no proper
justice. We isolate himl, till he almost ceases to be an
example to us; till he almost ceases to be a virtuous
being. He stands alone in Judea; and the wordssociety, country, kindred, friendship, home-seem to
have, to him, only a fictitious application. But these
ties bound himn as they do others; the gentleness and
tenderness of his nature made him peculiarly susceptible to them; no more touching allusions to kindred
and country can be found in humnan language, than
his; as when he said, " Oh! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!"
in foresight of her coming woes; as when he said on
the cross, " behold thy mother! behold thy son!"
Doubtless he desired to be a benefactor to his country,
in honour to his family; and when Peter, deprecating




TIlL PROBLEM  OF LIFE SOLVED.       263
his dishonour and degradation, said, "be it far from
thee, Lord! this shall not be unto thee," and he turned
and said unto Peter, "get thee behind me, Satan, thou
savourest not the things that be of God, but those that
be of men," it has been beautifully suggested that the
very energy of that repulse to his enthusiastic and
admiring disciple, shows perhaps that he felt that there
was something in his mind that was leaning that.
way; that the things of men were contending with
the things of God in him; that he too much dreaded
the coming humiliation and agony, to wish to have
that feeling fostered in his heart.
But he rejected all this; he renounced himself, renounced all the dear affections and softer pleadings
of his affectionate nature, that he might be true to
higher interests than his own, or his country's, or his
kindred's.
Now I say that the same self-renunciation would relieve us of nmore than half of the difficulties and of the
diseased and painful affections of our lives. Simple
obedience to rectitude, instead of self-interest, simple
self-culture, instead of ever cultivating the good opinion
of others; how many disturbing and irritating questions would these single-hearted aims, take away from
cur bosom  meditations! Let us not mistake the
character of this self-renunciation. We are required,
not to renounce the nobler and better affections of our
natures, not to renounce happiness, not to renounce our
just dues of honour and love from men. It is remarkable that our Saviour, amidst all his meekness and all
his sacrifices, always claimed that he deserved well of
men, deserved to be honoured and beloved. It is not
to vilify ourselves. that is required of us; not to renounce our self-respect, the just and reasonable senso
of our merits and deserts; not to renounce our own




264             ON HUMAN LIFE.
righteousness, our own virtue, if we have any; such
falsehood towards ourselves gains no countenance from
the example of Jesus; but it is to renounce our sins,
our passions, our self-flattering delusions; and it is to
forego all outward advantages which can be gained
only through a sacrifice of our inward integrity, or
through anxious and petty contrivances and compliances. What we have to do, is to choose and keep the
better part; to secure that, and let the worst take care
of itself; to keep a good conscience, and let opinion
come and go as it will; to keep high, self-respect, and
to let low self-indulgence go; to keep inward happiness, and let outward advantages hold a subordinate
place. Self-renunciation, in fine, is, not to renounce
ourselves in the highest character; not to renounce our
moral selves, ourselves as the creatures and children
of God; herein rather it is to cherish ourselves, to
make the nmost of ourselves, to hold ourselves inexpressibly dear. What then is it precisely to renounce
ourselves? It is to renounce our selfishness; to have
done with this eternal self-considering which now disturbs and vexes our lives; to cease that ever asking
"and what shall we have?"-to be content with the
plenitude of God's abounding mercies; to feast upon
that infinite love, that is shed all around us and within us; and so to be happy. I see many a person, in
society, honoured, rich, beautiful, but wearing still an
anxious and disturbed countenance; many a one upon
whom this simple principle, this simple self-forgetting,
would bring a change in their appearance, demeanour,
and the whole manner of their living and being; a
change that would make them tenfold more beautiful,
rich and honoured.  Yes; strange as it may seem to
them; what they want, is, to commune  deeply, in
prayer and meditation, with the spirit of Jeslis, to be




THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED.    265
clothed, not with outward adorning, but with the simple self-forgetting, single-hearted truth and beauty of
his spirit. This is. the change, this is the conversion
that they want, to make them lovely and happy beyond all the aspirations of their ambition, and all
their dreams of happiness.
Have you never observed how happy is the mere
visionary schemer, quite absorbed in his plans, quite
thoughtless of everything else? Have you never remarked how easy and felicitous, is the manner in
society, the eloquence in the public assembly, the
whole life's action, of one who has forgotten himself?
For this reason in part it is, that the eager pursuit of
fortune is often happier than the after enjoyment of it;
for now the man begins to look about for happiness, anid
to ask for a respect and attention which he seldom satisfactorily receives; and many such are found, to the
wonder and mortification of their families, looking
back from their splendid dwellings, and often referring to the humble shop in which they worked; and
wishing in their hearts, that they were there again.
It is our inordinate self-seeking, self-considering, that
is ever a stumbling-block in our way. It is this which
spreads questions, snares, difficulties around us. It is
this that darkens the very ways of Providence to us,
and makes the world a less happy world to us, than
it might be. There is one thought that could take us
out from all these difficulties; but we cannot think it.
There is one clue fiom the labyrinth; there is one solution of this struggling philosophy of life within us;
it is found in that Gospel, that life of Jesus, with which
we have, alas! but little deep, heart-acquaintance.
Every one must know, that if he could be elevated to
that self-forgetting simplicity and disinterestedness, he
would be relieved from more than half of the inmost
23




266             ON HUMAN LIFE.
tr als of his bosom.'What then can be done for us
but that we be directed. and that too with a concern
as solemn as our deepest wisdom and welfare, to the
Gospel of Christ?  "In him  was life; and the life
was the light of men."
In him  was the life of perfect love. This is the
second all-enlightening, all-healing principle that the
Gospel of Christ commends to us. It is indeed the
main and positive virtue, of which self-renunciation is
but the negative side.
Again, I need not insist upon the pre-eminence of
this principle in the life of our Saviour. But I must
again remind you that this principle is not to be looked
upon as some sublime abstraction, as merely a love
that drew him from the bliss of heaven, to achieve
some stupendous and solitary work on earth. It was
a. vital and heartfelt love to all around him; it was affection to his kindred, tenderness to his friends, gentleness and forbearance towards his disciples, pity to the
suffering, forgiveness to his enemies, prayer for his
murderers; love flowing all round him as the garment
of life, and investing pain and toil and torture and
death, with a serene and holy beauty.
It is not enough to renounce ourselves, and there to
stop. It is not enough to wrap ourselves in our close
garment of reserve and pride, and to say, "the world
cares nothing for us, and we will care nothing for the
world; society does us no justice, and we will withdraw
from it our thoughts, and see how patiently we can live
within the confines of our own bosom, or in quiet conlmunion, through books, with the mighty dead." No
man ever found peace or light in this way. The misanthropic recluse is ever the most miserable of men,
whether he lives in cave or castle. Every relation to
mankind, of hate or scorn or neglect, is full of vexa



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE SOLVED.    267
tion and torment. There is nothing to do with men,
but to love them; to contemplate their virtues with
admiration, their faults with pity and forbearance, and
their injuries with forgiveness. Task all the ingenuity
of your mind to devise some other thing, but you never
can find it. To all the haughtiness and wrath of men,
I say-however they may disdain the suggestion-the
spirit of Jesus is the only help for you. To hate your
adversary will not help you; to kill him will not help
you; nothing within the compass of the universe can
help you, but to love him. Oh! how wonderfully is
man shut up to wisdom-barred, as I may say, and
imprisoned and shut up to wisdom; and yet he will
not learn it.
But let that love flow out upon all around you, and
what could harm you? It would clothe you with an
impenetrable, heaven-tempered armour. Or suppose,
to do it justice, that it leaves you, all defencelessness,
as it did Jesus; all vulnerableness, through delicacy,
through tenderness, through sympathy, through pity;
suppose that you suffer, as all must suffer; suppose
that you be wounded, as gentleness only can be wounded; yet how would that love flow, with precious healing, through every wound! How many difficulties
too, both within and without a man, would it relieve!
How many dull minds would it rouse; how many depressed minds would it lift up! How many troubles,
in society, would it compose; how many enmities
would it soften; how many questions, answer! How
many a knot of mystery and misunderstanding would
be untied by one word spoken in simple and confiding
truth of heart! How many a rough path would be
made smooth, and crooked way be made strait I How
many a solitary place would be made glad, if love were
there; and how many a dark dwelling would be filled




268             ON HUMAN LIFE.
with light! "In him was life, and the life was t e
light of men."
Once more: there was a sublime spirituality in the
mind of Jesus, which must come into our life, to fill up
the measure of its light. It is not enough in my view,
to yield ourselves to the blessed bonds of love and selfrenunciation, in the immediate circles of our lives.
Our minds must go into the infinite and immortal regions, to find sufficiency and satisfaction for the present
hour. There must be a breadth of contemplation in
which this world shrinks, I will not say to a point, but
to the narrow span that it is. There must be aims,
which reign over the events of life, and make us feel
that we can resign all the advantages of life, yea, and
life itself; and yet be " conquerors and more than conquerors through him who has loved us."
There is many a crisis in life when we need a faith
like the martyr's to support us. There are hours in
life like martyrdom-as full of bitter anguish, as full
of utter earthly desolation; in which more than our
sinews, in which we feel as if our very heart-strings
were stretched and lacerated on the rack of affliction;
in which life itself loses its value, and we ask to die;
in whose dread struggle and agony, life might drop
from us; and not be minded.  Oh! then must our cry,
like that of Jesus, go up to the pitying heavens for
help, and nothing but the infinite and the immortal
can help us. Calculate, then, all the gains of earth,
and they are trash; all its pleasures, and they are
vanity; all its hopes, and they are illusions; and then,
when the world is sinking beneath us, must we seek
the everlasting arms to bear us up, to bear us up to
heaven. Thus was it with our great Example, and
so must it be with us.  "In him was life;" the life of
self-renunciation, the life of love, the life of spiritual




THE PROBLEM  OF LIFE SOLVED.    269
and all-conquering faith; and that life is the light of
men. Oh! blessed light! come to our darkness; for
our soul is dark, our way is dark, for want of thee;
come to our darkness, and turn it into day; and let it
shine brighter and brighter, till it mingles with the
light of the all-perfect and everlasting day!
23*




XVIII.
ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE
[F IN THIS LIFE ONLY WE HAVE HOPE, WE ARE OF ALL MEN MOST MISERABLB.
I Cor. xv. 19.
THERE is a nation in modern times, of which it is
constantly said that it has no religion; that in this life
only has it hope. One is continually assured, not by
foreigners alone, but in that very country-I need not
say that I speak of France-that the people there
have no religion, that the religious sentiment has become nearly extinct among them.*
Although there is, doubtless, some exaggeration in
the statement, as would be very natural in a case so
very extraordinary, and the rather as the representation of it comes from  a people who are fond of appearing an extraordinary and wonderful people, and
of striking the world with astonishment; yet there is
still so much truth in the representation, and it is a
thing so unheard of in the history of all nations,
whether Heathen, Mahometan, or Christian, that one
is naturally led to reflect upon the problem which the
case presents for our consideration. Can a nation go
on without religion? Can a people live devoid of
every religious hope, without being of all people the
most miserable?  Can human nature bear such a
state? - This is the problem.
* Such is the language which I heard fourteen years ago in
France: but I trust, it is becoming every day less applicable.




RELIGION, TIlE GREAT SENTIMENT.   271
It is the more important to discuss this problem, because, the very spectacle of such a nation, has some
tendency to unhinge the faith of the world. The
thoughtless at least, the young perhaps, who are generally supposed to feel less than others, the necessity of
this great principle, may be led to say with themselves, " is not religion after all, an errol, a delusion, a
superstition, with which mankind will yet be able to
dispense? "   A part of my reply to this question I
propose to draw especially from the experience of the
young. For I think, indeed, that instead of this being
an age, when men, and the young especially, can afford to dispense with the aid and guidance of religion, it is an age which is witnessing an extraordinary
development of sensibility, and is urging the need of
piety beyond, perhaps beyond all former ages. The
circumstances, as I conceive, which have led to this
development, are the diffusion of knowledge, and the
new social relationships introduced by free principles.
But my subject, at present, does not permit me to enlarge upon these points.
Can the world, then, go on without religion? I will
not inquire nomw whether human governments can go
on. But can the human heart go on without religion?
Can all its resistless energies, its swelling passions, its
overburthening affections, be borne without piety?
Can it suffer changes, disappointments, bereavements,
desolations; ay, or can it satisfactorily bear overwhelming joy, without religion? Can youth and man
hood and age, can life and death, be passed through,
without the great principle which reigns over all the
periods of life, which triumphs over death, and is enthroned in the immortality of faith, of virtue, of truth,
and of God?
* The very opinion of the French Auguste Comte.




i72              ON HUMAN LIFE.
I answer, with a confidence that the lapse of a hundred nations into Atheism, could not shake, that it is
not possible: in the eye of reason and truth, that is
to say, it is not possible for the world, for the human
heart, for life, to go on without religion. Religion, naturally, fairly, rightly regarded, is the great sentiment
of life: and this is the point which I shall now endeavour to illustrate..What I mean by saying that religion is the great
sentiment of life, is this: that all the great and leading states of mind which this life originates or occasions in every reflecting person, demand the sentiment
of religion for their support and safety. Religion, I
am aware, is considered by many, as something standing by itself, and which a man may take as the companion of his journey, or not take, as he pleases;
and many persons, I know, calmly, some, it is possible, contemptuously, leave it to stand aside and by
itself, as not worthy of their invitation, or not worthy,
at any rate, of being earnestly sought by them. But
when they thus leave it, I undertake to say, that
they do not understand the great mental pilgrimage
on which they are going. If all the teachings of
nature were withdrawn, if Revelation were blotted
out, if events did not teach; yet the very experience
of life, the natural development of human feeling,
the history of every mind which, as a mind, has any
history, would urge it to embrace religion as an indispensable resort. There is thus, therefore, not only
a kind of metaphysical necessity in the very nature
of the mind, and a moral call in all its situations,
for religion; but there is wrapped up within the very
germs of all human experience, of all human feeling,
joyous or sorrowful; there is, attending the very development of all the natural affections, a want, a




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   273
need inexpressible, of the power of that divine prin
ciple.
Let us trace this want, this need, in some of the
different stages, through which the character usually
passes. Let us see whether this great necessity does
not press down upon every period of life, and even
upon its commencement; yes, whether upon the very
heart of youth, there are not already deep records of
experience, that point it to this great reliance.  I
have in a former discourse, spoken of the disappointments of youth; I now speak of its wants and dangers.
In youth then-that is to say, somewhere between
the period of childhood and manhood-there is commonly, a striking development of sensibility and imagination. The passions, then, if not more powerful
than at any other period, are at any rate more vivid,
because their objects are new: and they are then
most uncontrollable, because neither reason nor ex
perience have attained to the maturity necessary to
moderate and restrain them. The young have not
lived long enough, to see how direful are the effects
of unbridled inclination, how baseless are the fabrics
of ambition, how liable to disappointment are all the
hopes of this world. And therefore the sensibility of
youth, is apt to possess a character of strong excite:
ment and almost of intoxication. I never look upon
one at such a period, whose quick and ardent feelings mantle in the cheek at every turn, and flash in
the eye and thrill through the veins, and falter in
the hurried speech, in every conversation; yes, and
have deeper tokens, in. the gathering paleness of the
countenance, in speechless silence, and the tightening
chords of almost suffocating emotion; I never look
upon such an one, all fresh and alive, and yet unused,




274             ON HUMAN LIFE.
to the might and mystery of the power that is working
within; a being full of imagination too, living a life
but half of realities, and full half of airy dreams; a
being, whom a thousand things, afterwards to be regarded with a graver eye, now move to laughter or to
tears; I never look upon such an one-how is it possible to do so?-without feeling that one thing is needful; and that is,.the serenity of religion, the sobriety
and steadiness of deep-founded principle, the strong
and lofty aim of sacred virtue.
But the sensibility of youth, is not always joyous
nor enthusiastic. Long ere it loses its freshness or its
fascination, it oftentimes meets with checks and difficulties; it has its early troubles and sorrows. Some
disappointment in its unsuspecting friendships, some
school-day jealousy' or affliction, some jar upon the
susceptible nerves or the unruly passions, from the
treatment of kindred or fiiends or associates; or, at
a later period, some galling chain of dependence or
poverty or painful restraint; or else, the no less pain
ful sense of mediocrity, the feeling in the young heart
that the prizes of ambition are all out of its reach,
that praise and admiration and love all fall to the lot
of others; some or other of these causes, I say, brings
a cold blight over the warm and expanding affections
of youth, and turns the bright elysium of life, for a
season, into darkness and desolation. All this is not
to be described as if it were a mere picture; just
enough, perhaps, but to be considered no otherwise
than as a matter of youthful feeling, soon to pass away
and to leave no results. This state of mind has results. And the most common and dangerous is a fatal
recklessness. The undisciplined and too often selfish
heart says, "I do not care; I do not care what others
say or think of mne; I do not care how they treat me.




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   275
Those who are loved and praised and fortunate, are
no better than I am  the world is unjust; the world
knows me not: and I care not if it never knows me.
I will wrap myself in my own garment; let them call
it the garment of pride or reserve, it matters not; I
have feelings, and my own breast shall be their depository." Perhaps this recklessness goes farther, and
the misguided youth says, "I will plunge into pleasure; I will find me companions, though they be bad
ones; I will make my friends care for me in one way,
if they will not in another;" or he says, perhaps, " nobody cares for me, and therefore it is no matter what
I do."
My young friends, have you ever known any of
these various trials of youth? And, if you have, do
you think that you can safely pass through them, with
no better guidance than your own hasty and headstrong passions? Oh! believe it not. Passion is
never a safe impulse; but passion soured, irritated and
undisciplined, is least of all to be trusted. If in this
life only you have hope, if no influence from afar take
hold of your minds, if no aims stretching out to boundless and everlasting improvement strengthen and sustain you, if no holy conscience, no heavenly principle
sets up its authority among your wayward impulses,
you are indeed of all beings most to be pitied. Unhappy for you is all this ardour, this kindling fervour
of emotion, this throng of conflicting passions, this
bright or brooding imagination, giving a false colouring
and magnitude to every object; unhappy for you, and
all the more unhappy, if you do not welcome the sure
guidance, the strong control of principle, of piety, of
prayer.
But let us advance to another stage of life and of
feeling; to the maturity of life. And I shall venture




276             ON HUMAN LIFE
to say that where the mind really unfolds with growing years; where it is not absorbed in worldly gains
or pleasures, so as to be kept in a sort of perpetual
childhood; w.lere there is real susceptibility and reflection, there is apt to steal over us, without religion,
a spirit of misanthropy and melancholy. I have often
observed it, and without any wonder; for it seems to
me, as if a thoughtful and feeling mind, without any
trust in the great providence of God, without any communion of prayer with a Father in heaven, or any
religious, any holy sympathy with its earthly brethren,
or any cheering hope of their progress, must become
reserved, distrustful, misanthropic, and often melancholy.
Youth, though often disappointed, is yet always
looking forward; and it is looking forward with indefinite and unchecked anticipation. But in the progress
of life, there comes a time when the mind looks backward as well as forward; when it learns to correct the
anticipations of the future, by the experience of the
past. It has run through the courses of acquisition,
pleasure or ambition, and it knows what they are, and
what they are worth. The attractions of hope have
not, indeed, lost all their power, but they have lost a
part of their charm.
Perhaps, even the disappointment of youth, though
it has more of passion and grief in it, is not so bitter
and sad, as that of maturer life, when it says, " well,
and this is all. If I should add millions to my' stoce;
if I should reap new honours, or gain new pleasures,
it will only be what I have experienced before; I know
what it is; I know it all. There is no more in this
life; I know it all."  Ah! how cold and cheerless is
that period of human experience; how does the heart
of a man die within hir, as he stands thus in the very




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   277
nudst of his acquisitions; how do his very honours
and attainments teach him to mourn; and to mourn
without hope, if there is no spiritual hope! If the
great moral objects of this life, and the immortal regions of another life, are not spread before him, then
is he most miserable. Yes, I repeat, his very success,
his good fortune brings him to this. There are untoward circumstances, I know; there are afflictions that
may lead a man to religion; but what I now say, is,
that the natural progress of every reflecting mind,
however prosperous its fortunes, that the inevitable
development of the growing experience of life, unfolds,
in the very structuie of every human soul, that great
necessity, the necessity of religion.
This world is dark and must be dark, without the
light of religion; even as the material orb would be
dark without the light of Heaven to shine upon it.
As if', The bright Sun were extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless and pathless; and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;"
so would the soul, conscious of its own nature, be,
without the light of God's presence shining around it,
without those truths that beam like the eternal stars
from the depths of heaven; without those influences,
invisible and far off, like the powers of gravitation, to
hold it steadily in its orbit, and to carry it onward with
unerring guidance, in its bright career. And no philosopher, no really intellectual being, ever broke from
the bonds of all religious faith, without finding his
course dreary, "blind and blackening" in the spiritual
firmament.  His soul becomes, in the expressive language of Scripture, " like a wandering star, or a cloud
without water." No mean argument is this, indeed,
24




278              ON' HUMIAN LIFE.
for the great truths of religion. But whether it is so
or not, it is a fact. I know indeed that many persons
possessed of sense and talent in this world's affairs, do
live without religion, and ordinarily without. any painful consciousness of wanting it. But what do men of
mere sense and talent in this world's affairs, know of
the insatiable and illimitable desires of the mind?
What-what by very definition, as the votaries of
worldly good, are they pursuing?  Why, it is some
object about as far distant, in the bounded horizon of
their vision, as that which the painted butterfly is pursuing; some flower, some bright thing a little before
them; bright honour, or dazzling gold, or gilded pleasure. But let any mind awake to its real and sublime
nature; let it feel the expanding, the indefinite reaching forth of those original and boundless thoughts
which God has made it to feel; let it. sound those
depths, soar to those heights, compass those illimitable
heavens of thought, through which it was made to
range; and then let that mind tell me, if it can, that
it wants no religion; that it wants no central principle of attraction, no infinite object of adoration and
love and trust.  Nay, if any mind, whatever its pretensions, should tell me this, I should not hesitate in
my own judgment, to pronounce its acquisitions shallow, or at any rate partial, or at the best, technical and
scholastic. For it is not true, my brethren, that intellectual weakness most stands in need of religion, or is
most fitted to feel the need of it; but it is intellectual
strength. I hold no truth to be more certain than
this; that every mind, in proportion to its real development and expansion, is dark, is disproportioned,
and unhappy, without religion. If in this life alone it
has hope, it is of all minds most miserable.
I have spoken of youth and manhood as developing




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   279
the need of religion. Does age any less need it?
Where can that want exist if not in the aged heart?
It is not alone, that its pulses are faint and low; it is
not alone, that so many of its once cherished objects
have departed from it; it is not that the limbs are feeble, the eye dim and the ear dull of hearing; it is not
that the aged frame is bent towards that earth into
which it is soon to sink and find its last rest; but what
is the position of an old man? Where does he stand?
One life is passed through; one season of being is almost spent; youth has found, long since, the goal of its
career; manhood, at length, is gone; and he stands
-where, and upon what? What is it that spreads
before him? Is it a region of clouds and shadows?
Is all before him, dread darkness and vacuity, an
eternal sleep, a boundless void? Thus would it be
without religion, without faith! But how must he,
who stands upon that shore of all visible being, from
whence he can never turn back, how must he long for
some sure word of promise, for some voice, that can
tell him of eternal life, of eternal youth; of regions
far away in the boundless universe of God, where he
may wander on and onward forever! Age, with faith,
is but the beginning of life, the youth of immortality;
the times and seasons of its being are yet before it;
its gathered experience is but an education to prepare
it for higher scenes and services: but age, without
faith, is a wreck upon the shore of life, a ruin upon
the beetling cliffs of time; tottering to its fall, and
about to be engulfed, and lost forever!
I have thus attempted to show that religion is the
great sentiment of each period of life. Let me now
extend the same observation to those epochs in life.
which are occasioned by changes in that material creation which surrounds us.




280             ON HUMAN LIFE.
There are sentiments appropriate to the dying, and
to the reviving year. What are they? How striking
is the answer which is given in all literature and poetry! Men are able, no doubt, to walk through the
round of the seasons, without much reflection; but
the moment any sentiment is awakened, it is the sentiment of religion; it is a thoughtfulness about God's
wisdom and beneficence, about life and death and eternity. Thus it is that every poet of the seasons, every
poet of nature, is devout; devout in his meditations
when he writes, if not devout in his habits always.
And what man, in thoughtful mood, can walk forth
in the still and quiet season of Autumn, and tread upon
the seared grass that is almost painfully audible to the
serious emotions of his heart, and listen to the fall of
the leaf that seems, idle as it is, as if it were the footstep of some predestined event, and hear the far echo
of the hills and the solemn wind dirge of the dying
year; and not meditate in that hour; and not meditate upon things above the world and above all its
grosser cares and interests! "The dead, the loved,
the.lost" will come to him  then; the world will sink
like a phantom-shadow; and eternity will be a presence; and heaven, through the serene depths of those
opening skies, will be to him a vision.
But again, a change cometh! The seals of winter
are broken; and lo! the green herb and the tender
grass, and bird and blossom come forth; the clouds
dissolve into softness, and open the azure depths beyond; and man goeth forth from imprisoning walls,
and opens his bosom to the warmth and the breeze,
and feels his frame expand with gladness and exultation. Then what is lie, if from the kindling joy of his
heart arises no incense of gratitude! It is the hour of
nature's, and ought to be of man's thanksgiving. The




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   281
very stones would cry out; the green fields and the
rejoicing hills would cry out against him, if he were
not grateful. The sentiment of the spring-time, is the
sentiment of religious gratitude!
Let us look at other changes. There is a sentiment
of the morning. The darkness is rolled away from
the earth; the iron slumber of the world is broken; it
is the daily resurrection-hour of rejoicing millions.
God hath said again, "let there be light;" and over
the mountain-tops and over the waves of ocean it
comes, and streams in upon the waking creation.
Each morning that signal-light, calling to action, is at
thy window; duly it cometh, as with a message,
saying, " awake, arise!"  Thou wakest; from dreamy
slumbers, from helpless inactivity; and what dost thou
find? Hast thou lost any thing of thyself in that
slumber of forgetfulness? Hath not all been kept for
thee?  Hath there not been a watch over thy sleep?
Thou wakest; and each limb is filled with life; each
sense holds its station in thy wonderful frame; each
faculty, each thought is in its place; no dark insanity,
no dreary eclipse hath spread itself over thy soul.
What shall the thoughts of that hour be, but wondering and adoring thoughts? Well are a portion of our
prayers called matins. Morning prayers-morning
prayers; orisons in the first light of day, from the
bended soul, if not from the bended knee; were not
the morning desecrated and denied, if a part and
portion of it were not prayer?
And there is a sentiment of the eventide; when the
sun slowly sinks from our sight; when the shadows
steal over the earth; when the shining hosts of the
stars come forth; when other worlds and other regions
of the universe, are unveiled in the infinitude of
heaven. Then to meditate, how reasonable, I had al
24*




282             ON HUMAN LIFE.
most said how inevitable is it!  How meet w ereit
then, that in every house there should be a vesper.
hymn! I have read of such a scene in a village; in
some country-I think it was in Italy-where the
traveller heard, as the day went down, and amidst the
gathering shadows of the still evening, first fiom one
dwelling and then from another, the voices of songaccompanied with simple instruments, flute and flageolet; it was the vesper hymn. How beautiful were it,
in village or city, for dwelling thus to call to dwelling,
saying, "great and marvellous are thy works, Lord
God Almighty; just and true are thy ways; God of
the mornin g! God of the evening! we praise thee;
goodness and mercy hast thou caused to follow us all
our days."
Thus have I attempted to show that religion is the
great sentiment of life. It is our life. Our life is
bound up with it, and in it; and without it, life would
be both miserable and ignoble.
I will only add, in fine, that religion alone affords to
us the hope of a future life, and that without this our
present being is shorn of all its grandeur and hope.
Whether we look at our own death or at the death
of others, this consideration, this necessity of a faith
that takes hold of eternity, presses upon us. I know
very well what the common and worldly consolation is.
I know very well, the hackneyed proverb, that " time
is the curer of grief;"' but I know very well too, that
no time can suppress the sigh that is given to the loved
and lost. Time, indeed, lightens the constant pressure
of grief rather than blunts its edge; and still more
than either, perhaps, does it smooth over the outward;aspect of that suffering: but often when all is outwardly calm and even bright, does the conscious heart
say, " I hear a voice you cannot hear; I see a sign




RELIGION, THE GREAT SENTIMENT.   283
you cannot see;" and it pays the sad and dear tribute
of bereaved love. No, the memory of the beloved ones
parts not fri'om us, as its shadow passes from our coun
tenance. And who is there, around whose path such
memories linger, that will not say, "I thank God,
through our Lord Jesus Christ," through him who is
the revealed " resurrection and life;" through him who
said, " he that liveth and believeth in me, shall never
die?"  For now, blessed be God, we mourn not as
those who have no hope. But surely, dying creatures
as we are, and  living in a dying world, if in this
life only we had hope, we should of all beings be most
miserable.
In fine, my view of life is such, that if it were not
for my faith and hope, I should very little care what
became of it. Let it be longer or shorter, it would but
little matter, if all was to end when life ended; if all
my hopes and aspirations, and cherished joys, were to
be buried with me'forever, in the tomb. Oh! that life
of insect cares and pursuits, and of insect brevity! the
mind that God has given me could only cast a sad and
despairing look upon it, and then dismiss it, as not
worth a farther thought. But no such sad and shocking incongruity, is there, thanks be to God, in the well
ordered course of our being. The harmonies that are
all around us, in all animal, in all vegetable life, in
light and shade, in mountain and valley, in ocean and
stream; in the linked train of the seasons, in the moving
and dread array of all the heavenly hosts of worlds;
the harmonies of universal nature, but above all, the
teachings of the Gospel, assure us that no such shocking incongruity and disorder are bound up in the frame
of our nature.
No; it is true; that which we so much need to
support us, is true; God doth look down upon our




284             ON HUMAN LIFE.
humble path with the eye of paternal wisdom and
love; this universe is full of spiritual influences to
help us in the great conflict of life; there is a world
beyond in which we may assuredly trust. The heart,
full of weighty interests and cares, of swelling hopes
and aspirations, of thoughts too big for utterance, is
not given us merely that we may bear it to the grave,
and bury it there. From that sleeping dust shall rise
the free spirit, to endless life. Thanks-let us again
say and forever say-thanks be to God, who giveth us
this victory of an assured hope, through our Lord
Jesus Christ




XIX.
ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE.
~I HRATH MADE EVERY THING BEAUTIFUL IN ITS TIME. —Ecclesiastes Hi. 1L
IN my last discourse on human Life, I spoke of reli.
gion as the great, appropriate and pervading sentiment,
of life. The religion of life, by which I mean a different thing; the religion, the sanctity, the real, spiritual consecration naturally and properly belonging to
all the appointed occupations, cultivated arts, lawful
amusements and social bonds of life; this is the subject of my present discourse.
By most religiouls systems, this life, the life, that is,
which the world is leading, and has been leading
through ages, is laid under a dark and fearful ban.
"No religion " —is the summary phrase which is
written upon almost its entire history. Though it
is held by these very systems, that the world was
made for religion, made, that is to say, for the culture
of religion in the hearts of its inhabitants; yet it is
contended that this purpose has been almost entirely
frustrated.
First, the heathen nations, by this theory, are cut off
from all connection with real religion. Next, upon the
mass of Christian nations, as being unregenerate and
utterly depraved, the same sentence is passed.  I aml
not disposed, on this subject, to exact the full measure
of inference from  any mere theory.  Men's actual
views are often in advance of their creeds. But is it




286             ON hUMAN LIFE.
not very evident, as a third consideration, that the prevailing views of the world's life, very well agree with
the prevailing creeds? Is it not the common feeling,
that mankind in the mass, in the proportion of thousands to one, have failed to attain to anything of true
religion; to any, the least of that which fulfils the real
and great design of the Creator? Is it not commonly
felt that the mass of men's pursuits, of their occupations, of their pleasures, is completely severed firom this
great purpose?  In labour, in merchandise, in the
practice of law and of medicine, in literature, in sculpture, painting, poetry, music, is it not the constant
doctrine or implication of the pulpit, that there is no
religion, no spiritual virtue, nothing accordant with the
Gospel of Christ? Men, amidst their pursuits, may
attain to a divine life; but are not the pursuits themselves regarded, as having nothing, strictly speaking,
to do with such a life, as having in them no elements
of spiritual good, as having in them no tendency to
advance religion and goodness in the world?
This certainly, upon the face of it, is a very extraordinary assumption.  The pursuits in question, are
-some of them  necessary; others, useful; and all,
natural; that is to say, they are developments, and
inevitable and predestined developments of the nature
which God has given us. And yet it is maintained
and believed, that they have no tendency to promote
his great design in making the world; that they have
nothing in them allied to his purpose; that, at the
most, they are only compatible with it, and that the actual office which they discharge in the world, is to lead
men away from it. The whole, heaven-ordained activity, occupation, care, ingenuity of human life, is al
war with its great purpose.  And if any one would
seek the welfare of his soul, he is advised to leave all;




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.            287
the farmer, his plow; the merchant, his ships; the
lawyer, his briefs; and the painter his easel; and to
go to a revival-meeting, or a confessional, or to retire
to his closet. I need not say that I am not here objecting to meditation, to distinct, thoughtful and solemn
meditation, as one of the means of piety and virtue;
but I do protest against this ban and exclusion, which
are thus virtually laid upon the beneficent and religious instrumentalities of a wise and gracious Providence.
On the contrary, I maintain that every thing is beautiful in its time, in its place, in its appointed office;
that every thing which man is put to do, naturally
helps to work out his salvation; in other words, that
if he obey the genuine principles of his calling, he will
be a good man; and that it is only through disobedience to the heaven-appointed tasks, either by wandering into idle dissipation, or by violating their beneficent and lofty spirit, that he becomes a bad man.
Yes, if man would yield himself to the great training
of Providence in the appointed action of life, we should
not need churches nor ordinances; though they might
still be proper for the expression of religious homage
and gratitude.
Let us then look at this action of life, and attempt
to see what is involved in it, and whether it is all alien,
as is commonly supposed, to the spirit of sacred truth
and virtue.
I. And the first sphere of visible activity which presents itself, is labour; the business of life, as opposed
to what is commonly called study. I have before
spoken of the moral ministration of labour; but let us,
in connexion with this subject, advert to it again.
My subject in this discourse is the religion of life;
and I now say that there is a religion of toil. It is not




2S8             ON HUMAN LIFE.
all drudgery, a mere stretching of the limbs and straining of the sinews to tasks. It has a meaning. It has
an intent. A living heart pours life-blood into the toiling arm. Warm affections mingle with weary tasks.
I say not how pure those affections are, or how much
of imperfection may mix with them; but I say that
they are of a class, held by all men to be venerable
and dear; that they partake of a kind of natural
sanctity. They are, in other words, the home affections. The labour that spreads itself over tilled acres,
all points, for its centre, to the country farm-house.
The labour that plies its task in busy cities, has the
same central point, and thither it brings daily supplies.
And when I see the weary hand bearing that nightly
offering; when I see the toiling days-man, carrying to
his home the means of support and comfort; that offering is sacred to my thought, as a sacrifice at a
golden shrine. Alas! many faults there are, amidst
the toils of life; many hasty and harsh words are
spoken; but why do those toils go on at all? Why
are they not given up entirely; weary and hard and
exasperating as they often are? Because in that home,
is sickness, or age, or protected though helping womlan,
to be provided for. Because that there, is helpless infancy or gentle childhood, that must not want.
Such are the labours of life; and though it is true
that mere selfishness, mere solitary need would prompt
to irregular and occasional exertion, or would push
some ambitious persons, of covetous desires, to continued and persevering effort; yet I am persuaded,
that the selfish impulses would never create that scene
of labour, which we behold around us.
Let us next look at the studious professions.
And I must confess that I have often been struck
with surprise that a physician could be an undevout




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.           289
man. His study, the human frame, is the most wonderful display of divine wisdom in the world; the most
astonishing proof of contrivance, of providence. Fearfully and wonderfully is it made; and if he who contemplates it, is not a reverent and heaven-adoring
man, he is false to the very study that he calls his own.
He reads a page, folded from the eyes of most men, a
page of wondrous hieroglyphics; that handwriting of
nerves and sinews and arteries; darkly he reads it,
with a feeling enforced upon him  that there is a wisdom above and beyond him; and if he is not a religiously inquiring and humble man, it seems to rie
that he knows not what he reads. Then again it is his
office to visit scenes, where he is most especially taught
the frailty of life, the impotence of man, and the need
of a divine helper; where the strong man is bowed
down by an invisible blow to debility, to delirium, to
utter helplessness; where the dying stretch out their
hands to heaven for aid, and to immortality for a reliance; where affliction, smitten to the dust and stript of
all earthly supports, plainly declares that no sufficient
resource is left for it, but Almighty Goodness. I do not
say, that there is any thing in the physician's calling
which necessarily makes him a religious and good
man; but I do say, that if he obeys the true spirit of
his calling, he must be led to the formation of such
a character, as the inevitable result.
Turn next to the vocation of the lawyer; and what
is it?  It is to contribute his aid to the establishment
and vindication of justice in the world. But what is
justice? It is rectitude, righteousness. It is the right
between man and man; and as an absolute quality, it
is the high attribute of God. The lawyer may fall
below this aim and view of his vocation; but that is
not the fault of his vocation. His vocation is most
25




290              ON HUMAN LIFE.
moral, most religious; it connects him, most emphati.
cally, with God; he is the minister of Almighty justice. In the strictest construction of things, the clergyman is not more truly God's minister, than he is.
I know that the prevailing view is a different one. I
know that the world looks upon this profession, as altogether irreligious, or altogether un-religious at the
best. To say that the lawyer, however legitimately
employed, is most religiously employed, sounds in
most ears like mockery, I suppose. But let us look at
his function, and let us put it in the most doubtful
light. He goes up to the court of justice to plead the
cause of his client. All the day long, he is engaged
with examining witnesses, sifting evidence, and wrangling, if you please, for points of evidence and construction and law. He may commit mistakes, no doubt.
He may err, in temper or in judgment. But suppose
that his leading aim, his wish, is to obtain justice.
And it is a very supposable thing, even though he be
on the wrong side. He goes into the case, and he
goes up to the court, not knowing what the right is,
what the evidence is. He strenuously handles and
sifts the evidence, to help on towards the right conclusion.  Or if you say, it is to help his view of the case;
still his function ministers to the same thing. For the
conclusion is not committed to him; it lies with the
judge and the jury; his office is ministerial; and he
is to put forward every fair point on his side, as his opponent will, on the other side, because these are the
very means, nay, the indispensable means, for coming
to a righteous decision. And I say, that if he does this
fairly and honestly, with a feeling of true self-respect,
honour and conscience; with a feeling that God's justice reigns in that high tribunal; then he is acting a
religious part; he is leading, that day, a religious life.




THE RELIGION OF LIFE             291
If righteousness, if justice is any part of religion, he
is doing so. No matter whether during all that day,
lhe has once appealed, in form or in terms, to his conscience or not; no matter whether he has once spoken
of religion and of God, or not; if there has been the inward appeal, the inward purpose, the conscious intent
and desire that justice, sacred justice should triumph,
he has that day, led a good and religious life: and
certainly, he has been making a'most essential contribution to that religion of life and of society, the cause
of equity between man and man, of truth.and righteousness in the world.
There are certain other pursuits of an intellectual
character, which require to be noticed in this connection; those, I mean, of literature and the arts. And
the question here, let it be borne in mind, is not whether
these pursuits are always conducted upon the highest
principles; but whether they are in their proper nature
and in their justest and highest character, religious and
good; whether between these functions and religion
*there is any natural affinity; whether or not in their
legitimate tendency, they are helping to work out the
world's salvation from vice and sin, and spiritual
misery. And certainly, to him who is looking with
any anxiety to the great moral end of Providence, this
is a very serious question. For in these forms, of literature and art, the highest genius of the world is usually revealed. The cost of time and money to which
they put the world, is not a small consideration. The
laboured works of art and the means lavished to obtain
them; the writing, printing, selling and reading of
books; all this presents one of the grandest features
of our modern civilization. But the cost of mental
labour is more than this; it is of the very life-blood
of the world. This great power of comnm'unication




292              ON HUMAN LIFE.
2with men, is not only working, and putting in requisi
tion, much of the labour and time of the world; but
it is often working painfully, and is wasting the noblest
strength, in its strenuous toils. In silent and solitary
places, genius is often found, consuming away in the
fires which it has kindled. And now the question is:
on what altars, are these priceless offerings laid?
Let it be considered then, in answer to this question,
how few statues, paintings or books, have any bad design. Point me to one in an hundred, to one in a thousand or ten thousand that recommends vice.  What
then do they inculcate? Surely it is virtue, sanctity,
the grandeur of the spiritual part of man. What do
we see in these works? It is in sculpture, the fearful
beauty of the god of Light, or-the severe majesty of
the Hebrew law-giver, or the solemn dignity of the
Christ. It is in painting, some form of moral loveli-.
ness,: some saint in the rapture of devotion, or a
Christian, constant, serene, forgiving, victorious in the
agonies of martyrdom.  It is, in writing, in fiction, in
poetry, in the drama, some actor or sufferer, nobly sustaining himself amidst temptations, difficulties, conflicts and sorrows, holding on his bright career through
clouds and storms, to the goal of virtue and of heaven!
Of course, I do not say that there are no moral defects
in these representations; but most certain it is, nevertheless, that the highest literature and art of every age,
embody its highest spiritual ideal of excellence. And
even when we descend from their higher manifestations and find them simply amusing, there is nothing
in this that is hostile to religion. Men must have recreation; and literature and art furnish that which is
most pure, innocent and refining. They are already
drawing away multitudes from coarser indulgences,
and from places of low and vile resort. And the thea



THE RELIGION OF LIFE.           293
tle, were it purged from certain offensive appendages,
might be one of the most admirable ministrations conceivable, to the recreation and entertainment of the
people. Nay, a great actor, as well as a great dramatist, in the legitimate walk of his art, may be a most
effective and tremendous preacher of virtue to the
people.
But, to go again to the main'point' I must strenuously maintain, that books, to be of religious tendency, to be ministers to the general piety and virtue, need
not be books of sermons, nor books of pious exercises,
nor books of prayers. These all have their great and
good office to discharge; but whatever inculcates pure
sentiment, whatever touches the heart with the beauty
of virtue and the blessedness of piety, is in accordance
with religion; and this is the Gospel of literature and
art. Yes, and it is preached from many a wall, it is
preached from many a book, ay, from many a poem
and fiction and Review, and Newspaper; and it would
be a painful error, and a miserable narrowness, not to
recognise these wide-spread agencies of heaven's providing, not to see and welcome these many-handed
coadjutors, to the great and good cause. Christianity
has, in fact, poured a measure of its own spirit into
these forms; and not to recognise it there, is to deny
its own specific character and claim. There are reli
gious books indeed, which may be compared to the
solid gold of Christianity; but many of its fairest
gems have their setting in literature and art; and if't is a pitiable blindness, not to see its beautiful spirit
even when it is surrounded by ignorance and poverty,
what must it be not to recognise it, when it is set in
the richest frame-work that human genius, imagination and art can devise for it?
There is one of the arts of expression, which I have
25*




294             ON HUMAN LIFE.
not mentioned; which sometimes seems to me a finer
breathing-out of the soul than any other, and which
certainly breathes a more immediate and inspiring tone
into the heart of the world than any other; I mean
music. Eloquent writing is great; eloquent speaking
is greater; but an impromptu burst of song, or strain
of music, like one of old Beethoven's voluntaries, I am
inclined to say, is something greater. And now when
this wonderful power, spreads around its spell, almost
like inspiration; when, celebrating heroism, magnanimity, pity or pure love, it touches the heart with rapture and fills the eye with tears; is it to be accounted
among things profane or irreligious? Must it be heard
in church, to be made a holy thing? M Iust the words
of its soul-thrilling utterance, be the technical words
of religion, grace, godliness, righteousness, in order to
mean anything divine? No, the vocation of the really
great singer, breathing inspirations of truth and tenderness- into the mind, is as holy as the vocation of the
great preacher. In our dwellings, and in concertrooms, ay, and in opera-houses —so the theme be pure
and great-there is preaching, as truly as in church
walls.
My brethren, give me your patience, if I must suppose that what I am saying, needs it. Do but consider
what the great arts of mental and moral communication, express. Are they not oftentimes, the very same
qualities that you revere in religion? Are goodness,
pity, magnanimous self-sacrifice and heroic virtue,
less divine, because they are expressed in literature,
in painting or in song? And when you are moved to
admiration, to tears, at some great example of heroism
or self-sacrifice-be it by music or dramatic representation,-and when the same thing moves you in preach,
ing; are you entirely to distinguish between the cases;




TI-IHE RELIGION OF LIFE.         295
and to say that the one feeling is profane and the
other holy?
Observe that I do not ask you to revere religion less,
but to see and to welcome new, and perhaps before unthought of, instruments and agencies in the great field.
You fear, perhaps, that they are not altogether pure.
Then, I say, cut off and cast away the bad part; I
plead not for that; but none the less accept the good.
Nay, and I might ask, is religious teaching itself, all
pure, all right? Indeed, I think that religion and religious teaching, have been as much perverted and
abused as labour, literature or art.
It is every way most injurious and unjust to brand
every thing as irreligious that is not specifically devoted to religion; to deny and as it were to forbid, to
work any good work, those who "follow not after us."
Our Saviour rebuked his disciples in such a case; saying, forbid them not; " he that is not against me, is for
me."  It is a bigotry totally unworthy of the generous
and glorious Gospel, to hold in utter distrust and desecration all the beneficent activities of the world, all its
kindly affections, all the high purposes and sentiments
that live both in its physical and mental toils, because
they do not come within the narrow pale of a technical
religion; because they are not embraced in the mystic
secret of what is called religious experience. All men
are experiencing, more or less, what. the Christian is experiencing. If his experience is higher and more perfect, is that a reason why he shall disdain and reject
every thing that is like it in others? As well might the
sage, the.philosopher repudiate and scorn all the common sense and knowledge of the world. If he does so,
we call him a bigoted and a scholastic philosopher.
And if the Christian does so, we must call him a bigoted
and mystic Christian. And, let me add, that if he were




296            ON HUMAN LIFE.
a generous and lofty-minded Christian, I cannot conceive
what could be more distressing and mournful to him,
than to hold all human existence, with the exception
of his little peculiarity, to be a dark and desolate waste;
to see all beside, as a gloomy mass of ignorance, error
sin and-sorrow. It is the reproduction, on Christian
ground, of the old Jewish exclusion and bigotry.
II. Let us now extend our view to another department of human life, recreation: and let us see whether
we cannot embrace this within the great bond of religion; whether we cannot reclaim another lost territory
to the highest service of man.
The isles of refreshment; the gardens and bowers
of recreation; the play-grounds for sport; somewhere
must they lie embosomed in this great world of labour;
for man cannot always toil. Place for mirth and
gayety, and wit and laughter; somewhere must it be
found; for God hath made our nature to develop these
very things. Is not this sufficient to vindicate the
claim of recreation to be part of a good and religious life?
But let us look at the matter in another light. Suppose the world of men were created, and created in
full maturity, but yesterday: and suppose it to be a
world of beings, religious, devout, and devoutly grateful and good. The first employment that engages it,
as a matter of necessity and of evident appointment
too, is labour. But after some days or weeks of toil,
it becomes acquainted with a new fact. It finds that
incessant toil is impracticable; that it is breaking
down both mind and body; in fact, that neither body
nor mind was made for it. In short, the necessity of
recreation becomes manifest. What then, under this
view of the case, would men do? Social, and socially
inclined, especially in their lighter engagements, would
they not very naturally say, " let us devise games and




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.           297
sports, let us have music and dancing; let us listen tc
amusing recitations or dramatic stories of life's gayety
or grandeur; and let us obey these tendencies and
wants of our nature, in ever-kept, grateful veneration
and love of Him who has made us." And if all this
were followed out, in primeval innocence, with a religious devoutness and gratitude, I suppose that every
objection to it would be removed from the minds of the
most scrupulous.
The objection, then, lies against the abuse of these
things. But what is the proper moral business of such
an objection? Is it to extirpate the things in question?
It cannot. Games, gayeties, sports, spectacles, there
will be; as long as man have limbs or eyes or ears.
It is no factitious choice which the world has made of
its amusements.  It chose them because it wanted
them. The development here, is as natural as it is
in the arts. You might as well talk of extirpating
music and painting, as of driving the common amusements out of the world. Shall the religious objection
then, since it cannot destroy, proceed to vilify these
amusements?  What! vilify an ordinance of nature,
a necessity of Dman, a thing that cannot be helped?
Is this the wisdom of religion; to degrade what it
cannot destroy; to make of that which it cannot prevent, the worst that can be made; to banish alike
from its protection and remedy, that which it cannot banish firom the world? There lies the garden of recreation,
close by the field of labour! and they cannot be severed;
and men must and will pass fiom one to the other;
and is it the office of religion to curse that garden, to
pronounce it unholy ground, and so to give it up to
utter levity or license? Nay, can any thing be plainer
than that it is the business of religion to reform the
amusements of the day? Reform, I believe, is the




298            ON HUMAN LIFE.
only measure that can be taken with the theatre; for
that which has its root in thenatural tastes, customs
and literature of all civilized ages, is not likely to be
eradicated. But how is any thing to be reformed?
By invective, by opprobrium, by heaping contempt
upon it?  By casting it out from the pale of good
influences, by withdrawing good men fiom all contact
with it, by consigning it over to the irreligion, frivolity
and self-indulgence of the world? Surely not. And
therefore I am anxious to show that recreation must
come within the plan of good life, and hence to show
that it is not to be snatched as a forbidden pleasure;
not to be distorted by the hand of reckless license
but to be welcomed, ay, and consecrated, by calm,
conscientious, rational enjoyment
The objection I am considering, is, that the common
and chosen recreations of the world, are abused. If
they were pure and innocent, it would have nothing
to say. But what is not abused? Is not business,
is not religion itself abused? Are they therefore to be
denounced and driven away from the sight of man?
The objection carried out, would reduce the whole
world to dead silence and inaction. But this cannot
be tolerated. We must work; and we must do business; and we must relax into gayety and sportiveness,
when our work is done.  Improvements may be
introduced into each sphere of action, and have
been all along, through ages; but the sphere must
remain; and it must remain essentially the same.
You can no more get men to amuse themselves in
some entirely new manner, than you can get them to do
business, or to draw deeds, or to labour upon the arts.
in some entirely new manner. I tell the ascetic religionist that there will be gayety and laughter; there
will be assemblies and music and dancing  ay, and,




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.            299
as I think, cards and theatres,. as long as the world
stands. Whether he like it or not; whether I like
it or not; it cannot be helped.
Now there are abuses of these things. What are
we to say of the abuses?  "Let them crush down
and destroy the things themselves," do we say? But
they cannot. Then let them be cut off. There is really
nothing else to be done. Elevate, refine, purify the
public amusements. Let religion recognise and restrain
them. Let it not, as is too common, drive them to license and extravagance; but let it throw around them
its gentle and holy bonds, to make them pure, cheerful, healthful; healthful to the great ends of life.
What a blessed thing for the world, were it, if its
amusements could thus be rescued, redeemed, and
brought into the service of its virtue and piety! What
a blessed thing for the weary world, for the youthful
world, for the joyous' world, if the steps of its recreation, trodden in cheerful innocence and devout gratitude, could be ever leading it to heaven!
I have now considered two great departments of
life; labour, physical and mental, and recreation.
My design has been, to rescue them from the common
imputation of being necessarily or altogether worldly
or ilreligious; to resist the prevailing notion, that all true
religion, all true spiritual goodness, is gathered up in
certain and (so-called) sacred professions, peculiarities
and places; to show that in all the heaven-ordained
pursuits and conditions of life, there are elements of
good; that the Spitrit is breathing its gracious influence
through the world; that there is a religion of life, unrecognised in our ordinary religious systems, but real and
true, and either worthy of our welcome and admiration.
or when defective or wrong, worthy of our endeavour tc
correct and improve it.




300             ON HUMAN LTIF'E.
III. But, once more, there is a religion of society.
This topic, let me observe, is essentially distinct
from those which I have already discussed. It is true
that our labour and recreation are mostly social; but
in the social bond, there is something more than the
business or the amusement which takes advantage of
it. It has a holiness, a grandeur, a sweetness of its
own. The world, indeed, is encircled by that bond.
And what is it? In business, there is something more
than barter, exchange, price, payment; there is a
sacred faith of man in man.'When you know one in
whose integrity you repose perfect confidence; when
you feel that he will not swerve from conscience for
any temptation; that integrity, that conscience is the
image of God to you; and when you believe in it, it
is as generous and great an act, as if you believe in
the rectitude of heaven. In gay assemblies for amusement again; not instruments of music, not rich
apparel, not sumptuous entertainments, are the chief
things; but the gushing and mingling affections of
life. I know what is said, and may be truly said, of
selfishness and pride and envy in these scenes; but
I know too, that good affections go up to these gathering places, or they would be as desolate as the spoilclad caves and dens of thieves and robbers. Look at
two kind-hearted acquaintances meeting in those
places, or meeting in the market or on the exchange;
and see the warm pressure of the hand, the kindling
of the eye, the suffusion of the whole countenance
with heartfelt gladness; and tell me if there is not a
religion between those hearts; and true love and
worshipping, in each other, of the true and good. It
is not policy that spreads such a charm around that
meeting, but the halo of bright and beautiful affection.
It hangs, like the soft enfolding sky, over all the




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.           301
world, over all places where men meet, and toil or
walk together; not over lovers' bowers and marriage
altars alone, not over the homes of purity and tenderness alone-yet these are in the world-but over all
tilled fields, and busy workshops, and dusty highways,
and paved streets. There is not a trodden stone upon
these side-walks, but it has been an altar of such
offerings of mutual kindness. There is not a wooden
pillar nor an iron railing, against which throbbing
hearts have not leaned.  True, there are other
elements in the stream of life, that is flowing through
these channels. But will any one dare to deny that
this element is here and every where; honest, heartfelt, disinterested, inexpressible affection? If he dare,
let him do so, and then confess that he is a brute or a
fiend, and not a man. But if this element is here,
is every where, what is it?
To answer this question, let us ask, what is God?
And the Apostle answers, " God is love." And is not
this, of which we have been speaking, love; true:
pure love? Deny it, and bear upon your head, the
indignation of all mankind.  But admit it; and
what do you admit? That God's love is poured into
human hearts. Yes, into human hearts! Oh! sad,
sad-frail, erring, broken, are they often; yet God's
spirit is breathing through them; else were they despoiled, desolate, crushed, beyond recovery, beyond
hope. It is that same spirit of love that enshrines the
earth and enrobes the heavens with beauty; and if
there were not an eye of love to see it, a heart of love
to feel it, all nature would be the desolate abode of
creatures as desolate.
I know full well, alas! that there are other things
in life besides love. I know that in city streets, not far
removed from us, are depths beneath depths of sorrow
26




302             ON HUMAN LIFE.
and sin; that in cellars beneath cellars, and in stories
above stories, are crowded  together poverty and
wretchedness and filth and vileness. Oh! desolate
and dreary abodes; where, through the long bright
day, only want and toil and sorrow knock at all your
gates, only blows of passion and shrieks of children,
and cursings of drunkenness and oaths of the profane,
measure out the heavy hours!-are there no hearts tc
bleed for you? Are there no energies of love to
interpose for you? Shall the stream of glad and prosperous life flow so near you, and never come to cleanse
out your impurities and heal your miseries?  Nay, in
that stream of glad and joyous life, I know that there
are ingredients of evil; the very ingredients indeed
that prevent a consummation so blessed.  I know
that amidst gay equipages, selfishness is borne; and
that amidst luxurious entertainments pride is nursed
and sensuality gorged; and that through fair and
fair-seeming assemblies, envy steals, and hatred and
revenge spread their wiles; and that many a bad
passion casts its shade over the brightest atmosphere
of social life. All this I know. I do not refuse to see
the evil that is in life. But tell me not that all is evil.
I still see God in the world. I see good amidst the
evil. I see the hand of mercy often guiding the chariot
of wealth to the abodes of poverty and sorrow. I see
truth and simplicity amidst many wiles and sophistries.
There is a habit of berating fashionable life, which is
often founded more in ignorance than ill-will. Those
who know better, know thr t there is good every where.
I see good hearts beneath gay robes; ay, and beneath
tattered robes, too. I see love clasping the hand of
love, amidst all the envyings and distortions of showy
competition; and I see fidelity, piety, sympathy, holding the long night-watch, by the bed-side of a suffer



THE RELIGION OF LIFE.           303:ng neighbour, amidst all surrounding poverty and
misery.  God bless the kindly office, the pitying
thought, the loving heart, wherever it is!-and it is
every where!
Why, my Brethren, do I insist upon this? Why do
I endeavour to spread life before you in a new light;
in a light not recognised by most of our religious systems? I will endeavour, in few words, to tell you.
I am made to be affected, in many respects, by the
consciousness of what is passing around me, but especially in my happiness and my improvement. I am
more than an inhabitant of the world; I am a sympathizing member of the great human community. Its
condition comes as a blessing, or weighs as a burthen,
upon my single thought. It is a discouragement or
an excitement, to all that is good and happy within
me. If I dwell in this world as in a prison; if the
higher faith, the religion of my being, compels me to
regard it in this light; if all its employments are prison
employments, mere penal tasks or drudgeries to keep
its tenants out of mischief; if all its ingenious handicrafts are but prison arts and contrivances to while
away the time; if all its relations are prison relations,
relations of dislike or selfishness, or of compact and
cunning in evil; if the world is such a place, it must
be a gloomy and unholy place, a dark abode, a wilderness world: yes, though its walls were built of massive
gold and its dome were spread with sapphire and studded with diamond-stars, I must look upon it with sadness; I must look upon its inhabitants with coldness,
distrust and disdain. It is a picture which I have
drawn; but it is mainly a picture of the world as
viewed by the prevailing religion of our time. Nay,
more; from this prison, it deems that, thousands are
daily carried to execution-plunged into a lake of fire




304             ON HfUMAN LIFE.
-there to burn forever. And if the belief of its v )taries actually came ulp to its creed, gayety and joyousness
in such a world, would be more mIisplaced and shocking a thousand times, than they would be in the
gloomiest penitentiary that ever was builded. Is this
fair and bright world is God's world, such a place?
If it is, I am sure that it was not made for any rational
and reflective happiness; but mountain to mountain,
and continent to continent, and age to age, should
echo nothing but sighs and groans.
But if this world, instead of being a prison, is a
school; if all its appointed tasks are teachings; if all
its ordained employments are fit means for improvement, and all its proper amusements are the good
recreations of virtuous toil and endeavour; if, however
perverse and sinful men are, there is an element of
good in all their lawful pursuits, and a diviner breathing in all their lawful affections; if the ground whereon
they tread is holy ground; if there is a natural religion of life, answering, with however many a broken
tone, to the religion of nature; if there is a beauty
and glory of humanity, answering, with however
many a mingled shade, to the loveliness of soft landscapes and embosoming hills and the overhanging
glory of the deep, blue heavens; then all is changed.
And it is changed not more for happiness than it is
for virtue.
For then do men find that they may be virtuous,
improving, religious, in their employments; that this
is precisely what their employments were made for.
Then will they find that all their social relationsfriendship, love, family ties-were made to ae holy.
Then will they find that they may be religious, not by
a kind of protest and resistance against their several
vocations, but by conformity to their true spirit; that




THE RELIGION OF LIFE.             305
their vocations do not exclude religion, but demand it
for their own perfection; that they may be religious
labourers, whether in field or factory; religious physicians and lawyers; religious sculptors, painters and
musicians; that they may be religious in all the toils
and amusements of life; that their life may be a religion; the broad earth, its altar; its incense, the very
breath of life; and its fires kindled, ever kindled by
the brightness of heaven.
26*




XX.
THE VOICES OF THE DEAD
AiND BY IT, HE BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH. —Hebrews xi.,.
THIS is a record of virtue that existed six thousand
years ago; but which yet liveth in its memory, and
speaketh in its example.  " Abel, it is written, offered
unto God a more excellent' sacrifice than Cain, by
which he obtained witness, that he was righteous, God
testifying of his gifts; and by it, he being dead, yet
speaketh." How enduring is the memorial of goodness! It is but a sentence, which is read in a moment;
it is but a leaf from the scroll of time; and yet, it is
borne on the breath of ages; it takes the attributes
of universality and eternity; it becomes a heritage,
from family to family, among all the dwellings of the
world.
But it is not Abel alone, the accepted worshipper
and martyred brother, that thus speaks to us. The
world is filled with the voices of the dead. They
speak not from the public records of the great world
only, but from the private history of our own experience. They speak to us in a thousand remembrances,
in a thousand incidents, events, associations. They
speak to us, not only from their silent graves, but from
the throng of life. Though they are invisible, yet life
is filled with their presence.  They are with us, by the
silent fireside and in the secluded chamber: they are
with us in the paths of society, and in the crowded




VOICES OF THE DEAD.             307
assemblies of men. They speak to us from the lonely
way-side; and they speak to us, from the venerable
walls that echo to the steps of a multitude, and to the
voice of prayer. Go where we will, the dead are with
us. We live, we converse with those, who once lived
and conversed with us. Their well-reinernbered tone
mingles with the whispering breezes, with the sound
of the falling leaf, with the jubilee shout of the springtime. The earth is filled with their shadowy train.
But there are more substantial expressions of the
presence of the dead with the living. The earth is
filled with the labours, the works, of the dead. Almost all the literature in the world, the discoveries
of science, the glories of art, the ever-enduring temples,
the dwelling-places of generations, the comforts and
improvements of life, the languages, the maxims, the
opinions of the living, the very frame-work of society,
the institutions of nations, the fabrics of empire-all
are the works of the dead: by these, they who are dead
yet speak. Life; busy, eager, craving, importunate,
absorbing life; yet what is its sphere, compared with
the empire of death! What, in other words, is the
sphere of visible, compared with the vast empire of
invisible, life! A moment in time; a speck in immensity; a shadow amidst enduring and unchangeable
realities; a breath of existence amidst the ages and
regions of undying life! They live-they live indeed,
whom  we call dead. They live in our thoughts;
they live in our blessings; they live in our life: "death
hath no power over them."
Let us then meditate upon those, the mighty company of our departed brethren, who occupy such a
space in the universe of being. Let us meditate upon
their relation, their message, their ministry, to us. Let
us look upon ourselves in this relation, and see what




308             ON HUMAN LIFE.
we owe to the dead. Let us look upon the earth, and
see if death hath not left behind its desolating career,
some softer traces, some holier imprint, than of destruction.
I. What memories, then, have the dead left among
u.s, to stimulate us to virtue, to win us to goodness?
The approach to death often prepares the way for
this impression. The effect of a last sickness to develop and perfect the virtues of our friends, is often
so striking and beautiful, as to seem  more than a
compensation for all the sufferings of disease. It is
the practice of the Catholic Church to bestow upon
its eminent saints, a title to the perpetual homage of
the faithful, in the act of canonization.. But what is
a formal decree, compared with the effect of a last
sickness, to canonize the virtue that we love, for eternal
remembrance and admiration? How often does that
touching decay, that gradual unclothing of the mortal
body, seem to be a putting on of the garments of immortal beauty and life! That pale cheek, that placid
brow, that sweet serenity spread over the whole countenance; that spiritual, almost supernatural brightness
of the eye, as if light from another world already shone
through it; that noble and touching disinterestedness
of the parting spirit, which utters no complaint, which
breathes no sigh, which speaks no word of fear nor
apprehension to wound its friend, which is calm, and
cheerful, and natural, and self-sustained, amidst daily
declining strength and the sure approach to death;
and then, at length, when concealment is no longer
possible, that last firm, triumphant, consoling discourse,
and that last look of all mortal tenderness and immortal trust; what hallowed memories are these to
soothe, to purify, to enrapture surviving love!
Death, too, sets a seal upon the excellence, that




VOICES OF THE DEAD.              309
sickness unfolds and consecrates.  There is no living
v'rtue, concerning which, such is our frailty, we must
not fear that it may fall; or at least, that it may
somewhat fail from its steadfastness. It is a painful,
it is a just fear, in the bosoms of the best and purest
beings on earth, that some dreadful lapse may come
over them, or over those whom they hold in the highest
reverence. But death, fearful, mighty as its power, is
yet a power, that is subject to virtue.  It gives victory
to virtue. It brings relief to the heart, from its profoundest fear.  It enables us to say, " now all is safe!
The battle is fought; the victory is won.  The course
is finished; the race is run; the faith is kept: henceforth, it is no more doubt nor danger, no more temptation nor strife; henceforth is the reward of the just,
the crown which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will
give!' Yes, death, dark power of earth though it
seem, does yet ensphere virtue, as it were, in heaven.
It sets it up on high, for eternal admiration. It fixes
its places never more to be changed; as a star to
shine onward, and onward, through the depths of the
everlasting ages!
In life there are many things which interfere with a
just estimate of the virtues of others.  There are, in
some cases, jealousies and misconstructions, and there
are false appearances; there are veils upon the heart
that hide its most secret workings and its sweetest
affections from us; there are earthly'clouds that come
between us and tIhe excellence that we love.  So that
it is not, perhaps, till a friend is taken from us, that we
entirely feel his value, and appreciate his worth; The
vision is loveliest at, its vanishing away; and we perceive not, perhaps, till we see the parting wing, that
an angel has been with us!
Yet if we are not, from any cause, or in any degree,




310             ON HUMAN LIFE.
blind to the excellence we possess, if we do feel all the
value of the treasure which our affections hold dear;
yet, I say, how does that earthly excellence take not
only a permanent, but a saintly character, as it passes
beyond the bounds of mortal frailty and imperfection!
How does death enshrine it, for a homage, more reverential and holy, than is ever given to living worth!
So that the virtues of the dead gain, perhaps, in the
power of sanctity, what they lose in the power of
visible presence; and thus-it may not be too much to
say-thus the virtues of the dead benefit us sometimes, as much as the examples of living goodness.
How beautiful is the ministration, by which those
who are dead, thus speak to us, thus help us, comfort
us, guide, gladden, bless us! How grateful must it be
to their thoughts of us, to know that we thus remember
them; that we remember them, not with mere admiration, but in a manner that ministers to all our virtues!
What a glorious vision of the future is it, to the good
and pure who are yet living on earth, that the virtues
which they are cherishing and manifesting, the good
character which they are building up here, the charm
of their benevolence and piety, shall live, when they
have laid down the burthen and toil of life, shall be an
inspiring breath to the fainting hearts that are broken
from them, a wafted odour of sanctity to hundreds
and thousands that shall come after them. Is it not
so?  Are there not those, the simplest story, the
frailest record of whose goodness, is still and ever,
doing good? But, frail records, we know full well,
frail records they are not, which are in our hearts.
A.nd can we have known those, whom it is a joy as
well as a sorrow to think of, and not be better for it?
Are there those, once, our friends, now bright angels
in some blessed sphere; and do we not sometimes




VOICES OF THE DEAD.            31 1
say, "perhaps, that pure eye of affection is on me
now; and I will do nothing to wound it?" No, surely,
it cannot be, that the dead will speak to us in vain.
Their memories are all around us: their footsteps are in
our paths; the memorials of them meet our eye at
every turn; their presence is in our dwellings; their
voices are in our ears; they speak to us-in the sad
reverie of contemplation, in the sharp pang of feeling,
in the cold shadow of memory, in the bright light of
hope-and it cannot be, that they will speak in vain.
II. Nay, the very world we live in; is it not consecrated to us by the memory of the dead? Are not
the very scenes of life made more interesting to us, by
being connected with thoughts that run backward far
beyond the range of present life? This is another
view of the advantage and effect with which those
who are " dead, yet speak to us."
If we were beings to whom, present, immediate,
instant enjoyment were every thing; if we were animals, in other wo'irds, with all our thoughts prone to
the earth on which we tread, the case would be different; the conclusion would be different. But we are
beings of a deeper nature, of wider relations, of higher
aspirations, of a loftier destiny. And being such, I
cannot hesitate to say for myself, that I would not
have every thing which I behold on earth, the work
of the present, living generation. The world would
be, comparatively, an ordinary, indifferent place, if it
contained nothing but the workmanship, the handicraft, the devices of living men. No, I would see
dwellings, which speak to me of other things, than
earthly convenience, or fleeting pleasure; which speak
to nme the holy recollections of lives which were passedl in them, and have passed away from them. I
would see temples in which successive generations of




31.2            ON HUMAN LIFE.
men nave prayed. I would see ruins, on whose mighty
walls is inscribed the touching story of joy and sorrow,
love, heroism, patience, which lived there, there
breathed its first hope, its last sigh, ages ago. I would
behold scenes, which offer more than fair landscape and
living stream  to my eye; which tell me of.inspired
genius, glorious fortitude, martyred faith, that studied
there, suffered there, died there. I would behold the
earth, in fine, when it is spread before me, as more
than soil and scenery, rich and fair though they be;
1 would behold the earth as written over with histories;
as a sublime page, on which are recorded the lives of
men, and empires.
The world, even of nature, is not one laughing, gay
scene. It is not so in fact; it appears not so in the
light of our sober, solemn, Christian teachings. The
dark cloud sometimes overshadows it: the storm sweeps
through its pleasant valleys; the thunder smites its
everlasting hills; and the holy record hath said,
"thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." It
has been said that all the tones in nature are, to use
the musical phrase, on the minor key. That is to say,
they are plaintive tones. And although the fact is
probably somewhat exaggerated, when stated so
strongly and unqualifiedly, yet to a certain extent it is
true. It is true, that that tone always mingles with
the music of nature. In the winds that stir the mountain pine, as well as in the wailing storm; in the softfalling shower, and in the rustling of the autumn
leaves; in the roar of ocean, as it breaks upon the
lonely sea-beach; in the thundering cataract, that lifts
up its eternal anthem amidst the voices of nature; and
so likewise, in those inarticulate interpretations of
nature, the bleating of flocks, the lowing of herds, and
even in the song of birds, there is usually something




VOICES OF TilE.. DEAD.       313
plaintive; something that touches the sad and brood
ing spirit of thought. And the contemplation of nature in all its forms, as well of beauty as of sublimity,
is apt to be tinged with melancholy. And all the
higher musings, the nobler aspirations of the mind,
possess something of this character. I doubt if there
were ever a manifestation of genius in the world, that
did not bear something of this trait.
It can scarcely be the part of wisdom, then, to refuse
to sympathize with this spirit of nature and humanity.
And it can be no argument against a contemplation
of this world as having its abodes sanctified by the
memory of the departed, as having its brightness softly
veiled over by the shadow of death; it can be no argument against such contemplation, that it is somewhat
sober and sad. I feel then, that the dead have conferred a blessing upon me, in helping me to think of
the world thus rightly; in thus giving a hue of sadness to the scenes of this world, while, at the same
time, they have clothed it with every glorious and
powerful charm of association. This mingled spirit
of energy and humility, of triumph and tenderness,
of glorying and sorrowing, is the very spirit of Christia.nity. It was the spirit of Jesus, the conqueror and
the sufferer. Death was before him; and yet his
thoughts were of triumph. Victory was in his view;
and yet, what a victory! No laurel crown was upon
his head; no flush of pride was upon his brow; no
exultation flashed from his eye; for his was a victory
to be gained over death, and through death. No
laurel crown sat upon his head-but a crown of thorns,
no flush of pride was on his brow-but meekness was
enthroned there; no exultation flashed from his eyebut tears flowed from it: "Jesus wept."
Come then, to us, that spirit at once of courage and
27




314            o0  HUMAN LIFE.
meekness; of fortitude and gentleness; of a life hope
ful and happy, but thoughtful of death; of a world
bright and beautiful, but passing away! So let us
live, and act; and think, and feel; and let us thank
the good providence, the good ordination of heaven,
that has made the dead our teachers.
III. But they teach us more. They not only leave
their own enshrined and canonized virtues for us to
love and imitate; they not only gather about us the
glorious and touching associations of the past, to hallow and dignify this world to us, and to throw the soft
veil of memory over all its scenes; but they open a
future world to our vision, and invite us to its blessed
abodes.
They open that world to us, by giving, in their own
deaths, a strong proof of its existence.
The future, indeed, to mere earthly views, is often
"a land of darkness as darkness itself, and of the
shadow of death without any order, and where the
light is as darkness."  Truly, death is "without any
order." There is in it, such a total disregard to circumstances, as shows that it cannot be an ultimate
event. That must be connected with something else;
that cannot be final, which, considered as final, puts
all the calculations of wisdom so utterly at defiance.
The tribes of animals, the classes and species of the
vegetable creation, come to their perfection, and then
die. But is there any such order for human beings?
Do the generations of mankind go down to the grave,
in ranks snd processions? Are the human, like the
vegetable races; suffered to stand till they have made
provision for their successors, before they depart?
ITo; without order, without discrimination, without
provision for the future, or remedy for the past, the
children of men depart.  They die-the  old, the




VOICES OF THE DEAD.             315
young; the most useless, and those most needed; the
worst and the best, alike die; and if there be no
scenes beyond this life, if there be no circumstances
nor allotments to explain the mystery, then all around
us is, as it was to the doubting spirit of Job, "a land
of darkness as darkness itself."  The blow falls, like
the thunder-bolt beneath the dark cloud; but it has
not even the intention, the explanation that belongs
to that dread minister. The stroke of death must be
more reckless than even the lightning's flash; yes,
that solemn visitation that cometh with so many dread
signs-the body's dissolution, the spirit's extremity,
the winding up of the great scene of life, has not
even the meaning that belongs to the blindest agents
in nature, if there be no reaction, no revelation hereafter! Can this be? Doth God take care for things
animate and inanimate, and will he not care for us?
Let us look at it for a moment. I have seen one
die-the delight of his friends, the pride of his kindred,
the hope of his country: but he died! How beautiful
was that offering upon thee altar of death! The fire
of genius kindled in his eye; the generous affections
of youth mantled in his cheek; his foot was upon the
threshold of life; his studies, his preparations for
honoured and useful life, were completed; his breast
was filled with a thousand glowing, and noble, and
never yet expressed aspirations: but he died!  He
died; while another, of a nature dull, coarse and
unrefined, of habits low, base and brutish, of a promise
that had nothing in it but shame and misery-such
an one, I say, was suffered to encumber the earth.
Could this be, if there were no other sphere for the
gifted, the aspiring and the approved, to act in? Can
wie believe that the energy just trained for action, the
embryo thought just bursting into expression, the deep




316             ON HUMAN LIFE.
and earnest passion of a noble nature, just swelling
into the expansion of every beautiful virtue, should
never manifest its power, should never speak, should
never unfold itself? Can we believe that all this
should die; while meanness, corruption, sensuality,
and every deformed and dishonoured power, should
live? No, ye goodly and glorious ones! ye godlike
in youthful virtue! ye die not in vain: ye teach, ye
assure us, that ye are gone to some world of nobler
life and action.
I have seen one die; she was beautiful; and beautiful were the ministries of life that were given her to
fulfil. Angelic loveliness enrobed her; and a grace
as if it were caught from heaven, breathed in every
tone, hallowed every affection, shone in every actioninvested as a halo, her whole existence, and made it
a light and blessing, a charm and a vision of gladness,
to all around her: but she died!  Friendship, and
love, and parental fondness, and infant weakness,
stretched out their hand to save her; but they could
not save her: and she died! What! did all that loveliness die? Is there no land of the blessed and the
lovely ones, for such to live in?  Forbid it reason,
religion!-bereaved affection, and undying love! forbid the thought! It cannot be that such die in God's
counsel, who live even in frail human memory forever!
I have seen one die-in the maturity of every
power, in the earthly perfection of every faculty;
when many temptations had been overcome, and
many hard lessons had been learned; when many
experiments had made virtue easy, and had given a
facility to action, and a success to endeavour; when
wisdom had been learnt from many mistakes, and a
skill had been laboriously acquired in the use of
many powers; and the being, I looked upon, had just




VOICES OF THE DEAD.             317
compassed that most useful, most practical of all
knowledge, how to live, and to act well and wisely:
yet I have seen such an one die! Was all this treasulre
gained, only to be lost?  Were all these faculties
trained, only to be thrown into utter disuse?  Was
this instrument, the intelligent soul, the noblest in the
universe; was it so laboriously fashioned, and by the
most varied and expensive apparatus. that on the
very moment of being finished, it should be cast away
forever? No, the dead, as we call them, do not so
die. They carry our thoughts to another and a nobler
existence. They teach us, and especially by all the
strange and seemingly untoward circumstances of
their departure from this life, that they, and we, shall
live forever. They open the future world, then, to
our faith.
They open it also, and in fine, to our affections.
No person of reflection and piety can have lived long,
without beginning to find, in regard to the earthly objects which most interest him, his friends, that the
balance is gradually inclining in favour of another
world. How many, after the middle period of life,
and especially in declining years, must feel, if the
experience of life has had any just effect upon them,
that the objects of their strongest attachment are not
lhere. One by one, the ties of earthly affection are
cut asunder; one by one, friends, companions, children,
parents, are taken from us; for a time, perhaps, we
are " in a strait betwixt two," as was the apostle, not
deciding altogether whether it is better to depart; but
shall we not, at length, say with the disciples, when
some dearer friend is taken, " let us go and die with
him?"
The dead have not ceased their communication
with us, though the visible chain is broken. If they
27*




318              ON HUMAN LIFE.
are still the same, they must still think of us. As two
friends on earth, may know that they love each other,
without any expression, without even the sight of each
other; as they may know though dwelling in different
and distant countries, without any visible chain of
communication, that their thoughts meet and mingle
together, so may it be with two friends of whom the
one is on earth, and the other is in heaven.  Especially where there is such an union of pure minds that it
is scarcely possible to conceive of separation, that
union seems to be a part of their very being: we may
believe that their friendship, their mutual sympathy,
is beyond the power of the grave to break up. "But
ah! we say, if there were only some manifestations;
if there were only a glimpse of that blessed land; if
there were, indeed, some messenger bird, such as is
supposed in some countries to come from the spirit
land, how eagerly should we question it!" In the
words of the poet, we should say,
" But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain,
Can those who have loved, forget?
We call-but they. answer not againDo they love, do they love us yet?
We call them far, through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave nor hill;
We know, we know, that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?"
The poetic doubt, we may answer with plain reasoning, and plainer scripture.  We may say, in the language of reason, if they live there, they love there.
We may answer in the language of Jesus Christ, " he
that liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."  And
again: "have ye not read," saith our Saviour, " that.
which was spoken unto you by God, saying, I am the
God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God
of x icob?  God is not the God of the dead, but of the




VOICES OF THE DEAD.            319
iving."  Then it is true, that they live there; and
they yet speak to us. From that bright sphere, from
that calm region, from the bowers of life immortal,
they speak to us. They say to us, "sigh not in despair over the broken and defeated expectations of
earth. Sorrow not as those who have no hope. Bear
calmly and cheerfully thy lot. Brighten the chain of
love, of sympathy; of communion with all pure minds,
on earth and in heaven. Think, Oh! think of the
mighty and glorious company that fill the immortal regions. Light, life, beauty, beatitude, are here.
Come, children of earth! come to the bright and
blessed land!" I see no lovely features, revealing
themselves through the dim and shadowy veils of
heaven. I see no angel forms enrobed with the bright
clouds of eventide. But "I hear a voice, saying,
write, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for
they rest-for they rest, from their labours, and their
works, works of piety and love recorded in our hearts
and kept in eternal remembrance-their works do follow them." Our hearts, their workmanship, do follow
them. We will go and die with them. We will go
and live with-them forever!
Can I leave these meditations, my brethren, without
paying homage to that religion which has brought life
and immortality to light; without calling to mind that
simple and touching acknowledgment of the great
apostle, "I thank God through our Lord Jesus Christ."
Ah! how desolate must be the affections of a people,
that spurn this truth and trust! I have wandered
among the tombs of such a people; I have wandered
through that far-famed cemetery, that overlooks froln
its mournful brow, the gay and crowded metropolis of
France; but among the many inscriptions upon those
tombs, I read scarcely one; I read,-to state so strik




320             ON HUMAN LIFE.
ing a fact with numerical exactness-I read not more
than four or five inscriptions in the whole Pere La
Chaise, which made any consoling reference to a future
life. I read, on those cold marble tombs, the lamentations of bereavement, in every affecting variety of
phrase. On the tomb of youth, it was written that
"its broken-hearted parents, who spent their days in
tears and their nights in anguish, had laid down here
their treasure and their hope."  On the proud mausoleum where friendship, companionship, love, had deposited their holy relics, it was constantly written, "  Her
husband inconsolable;" "His disconsolate wife;"  A
brother left alone and unhappy" has raised this monument; but seldom, so seldom that scarcely ever, did
the mournful record close with a word of hope; scarcely at all was it to be read amidst the marble silence of
that world of the dead, that there is a life beyond;
and that surviving friends hope for a blessed meeting
again, where death comes no more!
Oh! death! dark hour to hopeless unbelief! houlr
to which, in that creed of despair, no hour shall succeed! being's last hour! to whose appalling darkness,
even the shadows of an avenging retribution were
brightness and relief; death! what art thou to the
Christian's assurance? Great hour of answer to life's
prayer; great hour that shall break asunder the bond
of life's mystery; hour of release from life's burden;
hour of reunion with the loved and lost; what mighty
hopes, hasten to their fulfilment in thee! What longings, what aspirations,-breathed in the still night be
neath the silent stars; what dread emotions of curiosi
ty; what deep meditations of joy; what hallowed
imaginings of never experienced purity and bliss;
what possibilities, shadowing forth unspeakable realities to the soul, all verge to their consummation in thee!




VOICES OF THE DEAD.           321
Oh! death! the Christian's death! what art thou, but
the gate of life, the portal of heaven, the threshold of
eternity!
Thanks be to God; let us say it, Christians! in the
comforting words of holy scripture: " thanks be to
God who giveth us the victory, through our Lord
Jesus Christ!" What hope can be so precious as the
hope in him? What emblems can speak to bereaved
affection, or to dying frailty, like those emblems at
once of suffering and triumph, which proclaim a crucified and risen Lord; which proclaim that Jesus the
Forerunner, has passed through death, to immortal
life? Well, that the great truth should be signalized
and sealed upon our heart by a holy rite! Well, that
amidst mortal changes, and hasting to the tomb, we
should, from time to time, set up an altar, and say,
"' by this heaven-ordained token, do we know that we
shall live forever!" God grant the fulfilment of this
great hope-what matter all things beside?-God
grant the fulfilment of this great hope, through Jesus
Christ!




ON THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
xx'.
XXI.
THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, ANU
WITH A GOOD LIFE.
IF A MAN SAY1 I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR; FOR
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HS
LOVE GOD WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN?-1 John iv. 24.
IF there is any mission for the true teacher to ac
complish in this age, it is to identify religion with
goodness; to show that they are the same thing,
manifestations, that is to say, of the same principle;
to show, in other words and according to the Apostle,
that no man is to be accounted a lover of God, who is
not a lover of his brother. It is, I say again, to identify religion with morals, religion with virtue; with
justice, truth, integrity, honesty, generosity, disinterestedness; religion with the highest beauty and loveliness of character.  This, I repeat, is the great mission,
and message of the true teacher to-day. What it may
be some other day, what transcendental thing may be
waiting to be taught, I do hot know; but this, I conceive, is the practical business of religious instruction
now. Let me not be misunderstood, as if I were sup
posed to say that this or any other mere doctrine, were
the ultimate end of preaching.  That is, to make men
holy. But how shall any preaching avail to make




IDENrITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 323
men holy, unless it do rightly and clearly teach them
what it is to be holy? If they mistake here, all their
labour to be religious, all their hearing of the word.
Sabbath keeping, praying, and striving, will be in vain.
And therefore, I hold that to'teach this, and especialhl
to show that religion is not something else than a gooo
heart, but is that very thing; this, I say, is the burden
of the present time.
I use now an old prophetic phrase, and I may remark here, that every time has its burden. In the
times of the Old Tlestament, the burden of teachino
was, to assert the supremacy and spirituality of God
in opposition to Idolatry. In the Christian time, it was
to set forth that universal and impartial, and that moss
real and true love which God has for his earthly crea
tures, in opposition to Jewish peculiarity and Pagan
indifference and all human distrust; a love, declared
by one who came from the bosom of the Father, sealed in his blood, and thus bringing nigh to God, a guilty,
estranged, and unbelieving world. The burden of
the Reformation time, was to assert the freedom of religion; to bring it out from the bondage of human
authority into the sanctuary of private judgment and
sacred conscience. But now, religion having escaped
from Pagan idolatry and Jewish exclusion and papal
bondage, and survived many a controversy since, has
encountered a deeper question concerning its own nature. What especially is religion itself?  This, I say,
is the great question of the present day. It underlies
all our controversies. It is that which gives the main
interest to. every controversy. For whether the controversy be about forms or creeds, the vital question is,
whether this or that ritual or doctrine ministers essentially to true religion; so that if a man embraces
some other system, he is fatally deficient of the vital




324         THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
means of salvation. And this brings us to the question, what is true religion itself?
This question, as I have intimated, presses mainly
upon a single point, which I will now state and argue
as a contested point: viz! whether religion, in its essence, consists in a principle of rectitude, of goodness
in a simple and true love of the true and divine, or
whether it consists in something else; or in other
words-whether it consists in certain intelligible affections, or in something, to the mass of men, unknown
and unintelligible.
This question craves some explanation, both that
you may understand what it is, and may perceive
that it is a question; and I must bespeak your patience.
In entering upon these points, let us consider, in the
first place, what is the ground on which the general
assertion in our text proceeds.
There is, then, but one true principle in the mind,
and that is the love of the tru'e, the right, the holy.
There is but one character of the soul, to which God
has given his approbation, and with which he has connected the certainty of happiness here and hereafter.
There is something in the soul which is made the condition of its salvation; and that something is one
thing, though it has many forms. It is sometimes
called grace in the heart; sometimes, holiness, righteousness, conformity to the character of God; but the
term for it most familiar in popular use, is religion.
The constant question is, when a man's spiritual safety
or well-being is the point for consideration, when he is
going to die, and men would know whether he is to be
happy hereafter; has he got religion? or has he been
a religious man? I must confess that I do not like this
use of the term. I am accustomed to consider religion




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 325
as reverence and love towards God; and to consider it
therefore, as only one part of rectitude or excellence.
But you know that it commonly stands for the whole
of that character which God requires of us. Now
what I am saying is, that this character is, in principle,
one thing. It is, being right; and being right is but
one thing. It has many forms; but only one essence.
It may be the love of God, and then it is piety. It
may be the love of men, and then it is philanthropy.
But the love of God, and the love of man as bearing
his image, are in essence the same thing. Or to discriminate with regard to this second table of the law:
it may be a love of men's happiness, and then it is the
very image of God's benevolence; or it may be the
love of holiness in men, of their goodness, justice,
truth, virtue, and then it is a love of the same things
that form, when infinitely exalted, the character of
God. All these forms of excellence, if they cannot beresolved into one principle, are certainly parts of one
great consciousness, the consciousness of right; they
at any rate have the strictest alliance; they are inseparably bound together as parts of one whole; the very
nature of true excellence in one form, is a pledge for
its existence in every other form. He who has the
right principle in him, is a lover of God, and a lovel
of good men, and a lover of all goodness and purity,
and a labourer for the happiness of all around him.
The tree is one, though the branches and the leaves and
the blossoms, be many and various; all spring from
one vital germ; so that the Apostle, in our text., will
not allow it to be said, that a man is a lover of God,
who does not love his brethren of the human family.
Now it may surprise you at first, to hear it asserted
that this apparently reasonable account of the matter,
dloes not accord with the popular judgment. To this
28




326        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
point of explanation, therefore, I must invite your
attention, lest I seem to fight as one that beateth the
air.
It is true then, that it is admitted in general, that
the Christian, the object of God's favour here and hereafter, must be a good man; a just, honest, pure, benevolent man. These admissions are general and vague.
We must penetrate into this matter, with some more
discriminating inquiry. What is it, specifically, that
makes a man spiritually a Christian, and entitles him
to hope for future happiness? The common answer
is; it is religion, it is piety, it is grace in the heart, it is
being converted, it is being in Christ, and being a new
creature.  These phrases I might comment upon, if
I had time, and I might show that they have a very
true and just meaning. But what is the meaning that
they actually convey to most hearers? What is this
inmost and saving principle of religion, this grace or
godliness, this spirit of the regenerated man?  Is it
not something peculiar to the regenerate-not something more of goodness in them  than in other men,
but something different in them  from  goodness in
others? Is it not something possessed by them alone,
unshared with the rest of the world, unknown, co1mpletely unknown, and in fact inconceivable to the great
body of mankind? Are not the saints, God's people
as they are called, supposed to have some secret of experience wrapped up in them, with which the stranger
intermeddleth not; of which the world knoweth
nothing?  I do not wish to have this so understood
if it is not true. But if it is true, it is too serious a
point to be tampered with or treated with any fa.stidious delicacy. I say then plainly and earnestly, is it
not true? If you ask most men around you what is
that gracious state of the heart, which i~ produced by




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 327
the act of regeneration, will they not say that they do
not know? And all that they can say about it, provided thsy have any serious thoughts, will it not be
this: that they hope they shall know sometime or
other? But they know what truth, kindness, honesty,
self-denial, disinterestedness are. They know, or suppose that they know, what penitence, sorrow for doing
wrong, is. Gratitude to God, also, the love of God,
they deem, is no enigma to them. They certainly
have some idea of these qualities. I do not say how
much by experience, they know of all these things;
but I say they have some idea of what these things
mean. If then they are told, and if they believe, that
all this does not reach to the true idea of religion, it
follows that religion must be, in their account, some
enigma or mystery; it is some inconceivable effect of
divine grace, or moving of gracious affections in the
heart; it must be something different from all that
men are wont to call goodness, excellence, loveliness.
But to make this still plainer, if need be; what, let
it be asked, are most men looking for and desiring,
when they seek religion?  In a Revival of religion, as
it, is termed, what is the anxious man seeking? Is it
not something as completely strange and foreign to his
ordinary experience, as would be the effect of the
mystery called Animal Magnetism? A man is declining into the vale of years, or he is lying upon the
bed of death, and he wants religion, wants that something which will prepare him for a happy hereafter.
He has got beyond the idea that the priest can save
him, or that extreme unction can save him, or that
any outward rite can save him. He knows that it
must be something in his own soul. And now, what
shall it be?  What does he set himself to do, or to
seek? What is the point about which his anxious de




328       THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
sires are hovering?  "Oh! that that thing could be
wrought in me, on which all depends! I know not
what it is; but I want it; I pray for it." And this
something that is to be done in him, is something that
can be done in a moment! Can anything be plainer
then, than this which I am saying; that he is not
looking to the increase and strengthening and perfection of truth, kindness, disinterestedness, humility, gra
titude to God, to save him; not for the increase and
strengthening of anything that is already in him; but
for the lodgment in him, of something new that will
save him. He does not set himself, in seeking religion,
about the cultivation of known affections, but about
the attainment of unknown affections.
Look again for further proof, at the language of the
popular religion, whether heard from the pulpit, or
coming from the press. What is more common than
to hear morality decried, and the most lovely virtue
disparaged, in comparison with something called grace
in the heart?  Morality is allowed to be a very good
thing for this world, but no preparation for the next;
or it is insisted on as a consequence of grace, but is
considered as no part of grace itself; or if it is admitted that by an infusion of grace, morality may become
a holy thing, still, by this supposition, the grace maintains its position as the distinct, peculiar and primal
essence of virtue. Observe, that I do not say that any
body preaches against kindness, honesty and trutll-telling, absolutely.  Nay, they are insisted on. But in
what character?  Why,'as evidences of that other
thing, called religion or grace. They are not that
thing, nor any part of it; but only evidences of it.
And observe too, that if it were only said, that much
that is called morality and kindness, is not real morality or kindness; that the ordinary standard of virtue




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 329
is too low and needs to be raised; to that discrimination, I should have nothing to object. But the point
maintained is, that nothing that is called simple
kindness or morality, ever comes, or ever can, by any
increase come, up to the character of saving virtue.
There is one further and decisive consideration which
I am reluctant to mention, but which I will suggest,
because it is, first of all, necessary that I should clearly make out the case upon which my discourse proceeds. The Church has ever been accustomed to hold
that the virtues of heretics are nothing worth. Now
suppose a case. Here is a body of men, called heretics; Protestants they were once -Church of England
men, Puritans, Presbyterians. No age has wanted the
instance. Here is a body of men, I say, called heretics. To all human view, they are as amiable, affectionate and true hearted; as honest, diligent and temperate, as any other people. They profess to reverence
religion too; they build churches, meet together for
worship; and their worship seems as hearty and earnest as any other. By any standard of judging save
that of theology, they appear to be as good and devout
men as any other. Now what does the popular theology, what does the pulpit say, of them? Why this,
briefly and summarily,-that they have no religion.
They may be very good men, very amiable, kind,
honest and true, and after their manner, devout; but
they have no religion. Is not the case clear? Must
not religion be a secret in the bosom of these confident
judges?  They must know what it is: but others do
not know and cannot find out. We must sit down in
silence and despair; for we can know nothing about
it. Or if we say anything, there is nothing for us but
to say with Job, " no doubt, ye are the men, and wisdom shall die with you!" But this, at least, is cleatr
28~




330        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
whatever this religion is, of which they speak; iwhether it consist in a certain belief, or in some secretly imparted grace, it must be something different from all
that men generally understand, by goodness and devotion.
In short, the prevailing idea of religion is, unquestionably, that it is some heavenly visitant to the soul;
some divine guest that takes up its abode there; some
essence or effluence, not merely proceeding from God
as~ its cause, which it does, but partaking of unknown
attributes; something that comes into the soul from
without, and is sustained there by a foreign influence;
something that is, at a certain time, created in the
heart, and is totally unlike anything that was there
before; something that is ingrafted upon our nature,
and does not, in any sense, grow out of it; something,
in fine, that is put into us, and does not, in any sense,
spring out of us; is not originally the result of any
culture or care of ours, is not wrought out of any materials found in us, not reducible to any ordinary laws
of cause and effect; but is the result of a special and
supernatural working of divine power, brought to bear
upon us. This doctrine, as I have latterly stated it, is
undoubtedly modified by some of the New Schools of
Theology that are rising around us; and this whole
idea of religion is, doubtless, rejected by some orthodox
persons; as it was completely rejected in the old
English theology of Paley and Bishop Butler; but it
is nevertheless very generally taught in this country,
and it is the faith, or rather the fear and trouble, of the
multitude.
Nor do I know of any recent modification of the prevailing Theology, that materially affects the point now
before us. When I say that, according to that theology, religion is not wrought out of any materials found




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 331
in us, it may be thought that I do injustice to the
views of some of its adherents. They hold perhaps
that the necessary powers are within us; and simply
maintain that they have never been rightly exercised,
and that without a special impulse from above, they
never will be. On this supposition, the moral faculties of our nature stand like machinery, waiting for
the stream of influence that is to move them. In the
unregenerate nature, they have never been moved, or
have never been rightly moved; and they never will
be, by any power among them or inherent in them.
That motion or that right motion when it comes, will
be religion. But on this supposition, is not religion a
thing, still and equally unknown? Can the unregenerate man foresee, can he conjecture, what that motion
will be?  Can any body understand what it is; saving
and excepting the converted man himself?
I suppose that this conclusion is incontrovertible;
and I presume that almost every convert to the popular forms of religion, would be found to say: "I cannot tell you what it is that I have got; I cannot tell
you what religion is; but I know by experience what
it is; and that is enough for me."
This view of religion, I propose to make the subject
of some free discussion. It demands the most serious
consideration; and I do not remember that it has received at any hand, the attention that it deserves.
I shall first state the opposite, and as I conceive,
the true view of religion, and briefly show why it is
trule: and I shall then proceed to consider more at
large, the consequences that must result and do result, from the prevailing, and as I conceive, the false
view.
And here let me distinctly observe, that I am not
about to consider these consequences as matters foreign




332        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
and indifferent to ourselves.  They belong to us,
indeed, as they concern the general state of religion in
the world. But they concern us yet more nearly, as
they enter more or less into the state of our own
minds. No age can escape the influence of the past.
The moral history of the world, is a stream, that is
not to be cut off at a single point. In us, doubtless,
are to be found the relics of all past creeds, of all past
errors.
But before I proceed to these consequences, I am
briefly to state and defend what I conceive to be the
true view of religion, as a principle in the mind.
For statement then I say, in the first place, that all
men know what God requires of theln, what affections,
what virtues, what graces, what emotions of penitence
and piety; in the second place, that all men have a
capacity for these affections and some exercise of them,
however slight and transient; and in the third place,
that what God requires, what constitutes the salvation
of the soul, is the culture, strengthening, enlargement,
predominance of these very affections; that he who
makes that conscience and rectitude and self-denial, and
penitence and sacred love of God which he already
perceives and feels, or has felt in himself, however imperfectly; he who makes these affections the fixed,
abiding, and victorious habits of his soul. is accepted
with God, and must be happy in time and in eternity.
This is the statement; and for defence of this view
of religion, I submit its own reasonableness; nay, and
I contend for its absolute certainty as a matter of
Scriptural interpretation.
First, its reasonableness. For if men, if all men do
not know what religion is, they do not know what is
required of them. To say that God demands that to
be done in us and by us, of which we have no concep




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 333
tion or no just conception, is to make a statement
which carries with it its own refutation. To make a
mystery of a commandment, is a solecism amounting
to absolute self-contradiction. Again, we could not
know what are the affections that are required of us,
unless it were by some experience of them. It is philosophically impossible; it is, in the nature of things,
impossible that we should. No words, no symbols
could teach us what moral or spiritual emotion is, unless we had in ourselves some feeling of what it is;
any more than they could teach a blind man what it
is to see, or a deaf man what it is to hear. Excellence,
holiness, justice, disinterestedness, love, are words
which never could have any meaning to us, if the
originals, the germs of those qualities were not within
us. Let any person ask himself what he understands
by love, the love of man or of God, and how he obtained
the idea of that affection; and he will find that he
understands it, because he feels it, or has, sometime or
other, felt it. Once more; I have said that these feel
ings of benevolence and piety, cultivated into the predominant habit of the soul, are the very virtues and
graces that are required of us. And is not this obviously true?  We all know by something of experience, what it is to love those around us; to wish
them well; to be kindly affectioned and mercifully
disposed towards them. And we all have had some
transient emotions at least of gratitude and love to the
Infinite Father. Now if all these affections were to
fill our hearts, and shine in our lives always, what
would this be, but that character in which all true
religion and happiness are bound up?
Thus reasonable is the ground which  we are
defending. But I have said also, that it is certain,
from the principles that must govern us in the interpreo




3'34       THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
tation of Scripture. The Bible addresses itself to the
world, and demands a certain character. In describing that character it adopts terms in common use. It
tells us that we must be lovers of God, and lovers of
men; that we must be gentle, forbearing and forgiving; true, pure, and faithful. Now if it does not
mean by these words as to their radical sense, what ATe
all mean by them; if it uses them in an altogether
extraordinary and unintelligible manner, then, in the
first place, it teaches nothing; and next, it leads us
into fatal error. The conclusion is inevitable. What
the Bible presupposes to be a right knowledge of religion, is a right knowledge.
I am not denying that we are to grow in this knowledge, through experience; and that, from our want of
this enlightening experience, much is said to us in the
Scriptures of our own blindness: much of the new
light that will break in upon us, with the full experience of the power of the Gospel. But to a world
totally blind, wrapped in total darkness, and having
no conception of what light is, the Bible would not
have spoken of light. The word stands for an idea.
If the idea, and the just idea did not exist, the word
would not be used.
There is then a light in the human soul, amidst all
its darkness; an inward light; a divine light, which, if
it were increased instead of being dimmed, would shine
brighter and brighter, even to the perfect day. Let
any man have taken the best feeling that ever was in
him-some feeling, however transient, of kindness to
his fellow, or some emotion of reverence and gratitude
1o his Creator; let him have taken that feeling and
all that class of feelings, and cultivated and carried it
up to an abiding habit of mind, and he would have
become a good and pious man. This change, from




IDENI TY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 335
transient to habitual emotions of goodness and piety,
is the very regeneration that is required of us.
The being, so changed, would be " born again," would
be " a new creature;" " old things with him would have
passed away, and all things would have become new."
Now, according to the common doctrine, instead of
this slow, thorough, intelligible and practical change,
we are to look for a new and unknown element to be
introduced among our affections. A man feels that he
must become a Christian, that he must obtain that
character on which all happiness, here and hereafter,
depends. And now what does he do? Finding in
himself an emotion of good-will, of affection for his
neighbour, does he fasten upon that, and say, "this
must I cherish and cultivate into a genuine philanthropy and a disinterested love?" Feeling. the duty
of being honest, does he say, " this practical conscience
must I erect into a law?" Sensible, in some gracious
hour, of the goodness of God or the worth of a Saviour,
does he say, " let me keep and bear upon my heart,
the reverent and sacred impression " No, all this,
the popular theology repudiates, and represents as a
going about to establish our own righteousness. "No,
it says, you must feel that you can do nothing yourself; you must cast yourself, a helpless, despairing
sinner, upon the mercy of God; you must not look to
the powers of a totally depraved nature to help you at
all; you must cast yourself wholly upon Christ; you
must look to the renewing power of the Holy Ghost,
and to the creation in you of something totally different from any thing that is in you now."
The question between these two views of religion
is certainly one of a very serious character; one on
which momentous consequences depend. And it is a
question too, which concerns not one or another form




336        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
of sectarian faith alone, but the entire oondition of
Christianity in the world. The idea of religion on
which I have dwelt so much in this discourse with a
view to controvert it, h-as penetrated the whole mass
of religious opinion.  No body of Christians has
entirely escaped it; not even our own; though our
characteristic position, as I conceive, at the present
moment, is one of protest against it. I say at the
present moment. We have gone through with a speculative controversy. It may be renewed, no doubt; but
there will be hardly anything new to be said upon it.
We have gone through, then, with the argument about
the Trinity, the Atonement, Election, and such speculative matters; and we have come now to the greater
question, what is religion itself? And what we say,
is, that religion is a principle, deep-imbedded in the
conscience and consciousness of all mankind; and that
from these germs of it, which are to be found in
human nature, it is to be cultivated and carried up to
perfection. What is maintained on the contrary is,
that religion, the true and saving religion, is a principle of which human nature is completely ignorant;
that to make a man a Christian, is to implant in him
a principle, entirely new, and before unknown. Whether
it be called a principle, or a new mode of spiritual
action, for some may prefer the latter description, it is
the same thing in this respect. The man unregenerate, according to this teaching, can no more tell what
he is to feel when made regenerate, than a man can
anticipate what a shock of electricity will be, or what
will be the effect upon his system of a new poison; ot
what would be the experience of a sixth sense.
The establishment of this point is so material in
this whole discussion, that I shall occupy the few
moments that remain to me, with the attempt tc




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GO(DNESS. 337
relieve the views I have offered, from all misapprehension.
Let it then be distinctly observed, in the first place,
that the question is not at all about the nature or necessity or degree of divine influence. Not, what power
from above, is exerted to produce religion in the soul,
but what the religion is, however produced; not what
divine aid is given to human endeavour, but what is
the nature and result of that endeavour; not what
grace from God, but what grace in man, is; this is the
question. Of course, we believe in general, that all
true religion, in common with every thing else good,
proceeds from God. And for myself, I firmly believe,
that it pleases the Almighty to give special assistance
to the humble and prayerful efforts of his weak and
tempted creatures; and this, not only when those efforts are resolutely commenced, but in every successive
step of the religious course; not merely nor peculiarly
in the hour of conversion, but equally in the whole
process of the soul's sanctification. I know of no
Scripture warrant for supposing that this divine influence is limited to any particular season, or is concentrated upon any particular exigency of the soul's
experience.
In the next place, I do not say that the notion of
religion as a mystery or an enigma, embraces or usurps
the whole of the popular idea of religion. When I
shall come to speak of the injurious consequences of
this idea, I shall maintain that an enigma cannot be
the object of any moral admiration, or love, or culture,
or sensibility; and I may then be asked if I mean to
say that there is no religious goodness or earnestness
among those who embrace this idea. And to this, I
answer beforehand and decidedly, "no, I do not mean
to say this." If the idea were not modified nor quali29




338        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
fled in any way, if no other ideas mixed themselves
up with that of a mystic religion, this would be the
result. It is seldom that error practically stands alone.
Still it is proper to single it out, and to consider it by
itself. And I do maintain too, that this error predominates sufficiently to exert the most disastrous influence
upon the religion of the whole Christian world.
The whole of Christianity as it is commonly received, is, in my view, greatly perverted, corrupted and
enfeebled by this error. Christianity is not regarded
as a clearer and more impressive exhibition of the
long established, well known, eternal laws of man's
spiritual welfare, but as the bringing in of an entirely
new scheme of salvation. The common interpretation of
it, instead of recognising the liberal Apostolic doctrine,
that the "way of salvation is known to all. men, that
those not having the written law are a law to themselves, and that in every nation he that worships God
and works righteousness," is accepted of him, holds
in utter derogation and sovTereign scorn, all heathen
light and virtue. The prevailing idea is, that the Gospel is a certain device or contrivance of divine wisdom,
to save men; not helping them in the way which they
already perceive in their own consciousness, but superseding all such ways and laying them aside entirely;
not opening and unfolding new lights and encouragements to that way, by revelations of God's paternal
mercy and pledges of his forgiving love, but revealing
a way altogether new.
Thus the Gospel itself is made a kind of mystic
secret. I cannot allow a few of the more intelligent
expounders of it to reply, as if that were sufficient,
that they do not regard it in this light. I ask them to
consider what is the general impression conveyed by
most preachers of Christianity. They may be offend




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 339
sd when we say that vital religion is commonly represented as a mystery, an enigma, to the mass of theii
hearers. But let us not dispute about words. They
do represent it as something created in their heart,
which was not there before; of which no element
was there before; of which no man's previous experience ever gives him any information, any conception.
If this is not a mystery to mankind, it would be difficult to tell what there is that deserves the name.
Suppose the same thing to be applied to men's general
knowledge. Men know many things; but suppose it
were asserted that in all their knowing there is not
one particle of true knowledge, and that only here
and there one, who has been specially and divinely
enlightened, possesses any such knowledge. Would
not such knowledge then, be a secret shared by a few,
and kept from the rest of the world?  Would it not
be a profound mystery to the mass of mankind?
Yes; and a mystery all the darker for the seeming
light that surrounded it!
How much is there that passes in the bosom of society, unquestioned and almost unknown! It is this
which prevents us from seeing the momentous fact and
the character of the fact, which I have now been attempting to strip bare and to lay before you. It would
seem that we least know that which is nearest to us,
which is most familiar and most certain, which is mixed up most intimately with all present thought and
usage, and with the life that we daily live. A thing
must become history, it would seem, before we can
fairly read it. This is commonly allowed to be true
of political affairs; but it is just as true of all human
experience. Thus, if there had been a sect, among
the old philosophers, which pretended to hold the exAlusive possession of all science; if certain persons




340       THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
had stood up in the ancient time, and said, " tha which
other men call science, is all an illusion; we alone
truly know any thing; all other men are but fools and
idiots in this matter; they suppose themselves to
know, but they know nothing; they use words, and
make distinctions, and write books, as if they knew,
but they know nothing; they do not even know, what
knowing is;" such a pretension we should not hesitate
to characterize as a strange mixture of mysticism and
arrogance. But the same assumption in regard to
religion, is now put forth among ourselves; it is announced every week from the pulpit; it is constantly
written in books; it enters into every argument about
total depravity and regeneration and divine grace; and
men seem totally insensible to its enormity; it is regarded as a mark of peculiar wisdom and sanctity;
the men who take this ground, are the accredited
Christian teachers of multitudes; they speak as if the
secret of the matter were in them, and as if they were
perfectly entitled, in virtue of a certain divine illumination which they have received, to pronounce all
other religious claims to be groundless and false; to
say of all other men but the body of the elect, " they
think they know what religion is; they talk about. it;
they make disquisitions and distinctions as if they
knew, but they know nothing about it; they do not
even know what true religious knowing is." And all
the people say, amen. There is no rebuke; there is
no questioning; the light of coming ages has not yet
shone upon this pretension; and the people say, it is
all very right, very true.
I pray you, in fine, not to regard what I have now
been saying as a sectarian remonstrance. Nay, and
if it were so, it would not be likely to be half strong
enough. There is a heavy indifference on this subject




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 341
of religion that weighs down remonstrance, and will
not let it rise as it ought. If certain ship-masters or
merchants should say that they only understood navigation; if certain mechanicians or manufacturers
should assert that they only understood their art or
their business; if certain lawyers or physicians should
lay exclusive claim to the knowledge of law or medicine, there would be an outburst of indignation and
scorn on every hand. "What presumption! what
folly! these people are deranged!"-would be the exclamation. But men may make this claim in religion;
a few persons comparatively in Christendom, may say,
"we only have religion; we alone truly know what
religion is;" and the indifference of society replies,
" no matter; let them claim it: let them have it;" as if
the thing were not worth disputing about. And if some
one arouses himself to examine and to resist this
claim, indifference still says, "this is but a paltry,
sectarian dispute."
No, sirs, I answer; this is not a sectarian dispute.
It is not a sectarian remonstrance that is demanded
here; but the remonstrance of all human experience.
Religion is the science of man's intrinsic and immortal
welfare. What is a true knowledge, what is a true
experience here, is a question of nothing less than
infinite moment. All that a man is to enjoy or suffer
for ever, depends upon the right, practical solution of
this very question. Every where else, in business, in
science, in his profession, may a man mistake with
comparative impunity. But if he mistakes here, if he
does not know, and know by experience, what it is to
be good and pure, what it is to love God and to be conformed to his image, he is, in spite of all that men or
angels can do for him, a ruined creature.
Settle it then with yourselves, my Brethren, what
29*




342        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
true religion, true goodness, is. I will attempt, in
some further discourses, to lead you to the inferences
that follow from this discussion. But it is so fruitful
in obvious inferences, that I am willing for the present
to leave it with you, for your reflections. But this I
say now. Settle it with yourselves what true religion
is. If it is a mystery, then leave no means untried to
become acquainted with that mystery. If it is but
the cultivation, the increase in you, of what you already know and feel to be right, then address yourselves to that work of self-culture, as men who know
that more than fortunes and honours depend upon it;
who know that the soul, that heaven, that eternity.
depend upon it.




XXII.
ON THE IDENTITY  OF RELIGION  WITH GOODNESS
AND WITH A GOOD LIFE.
IF A MAN SAY, I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR; FOR
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HZ
LOVE GOD WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN — 1 John iv. 20.
I HAVE presented, in, my last discourse, two views
of religion, or of the supreme human excellence; and
I have offered some brief, but as I conceive, decisive
considerations to show which is the right view. The
one regards religion or the saving virtue, as a new creation in the soul; the other as the culture of what is
already in the soul. The one contemplates conversion
as the introduction of an entirely new element, or of
an entirely new mode of action, into our nature; the
other, as a strengthening, elevating and confirnning of
the conscience, the reverence and the love that are already a part of our nature. A simple comparison
drawn from vegetable nature will show the difference.
Here is a garden of plants. The rational gardener
looks upon them all as having in them, the elements
of growth and perfection. His business is to cultivate
them. To make the comparison more exact-he sees
that these plants have lost their proper beauty and
shapeliness, that they are distorted and dwarfed and
choked with weeds. But still the germs of improvement are in them, and his business is to cultivate thenm.
But now what does the theological gardener say?




344        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
"No, in not one of these plants, is to be found the germ
of the right production. To obtain this, it is necessary
to graft upon each one, a new principle of life."
Now I have said, that, upon the theory in question,
this new creation, this new element, this graft upon
the stock of humanity, is, and must be to the mass of
mankind, a mystery, an enigma, a profound secret.
And is not this obviously true? Man, in a state of
nature, it is constantly taught, has not one particle of
the true saving excellence. How then should he know
what it is?  "Very true," says the popular theorist;
" I accept the conclusion; is it not written, the natural
man receiveth not the things of God, neither can he
know them, because they are spiritually discerned?"
That is to say, the popular theorist understands by the
natural man, in this much quoted and much misunderstood passage, human nature. If he construed it
to mean, the sensual man, I conceive that he would
arrive at a just exposition. But that is not the point in
question now. He does construe it to mean human
nature; this is constantly done. Human nature being
nothing but one mass of unmingled depravity, having
never had one right motion or one right feeling, can,
of course, have no knowledge of any such motion or
feeling.
And to show that this is not a matter of doctrine
only, but of experience too, let me spread before you a
single supposition of what often, doubtless, takes place
in fact. A man of generally fair and unexceptionable
life, is lying upon his bed of death, and is visited and
questioned, with a view to his spiritual condition.
Suppose now he were to say, " I have had for some
time past, though I never confessed it before, a certain,
unusual, indescribable feeling in my heart on the subject of religion. It came upon me, for I remember it




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 345
well, in such a month of such a year; it was a new
feeling; I had never felt any thing like it before. Ever
since, I have had a hope that I then experienced religion. Not that I trust myself, or any thing in myself;
I cast all my burthen upon Christ; nothing but Christ
-nothing but Christ, is the language upon my lips with
which I would part from this world;" and would not
this declaration, I ask, though conveying not one intelligible or definite idea to the most of those around him, be
held to be a very satisfactory account of his preparation
for futurity? But now suppose that he should express
himself in a different manner, and should utter the
thoughts of his heart thus: "I know that I am far
from perfect, that I have, in many things, been very
unfaithful; I see much to repent of, for which I hope
and implore God's forgiveness. But I do trust, that for
a number of years, I have been growing in goodness;
that I have had a stronger and stronger control over
my passions. Alas! I remember sad and mournful
years, in which they had dominion over me; but I do
trust that I did at length gain the victory; and that
latterly, I have become, every year, more and more
pure, kind, gentle, patient, disinterested, spiritual and
devout. I feel that God's presence, in which I am
ever happiest, has been more abidingly with me; and
in Short, I hope that the foundations of true happiness
have been laid deep in my soul; and that through
God's mercy, of which I acknowledge the most adorable manifestation and the most blessed pledge in the
Gospel, I shall be happy forever." And now I ask you,
do you not think that this account, with many persons,
would have lost just as much in satisfactoriness as it
has gained in clearness? Would not some of the wise,
the guides in Israel, go away, shaking their heads, and
saying, they feared it would never do?'' Too much




346        THE NATURE OF RELIGILN.
talk about his own virtues!" they would say; " too
little about Christ!" with an air itself mysterious in
that solemn reference. And doubtless if this man had
talked more mystically about Christ and grace and the
Holy Spirit, it would have been far more satisfactory.
And yet he has stated, and clearly stated, the essential
grounds of all human welfare and hope.
How often in life, to take another instance, does a
highly moral and excellent man say, " I hope I am not
a bad man; I mean to do right; I trust I am not devoid of all kind and generous affections towards my
fellow-men, or of all grateful feelings towards my
Maker; but then I do not profess to have religion. I
do not pretend that I am a Christian in any degree."
Let not my construction of this case, be mistaken.
Doubtless in many such persons there are great, defects; nay, and defects proceeding partly from  the
very error which I am combatting. For if I were to
say to such persons, " yes, you have some good and
pious affections in you, which God approves, and your
only business is, to give the supremacy to these very
affections which are already in you;" I should be
thought to have lulled his conscience, fostered his pride,
and ruined his soul. I should be regarded as a worldly moralizer, a preacher of smooth things, a follower
of the long-doomed heresy of Pelagius.  "No," it
would be said, " there is no saving virtue in that man;
there is nothing in him that can be strengthened, or
refined or elevated or confirmed into holiness; there is
no spark to be fanned into a flame, no germ to be
reared into saving life and beauty; all these things are
to be flung aside to make way for the reception of
something altogether new; as new as light to the blind
or as life to the dead. That something, when it comes,
will be what he never knew before, never felt before,




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 347
never before truly saw or conceived of; and it is,
undoubtedly, though that is an unusual way of describing it-it is, to depraved human nature, a mystery."
Ttls unquestionable assumption of the popular religion, I shall now proceed freely to discuss in several
points of view; in its bearing on the estimate and
treatment of religion, on its culture, and on its essential vitality and power.
In the present discourse I shall consider its bearing
on the estimate, and on the treatment of religion.
First, the general estimate of the nature, reasonableness and beauty of religion; what can it be, if religion is a mystery, an enigma, a thing unknown? We
may feel curiosity about a mystery; and I have seen
more than one person, seeking religion from this impulse; because they would know what it can be.
This is uncommon, doubtless; but taken in any view,
can men be in love with a mystery? Can they feel
any moral admiration for an enigma? Can their affections be strongly drawn to what is completely unknown? Can they feel even the rectitude of that, of
which they have no appreciation, no idea? Certainly
not; and in accordance with this view is the old Calvinistic doctrine concerning the means of grace; which
utterly denied the force of moral suasion, and held-that
there is no natural tendency in preaching to change the
heart; that the connection between preaching and regeneration was as purely arbitrary as that between the
voice of Ezekiel over the valley of dry bones and their
resurrection to life.
But suppose this view of preaching be modified, and
that a man designs to impress his hearers with the
reasonableness and beauty of religion, and so to draw
their hearts to it. What, let us ask him, can you do,




348        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
upon the principle that religion is utterly foreign to
human nature, an absolute secret to humanity? You
have denied and rejected the only means of rational
impression-some knowledge and experience in the
hearers, of that about which you are speaking to them.
You have disannulled the very laws and grounds of
penitence; for how can men feel to blame for not pos
sessing the knowledge of a secret? In fine, you may
be a magician to men, upon this principle; but I do
not perceive how you can be a rational preacher. You
may say, "this, of which I speak to you, is something
wonderful; try it; you have no idea what it will be to
you; you will find-" you cannot say, you see-but,
"you will find that it is something delightful and
beautiful beyond all things." And have we never witnessed a preaching which seemed to work upon the
hearers, as it were, by a kind of art magic: solemn and
affecting tones, a preternatural air, a talking as of
some secret in heaven ready to come right down into
the hearts of the hearers, if they will: an awful expostulation with them for their refusal; a mysterious influence drawn around the place; dark depths of wo
here; a bright haze of splendour there; heaven above,
hell beneath; and the sinner suspended between them
by a parting cord! And how, oh! how, was he now
to escape? Mark the answer; for if there ever was a
mystery, here is one. By some stupendous change
then and there to take place; not by rationally cultivating any good affections; not by solemnly resolving
to do so; not at all by that kind of change; but by a
change instant, immense, mysterious, incomprehensible; a change that would wrap up in that moment the
destinies of eternity, that should gather up all the welfare or wo of the infinite ages of being, into the mys
terious bosom of that awful moment!




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 3419
Can such teaching as this, go to the silent depths of
real and rational conviction? Did Jesus Christ teach
in this manner? Think how natural, how moral,
how simple, his teachings were. Think how he taught
men their duty in every form, which the instant occasion suggested. Think of his deep sobriety, of his
solemn appeals to conscience rather than to imagination, to what was in man rather than what was out
of him; and then answer me. Did the great Bible
preachers, teach so? Behold the beauty of holiness,
they say, behold the glory of the Lord; " know and
see that it is an evil thing and bitter to depart" from
them. "Come, ye children, and I will teach you the
fear of the Lord. What man is he that desireth life
and loveth many days that he may see good? Keep
thy tongue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile.
Depart from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue
it. The eyes of the Lord are upon such righteous
ones, and his ears are open to their cry." All simple;
all intelligible; all plain and level to the humblest
apprehension; no talking of a mysterious secret here;
no mysterious talking any way!
It is very difficult to speak the exact and undisputed
truth upon any point, amidst the endless shapings and
shadowings of language and opinion. I myself, who
protest against making a secret of religion, may be
found speaking of most men as very ignorant of religion; of the depths of the Gospel as yet to be sounded
by them; of the preciousness of the great resource as
yet to be felt, yet to be found out by them. But I amn
well understood, by those who are accustomed to hear
me, not to mean any thing, which is radically a secret
of humanity, but simply the increase and consumnlatiGn in the soul, of that which it already knows and
experiences. The change from transient and un.
30




350        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
stable, to habitual and abiding emotions of goodness
and piety, is the most immense, the most important,
the most glorious on earth; and it is one, of which
those who are ignorant of it, cannot clearly foresee all
the blessed fruits.
Again, it is very difficult to describe what is deemed
a great error, without seeming to do it harshly. I
would gladly avoid this imputation. God forbid that
I should speak lightly of the preaching of good and
earnest men. I must speak plainly of it. I must remonstrate against what I deem to be its errors. But
I do not forget that with all error there is a mixture of
truth. No doubt, there are, in all pulpits, many appeals, however inconsistent with the prevailing theology, to what men naturally know and feel of the
rectitude and beauty of religion. But from this mass
of teaching, I single out one element which, I say, is
not accordant with truth; which, I must say, is not
only false, but fatal to all just appreciation of religion.
And does not the actual state of things show this to
be the fact? With what eyes are men, in fact, looking upon a religion which holds itself to be a mystic
secret in the bosom of a few? Do you not know that
the entire literature and philosophy of the age, are in
a state of revolt against it? Our literature has its
ideals of character, its images of virtue and worth;
it portrays the moral beauty that it admires; but is
there one trace of this mystic religion in its delineations? Our philosophy, our moral philosophy especially, whose very business it is to decide what is right,
calmly treads this religion under foot, does not consider
its claims at all. And the cultivators of literature, of
science and of art, with a multitude of thoughtful and
intelligent men besides them-is it not a well-ascertained fact that they are remarkably indifferent to this




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 351
kind of religion? Here and there one has fallen in
with it; but the instance is rare. But if religion were
presented to them as a broad and rational principle,
we might expect the reverse to be the fact. Thoughtful men, cultivators of literature and art, are the very
men whose minds are most conversant with
images of moral beauty. Show them that all true
moral beauty, is a part of religion; tell them that a
Christian, in the true sense, is a man of principle, of
truth and integrity, of kindness and modesty, of
reverence and devotion to the Supreme Glory; and
they must feel that all this is interesting. But if religion is some mysterious property ingrafted into the
soul, differing altogether from all that men are wont to
call rectitude and beauty, must not all intellect and
taste and all moral enthusiasm and all social generosity and love, shrink fri om it? In truth, I wonder that
they are so patient as they are; and nothing but indifference about the whole matter, can account for this
patience. When the preacher rises in his pulpit and
tells the congregation, that, excepting that grace which
is found in a few, all their integrity and virtue, all their
social love and gentleness, all their alms and prayers,
have not in the sight of God, one particle of true
goodness or worth; nothing, I say, but profound apathy
and unbelief can account for their listening to the sermon with any patience, with an instant's toleration
of the crushing burthen of that doctrine. Or suppose
this doctrine embodied into a character, and then how
does it appear? Suppose one person in a family, possessing this mystic grace; in no other respect, that
any body can see, better than the rest; no more amiable nor gentle nor disinterested, no more just nor forbearing nor loving: and suppose this person to take
the position of being the only one in that family that




352        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
is approved of God, to hold all the rest as reproba te
and doomed to destruction; is it possible, I ask, to feel
for that person in that character, any respect, or admiration, or love? Nay, I have known persons of the
greatest defects of character and even of gross vices,
to take this ground of superiority, in virtue of a certain
inward grace, which they conceive has been applied to
them. And I say not this for the -sake of opprobrium;
but because this ground is, in fact, a legitimate conse
quence of the doctrine that saving grace in the heart,
is an entirely distinct and different thing from what
men ordinarily call virtue and goodness.
But further; what is the state of feeling towards
religion among those who accept this doctrine? In
those strong holds of theology or of Church institution,
where this doctrine is entrenched, where it is preserved
as a treasure sacred from all profane invasion, or held
as a bulwark against what are called the inroads of
insidious error; in these places, I say, what is the feeling? If religion is not any known or felt sentiment
or affection of human nature to be cultivated, but is a
spell that comes upon the heart of one and another,
and nobody can tell how or when it will come, I can
conceive that there may be much fear and anxiety
about it; but how there should be much true freedom
or genuine and generous love, I cannot conceive. I
do not profess to have any very intimate acquaintance
with the mind of such a congregation; but if religion
does not press as an incubus upon the minds of many
there; if it is not a bugbear to the young, and a mystery to the thoughtful, and a dull, dead weight upon
the hearts of the uninitiated; if, in its votaries, it is
not ever swaying between the extremes of death-like
coldness and visionary rapture; if it is not a little
pent-up hope of salvation, rather than a generous and




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 353
quickening principle of culture; if the fire in the secret
shrine, does not wither the gentle and lofty virtues; I
must confess that I understand nothing of the tendencies of numan nature.'There may be much religiousness in such a state'of things; but much of this
has existed in many a state, Heathen, Mahometan,
Catholic and Protestant too, without much of true religion. I do not say, that the churches consist generally
of bad people; many influences unite to form the
character; but I say that in so far as any churches
hold their religion, to be some special grace implanted
in them, and different from all that other men feel of
goodness and piety, so far their assumption tends directly to make them neglect the cultivation of all true
worth and nobleness of character. And I am not
shaken in this position by the admission which I am
willing to make, that there are probably more good
men, in proportion, in the churches than out of them;
for profession itself, the eye of the world upon them,
and the use of certain ordinances, are powerful influences. They are powerful, and yet they are not the
loftiest influences. They restrain, more than they
impel. And the very morality of an exclusive religion,
is apt to wear features hard, stern, ungenial and
unlovely.
I have said in the opening of my last discourse, that
the great mission of the true teacher in this age is to
establish the identity of religion and goodness. And
the reason is, that by no other means can religion be
really esteemed and loved. Feared it may be; desired
it may be; but by no other means, I repeat, can it be
truly and heartily esteemed and loved.
Now consider that religion stands before the world,
with precisely this claim, the claim to be, above all
other things, reverenced an'd loved. Nay, it demands
30*




354        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
this love on pain of perdition for failure. Does the
world respond to this claim? Does public sentiment
any where yield to it? There are things that unite
the moral suffrages of mankind-honesty, integrity,
disinterestedness, pity for the sorrowful, true love, true
sanctity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom, and among them
and above them all, the character of Jesus Christ.
Among these, does Calvinistic piety hold any place?
This is a fair and unexceptionable question in the
sense in which I mean it. I am not speaking at all,
of persons, I am speaking of an idea. Is the Calvinistic idea of piety, among the beautiful and venerable
ideals and objects of the world's conscience, of the
world's moral feeling? Surely not. But it will not do
to say that this is because the world is so bad. For
the character of our Saviour is among those objects!
Bad as the world is, yet all sects and classes and communities, all Infidels and Mahometans and Heathen,
have agreed, without one single solitary whisper of
contradiction, that this character is a perfect example
of true, divine excellence! Does the Calvinistic idea
of religion draw to it, any such testimony?  Then
what clearer evidence can there be, that it is wrong?
And if it be wrong, if it is an error; what terrible
and awful mischiefs must follow in its train! Mankind
required, as the supreme duty, to love that which all
their natural sentiments oblige them to dislike, and
none of their natural powers, in fact, enable them to
understand! What peril must there be of their salvation in such a case!  What a calamitous state of
things must it be for their highest hopes! What confusion, what embroilment and distraction to all their
moral convictions! Nothing else can account for that
blind wandering of many souls after the true good,
which we see; for that wild fanaticism, which has




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 355
taken the place of sober and intelligent seeking; for
that distracted running up and down, of men who
know not what they are to get, nor how to get it, nor
what, in any way, to do; and yet more, for that profound and dreadful apathy of many, who have concluded that they can do nothing, who have given up
all thoughts of life as the voyage of the soul, and have
resigned themselves to wait for some chance wave
of excitement to bear them to the wished-for haven.
Believe me, my friends, this is no abstract matter.
It touches the vital ideas of human welfare. It concerns what is most practical, most momentous. In all
congregations, in all townships and villages through
the land, an image is held up of religion, an idea of
what is the supreme excellence. It is regarded with
doubt and fear and misgiving; not with love, or
enthusiasm, or admiration. It is not fair loveliness or
beauty; but a dark enigma. It is not the supreme
excellence, but the supreme necessity. It is not intelligently sought, but blindly wished for. Alas! it is
hard enough to get men to pursue the true excellence
when they are plainly told what it is. But here is a
dread barrier on the very threshold, and they cannot
proceed a single step.  They can do nothing till they
are converted; they know not what it is to be converted; and they wait for the initiative to come from
heaven; not knowing, alas! that to be converted is, with
heaven's help, to begin; to take the first determined
step and the second, and thus to go onward; to begin
upon the ground of what they actually know, and
thus to go on to perfection. Religion, the beauty of
the world; that which mingles as their pervading
spirit with the glory of the heavens and the loveliness
of nature; that which breathes in the affections of
parents and children and in all the good affections of




356        THE NATURE OF RELIGIO;.
society; that which ascends in humble penitence and
prayer to the throne of God: this is no mystic secret.
It is to be good and kind, penitent and pure, temperate
and self-denying, patient and prayerful; modest and
generous and loving, as thou knowest how to be; loving, in reverent thoughts of the good God, and in kind
thoughts of all his children. It is plain, not easy, not
in that sense natural; but natural in its accordance
with all the loftiest sentiments of thy nature, easy in
this, that nothing ever sat with such perfect peace and
calm upon thy soul as that will. It is so plain, that
he who runs, may read. It is the way in which fools
need not err. "For what doth the Lord require of
thee," saith the prophet, indignant at the complaint of
ignorance, "what doth the Lord require of thee, but
to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly
with thy God?"
Let me now proceed in the next place, from the
estimate to the treatment of religion. The topics indeed are closely connected; for the treatment of the
subject will, of course, depend on the estimate formed
of its character and merits. This consideration, it is
evident, might carry us through the whole subject;
but I shall not, at present, touch upon the ground of
religious culture and religious earnestness, which I
have reserved for separate discussion. In the remainder
of this discourse, I shall confine myself to the treatment of religion; as a matter of investigation, and of
institution, and as a matter to be approached in practical seeking. The space that remains to me will
oblige me to do this very briefly; and indeed to touch
upon one or two topics under these several heads, is
all that I shall attempt.
Under the head of investigation, the subject of reli
gious controversy presents itself.




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 357
Every one must be aware that religious controversy
s distinguished by certain remarkable traits, from all
other controversy.  There has generally been a sever
ity, a bigotry, an exclusion and an obstinacy in it, not
found in any other disputes. What has invested,
with these strange and unseemly attributes, a subject
of such tender, sublime and eternal interest?  I conceive, that it is this: the idea that within the inmost
bosom of religion, lies a secret, a something peculiar,
distinct from all other qualities in tile human character,
and refusing to be judged of as other things are judged
of, a secret wrapped about with the divine favour, and
revealed only to a few. There is an unknown element
in the case, and it is difficult to obtain a solution.
The question is perplexed by it, as a question in
chemistry would be, by the presence of some undetected substance. Or if the element is known to some,
it is held to be unknown to others, and this assumption
lays the amplest ground for bigotry and exclusion. If
I know what religion is, and another man does not
know, I am perfectly entitled, if I think proper, to reject his claim to it, to say that some defect of faith, or
of ritual in him, forbids the possibility of his having
it. Nothing is easier than, on this basis, to form an
exclusive sect; it is, in fact, the legitimate and the
only legitimate basis of such a sect. I say the only
legitimate basis; because, if every thing in this matter
be fairly submitted to inquiry and decision, the vitality
of religion as well as its creed and ritual; if all men
can, by care and study, know what it is; if all men
must know what it is, by the very law written on their
hearts; then it is absurd for one party to lay claim to
the sole knowledge and possession of it. Wrap it up
in secrecy, and then, and then only, may you consist.
ently wrap it up in exclusion.




358        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
Only think of an exclusive party in scien e or art.
Think of such a sect, saying to all others, " we only
have the true love of science or art; we only have
the true spirit of science or art;" and why would not
their claim stand, for a moment?  Because all other
men of learning and skill would say, " we are as competent to judge of this matter as you are. There is
no secret in knowledge. There is no exclusive key to
wisdom. There is no hidden way to art. Prove that
there is, and then it may be that the mystery is in your
possession. But until you establish this point, youir
claim is absurd and insufferable, and not worth examination."
Now the whole evil as well as the whole peculiarity
of religious controversy, lies in this spirit of exclusion,
in the assumption that opponents cannot be good men.
Otherwise, controversy is a good thing. That is to
say, honest and friendly discussion is good.  The
whole evil, I say, lies in the assumption of an exclusive
knowledge of religion. Persecution proceeds upon no
other ground. Men have been imprisoned, tortured,
put to death, not merely because they erred, not simply
because they differed from their brethren, but because
that error, that difference, was supposed to involve the
very salvation of the soul. Men have been punished,
not as errorists simply, but as men irreligious and bad.
and as making others so. I speak now of honest persecution. Its object has been the salvation of souls.
Its doctrine has been: "painful as torture is, it is
better than perdition; better fires on earth, than fires
in hell."  But the persecuted brethren say, " we are
not irreligious and bad men. We wish the truest
good to ourselves and others; and though you oppose
us, as you must, you ought not to hate, or torture or
vilify us; we no more deserve it than you' do." And




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 359
what is the reply? " You know nothing about the matter. You suppose yourselves to be good and true, and to
have favour with God and a good hope of heaven;
but we know better; we know what true religion is,
and we say that you are totally devoid of it."  And
this judgment, I repeat, can fairly proceed upon nothing but the notion that religion is a secret in the pos
session of the persecutors.
Let it be otherwise, as surely it ought to be, if
any thing ought; let religion, the great sentiment, the
great interest of humanity, be common ground, open
and common to all; let men take their stand upon it,
and say, as they say in other differences of opinion, " we
all wish the same thing; we would all be happy, we
would get to heaven; what else can we wish?" and
do you not see how instantly religious disputes would
take on a new character; how gentle and charitable
and patient and tolerant they would become? But
now, alas! the toleration of science, of art, nay, and
of politics too, goes beyond the toleration of religion!
Men do not say to their literary or political. opposers,
"ye are haters of science or art; ye hate the common
country;" but in religion, they say: " ye are haters of
God, and of good' men, and of all that is truly good."
Yes, the occasion for this tremendous exclusion, is
found in religion; in that which was ordained to be
the bond of love, the bosom of confidence, the garner
of souls into heaven; the theme of all grandeur and
of all tenderness; the comforter of affliction, the loving nurse of all human virtues, the range of infinity,
the reach to eternity, the example of the One meek
and lowly; the authority, at once, and the pity of the
heavenly Father!
The next subject for the application of the point I
am considering, is religious institutions. Under this




360        THE.NATURE OF RELIGION.
head, I must content myself with briefly pointing out
a single example. The example is the ordinance of
the Lord's Supper. The question I have to ask, is:
why do so many sober, conscientious and truly religious persons, refrain from a participation in this rite?
And the anwer with many, is doubtless to be found
in the notion, that religion involves some secret, or the
experience of some secret grace, something different
from moral uprightness, and religious gratitude, with
which they are not acquainted. I do not say that this
account embraces every case of neglect, but I say that
it embraces many. I will suppose a person, conscious
of a sincere intent to be in all things, a true and good
man, conscious too of religious affections, and desirous
of cultivating them; one, believing in Christ, believing that his life and his death are the most powerful
known ministration to human sanctity and blessedness; one, also, truly disposed to impress the spirit of
Christ upon his own heart, and persuaded that the
meditations of the Communion season, would be a
help and comfort to him; and why now, I ask, shall
he not avail himself of that appointed means? He
is desirous of sacred culture. This is a means, and
he wishes to embrace it. Why does he not? I am
sure that I may answer for him, that he would do so,
if he felt that he were qualified. But this is the difficulty; he is afraid that there is some qualification,
unknown to him,; and that he shall commit a sin of
rashness and presumption if he comes to the sacred
ordinance.
My friends, it is all a mistake. You do know, in a
greater or less measure, what Christian virtue, what
Christian piety, is. You can know, whether you desire to cultivate this character. If you do, that very
desire is the qualification. Means are for those who need




1DENTITY' OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 361
them, not for those who need them not; for the im
perfect, not for the perfect. The felt need of means,
the sincere desire of means, is the qualification for
them. If, being believers in Christianity, you also be-.ieve that our Communion meditations would help you,
you should as much come to them, as you come to the
prayers of the Sanctuary. And you should as freely
come. The Lord's Supper is a service no more sacred
than the service of prayer. Nothing can be more
solemn than solemn prayer.
There is one more subject to be noticed under this
head of treatment of religion, by far the most important of all, and that is religious seeking; the seeking,
in other words, to establish in one's self that character,
on which God's approbation and all true good, all true
happiness, depend, and will forever depend. Momentous pursuit! that for which man was made, and life,
with all its ordinances, was given; and the Gospel,
with all its means of grace and manifestations of
mercy, was published to the world; that in which
every man should be more vitally and practically interested than in every other pursuit on earth. Every
thing else may a man seek and gain.; the whole world
may he gain, and after all lose this supreme interest.
And yet to how many, alas! will this very statement
which I am making, appear technical, dry and uninteresting!-to how many more, irrelevant to them,
foreign to their concerns, appropriate to other persons.
but a matter with which they have nothing to do! A
kind of demure assent they may yield to the importance of religion, but no vital faith; nothing of that
which carries them with such vigour and decision, to
the pursuit of property, pleasure and fame.
Now is there any difficulty in accounting for this deplo rable condition of the general mind? Make reli
31




362        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
gion a mystic secret, divest it of every attractive and
holy charm, sever it from every thing that men already
know and feel of goodness and love, tell them that they
are totally depraved, totally destitute, totally ignorant
and they may " wonder and perish;" but can they
rationally seek any thing? Men may be very depraved, they may be extremely deficient of the right affections, as they doubtless are; but if they saw the subject
in the right light, they could not be indifferent. There
could not be this heavy and benumbing cloud of apathy, spreading itself over the whole world. I have
seen the most vicious men, intensely conscious, conscious with mingled anger and despair, that the course
of virtue is the only happy course. And do you preach
to the most selfish and corrupt of men, in this wise,
saying, "nothing but purity, gentleness, love, disinterestedness, can make you happy, happy in yourself, in
your family, or in society; and nothing but the love
of God can make you happy amidst the strifes and
griefs of this life and the solemn approaches to death;"
and they know that what you say is true; they know
that you are dealing with realities; and they cannot
be indifferent. They may be angry; but anger is not
indifference. But now, do you speak to them in a
different tone and manner, and say, " you must get religion; you must experience the grace of God, in order
to be happy," and immediately their interest will subside to that state of artificial acquiescence and real
apathy, which now characterizes the mass of our
Christian communities.
Nor is this, save for its extent, the most affecting
view of the common mistake. There are real and
anxious seekers. And how are they seeking? I have
been pained to see such persons, often intelligent persons, blindly groping about as for the profoundest




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 363
secret. They have no distinct idea of what it is they
want, what they are to obtain, what they are to do.
All that they seem to know is, that it is something to
be wrought in their souls, and something on which
their salvation depends. They go about from one
meeting to another, from one master in Israel, or from
one Revival preacher, or from one experienced person
to another, and say, " Tell us what this thing is, that is
to be done in us; how did you feel when you were
converted? How was it? How did the power of divine grace come upon you? What was the change in
that very moment when you passed from death to life;?"
Well may the apostolic teaching speak to such, in this
wise: " Say not who shall go up into heaven, that is to
bring Christ down; or who shall go beyond the sea, to
bring him near. For the word is nigh thee, in thy
mouth and in thy heart, that thou shouldst do it." In
your own heart, in the simplest convictions of right
and wrong, are the teachings that you want. This,
says the Apostle, " is the word of salvation which we
preach; that if thou wilt believe in thy heart, and
confess with thy tongue that Jesus is the Christ, thou
shalt be saved." That is, if thou wilt have a loving
faith in Jesus Christ as thy Guide, Example and Saviour, and carry that faith into open action, and endeavour to follow him, thou shalt be saved. In one
word, if thou wilt be like Christ, if thou wilt imbibe
his spirit and imitate his excellence, thou shalt be happy; thou shalt be blessed; blessed and happy forever.
But the spirit, the loveliness of Christ, is no mystic
secret. It is known and read of all men. It requires
no mysterious initiation to instruct you in it. I do not
object, of course, to seeking for light, or to seeking aid
from men, from the wise and experienced; but I do
object to your seeking from them any initial or myste



364       THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
rious knowledge of what religion is. Let you stand,
alone, upon a desolate island, with the Gospel in your
hands; and then and there, do thou read that sacred
page, and pray over it, and strive patiently to bring
your heart into accordance with it; to bring what is
already in you, your love and trust, up to conformity
with it; and you are in the way of salvation.
Oh! sad and lamentable perversion; that the greatest good in the universe, the very end of our being, the
very point of all sublime human attainment, the very
object for which rational and spiritual faculties were
given us, should be a mystery; that the very light by
which we must walk, must be utter darkness, and that
all we can do is, to put out our hand and grope about
in that darkness; that the very salvation, in which all
the welfare of our souls is bound up, should be a dark
enigma, and that all we can do is to hope that we
shall some time or other know what it is. No, says
the Apostle, " the world is nigh thee, in thy mouth and
in thy heart that thou shouldst do it; that is the salvation which we preach."




XXIII.
ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION  WITH GOODNESS.
AND A GOOD LIFE.
IF A MAN SAY, I LOVE GOD, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER) HE IS A LIAR; FOR
HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HE
LOVE GOD WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN?-1 John iv. 20.
FROM these words I propose to take up again the
subject of my last discourse. I have shown, that
saving virtue, or whatever it be that is to save men, is
commonly regarded, not as the increase or strengthening of any principle that is already in them, but as the
implantation in them of a principle entirely new and
before unknown. I have endeavoured to make this
apparent, by a statement in several forms of the actual
views that prevail of religion and of obtaining religion. I have shown, that with regard to religion or
grace in the heart, the common feeling undoubtedly
is, that it is a mystery, a thing which the people do
not comprehend, and which they never expect to
comprehend but by the experience of regeneration.
I may now observe, in addition, that all this clearly
follows from the doctrine of total depravity.  This
doctrine asserts that in our natural humanity there is
not one particle of true religion or of saving virtue.
Of course, human nature knows nothing about it.
The only way in which we can come at the knowledge of moral qualities, is by feeling them in ourselves. This is an unquestioned truth in philosophy.
31*




366        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
If we have no feeling of rectitude or of religion, we
can have no knowledge of it.  It follows, therefore,
from the doctrine of universal and total depravity,
that to the mass of men, religion, as an inward principle, must be a mystery, an enigma, a thing altogether
incomprehensible.
This position —held by many Christians, but rejected by not a few, and presenting, in my opinion, the
most momentous point of controversy in the Christian
world-I have proposed to discuss with a freedom and
seriousness proportioned to its immense importance.
With this view, I proposed to consider its bearings on
the estimate and treatment of religion, the culture of
religion, and its essential vitality and power.
The first of these subjects I have already examined,
and I now proceed to the second.
The next topic then, of which I was to speak, is religious culture, or what is commonly called growth in
grace. I cannot dwell much upon this subject; but I
must not pass it by entirely.
A mystery, a mystic secret in the heart, cannot be
cultivated.. A peculiar emotion, unlike all well-known
and clearly defined emotions of goodness or veneration,
cannot be cultivated. It may be revived from time to
time; it may be kept alive in the heart by certain processes, and they are likely to be very mechanical processes; the heart, like an electric jar, may ever and
anon be charged anew with the secret power; but to
such an idea of religion, cultivation is a word that
does, in no sense, properly apply. To grow daily in
kindness and gentleness, to be more and more true,
honest, pure and conscientious, to cultivate a feeling
of resignation to the Divine will and a sense of the
Divine presence; all this is intelligible. But in proportion as the other idea of religion prevails, culture is




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 367
out of the question. And on this principle, I am persuaded, you will find many to say, that the hour of
their conversion, the hour when they received that
secret and mysterious grace into their hearts, was the
brightest hour of their religious experience. Look
then at the religious progress of such an one. I do
not say that all converts are such; but suppose any
one to be possessed with this idea of religion as altogether an imparted grace; and how naturally will his
chief effort be, to keep that grace alive within him!
And where then is culture? And what will be his
progress? Will he be found to have been growing
more generous and gentle, more candid and modest,
more disinterested and self-denying, more devoted to
good works, and more filled with the good spirit of
God? Will those who know him best, thus take
knowledge of him that he has been with Jesus, and
say of him, "he was very irascible and self-willed,
twenty years ago, but now he is very gentle and
patient; he was very selfish, but now he is very generous and self-forgetting; very close and penurious,
but now he is very liberal and charitable; very restless
and impatient, but now he is calm and seems to have
a deep and immovable foundation of happiness and
peace; very proud and self-sufficient, but now it seems
as if God and Heaven were in all his thoughts, and
were all his support and resource." I hope that this
change of character does take place in some converts;
[ would that it did in many; but I must say, that in
so far as a certain idea of conversion prevails, the idea
of a new and mysterious grace infused into the soul,
it is altogether unfavourable to such a progress.
And yet so far has this idea infected all the religion
of our times, that Christianity seems nowhere to be
that school of vigorous improvement which it was de



368        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
signed to be. Religion, if it is anything befitting our
nature, is the very sphere of progress. All its means,
ordinances and institutions have this in view, as their
very end. But surely it is very obvious and very lamentable to observe, how much religious observance
and effort there is, which goes entirely to waste, which
does not advance the character at all. Think of our
churches, our preaching, our Sabbaths; how little do
they avail to make us better? How little do they seem
to be thought of as seasons, means, schools of improvement! Must we not suspect that there is some
error at the bottom of all this? And now suppose that
men have got the notion that that something which is
to prepare them for heaven, is something entirely different from charity, honesty, disinterestedness, truth,
self-government, and the kindly love of one another;
and would not this be the very notion to work that
fatal mischief, the very notion to disarm conscience
and rational conversion of all their power?
You will recollect that, some time since, a national
ship belonging to the Imaum of Muscat, visited our
shores. Its officers, who I believe were intelligent men,
freely mingled with our citizens, and saw something
of society among us. And what do you think was
their testimony concerning us? On the point now before us, it was this: They said that there is no religion among us. And what now, you will ask, was
their own idea of religion? I answer, it was analagous to the very idea which I am controverting in this
discourse. Religion with them was not the general
improvement of the character-nothing of the kind;
but a certain strictness, a certain devoutness, a particular way of attending to religion. Wherever these
persons were found, at whatever feast or entertainment
provided for them, when. the hour of prayer prescribed




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 369
fobr Mussulmens arrived, they courteously desired leave
to retire to some private apartment, to engage in the
prescribed devotions. They found not these things
among us, and they said, "there is no religion in
America." But do you believe that these Arabian followers of the prophet, were better men than the Christian people upon whom they passed this judgment?
No; you say, without denying their sincerity, that
they had wrapped up all religion in certain peculiarities; and you deny, and very justly deny, that this
view of religion is either just or useful. You say, on
the contrary, that it is very dangerous; that it is unfriendly to the, true improvement of character; that
according to this way of thinking, a man may be a
very good Mussulman and a very bad man. And this
is precisely what I say of that idea tf religion among
ourselves which wraps it up in peculiarity; which
finds its essence in certain beliefs, or in certain experi.
ences, that are quite severed from general goodness and
virtue. And I say, too, that according to this theory,
a man may be a very good Christian, and yet a very
bad man; may consider himself pious, when he is not
even a humane man; not generous, nor just, nor candid,
nor modest, nor forbearing, nor kind; in short, that he
may be a man on whom falls that condemnation which
the Apostle pronounces on him who says, " I love God,
and hateth his brother."
But now it may be said, that the doctrine which I
have delivered, is a very dangerous doctrine. " To tell
a man," it may be said, " that there is some good in
him on which he is to build; that religion consists es.
sentially in the culture of what is already within him;
that there are naftural emotions of piety and goodness
in him which he is to cultivate into a habit and a char
acter; will not all this minister to self-complacency,




370        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
sloth, negligence and procrastination?   Will not the
man say, well, I have some good in me, and I only
need a little more, and I can attend to that, any time.
I need not trouble myself; events perhaps will improve
my character; and all will be well, without much effort or concern on my part. And especially, I need not
go through this dreadful paroxysm of a conversion; I
have nothing to do but to improve."
I might answer, that it is no new thing for a good
and true doctrine to be abused. I do not know but it
is abused by some among us. Indeed I fear that it is.
Let me proceed at once, then, to guard against this
abuse; and to show, as I have promised, that the doc
trine which I advocate is one of essential vitality and
power in religion.
Let us illustrate this by one or two comparisons.
You wish to teach some man a science. Would you
think it likely to awaken his zeal and earnestness, to
begin by telling him, not only that he knows nothing
about the science in question, but that he has no natural capacity for understanding it; that he has no
elements in him of that knowledge in which you wish
to instruct him; but that he must first have some
special and supernatural initiation from heaven into
that knowledge, and then he may advance; that till
this is done, nothing is done, and that when this is
done, all is done; all, that is to say, that is essential
to his character as a man of science, all that is necessary to prepare him  for a successful examination?
Would it further your object to instruct him in this
way?  You wish to teach music to your pupil. You
wish to arouse him to attend, and to labour for ac
complishment. Would it be well, to tell him that he
has no musical ear, and that he can do nothing till
this is given him?  You desire to train a youth tc




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 371
high physical accomplishment, to the exercises of the
gymnasium or the riding school, to feats of strength
or agility; a branch of education that deserves more
attention than it is receiving among us. Would you
avow to your pupil, that there is one preliminary step
to be gained before you could proceed at all; that he
had no muscles, no aptitude; and that, until these are
given him, he can do nothing? Alas! when I look at
the wonderful feats of some public performers, magicians as they are called, and as they seem to the people;
and when I know that all this is the result of careful
and patient training, I cannot help saying, would
Christians exercise themselves in this way, to what
might they not attain? "And these do it," -says the
Apostle, "for an earthly crown, but ye labour for a
heavenly."  Alas! I am  compelled to say again:
every school of learning, seems to be more successful
than the Christian school! And why? let me ask.
Have not all other schools their difficulties to surmount
as well as the Christian? Why then is it that this is
so lame and inefficient, but because there is some radical error at the very foundationl? Let us see Christians labouring, ay, and denying themselves, as men of
science and art and skill do, and should we not witness
some new result?
So I contend they would labour, or at the least,
would be far more likely to labour, if they were put in
the right way and were impressed with the right convictions. What is the way?  What are the convictions?  What does our doctrine say to men? What
does it say to them with regard to conversion, to progress, and to preparation for heaven?
With regardto conversion, it says, " you must begin
the work of self culture; resolutely and decidedly you
nmust enter upon the Christian path. If that era of




372      THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
solemn determination has never come to you, then i
must come, or you are a lost man. With a feeling as
solemn, as profound, as absorbing, as ever possessed
the heart of any convert to mysterious grace, you must
begin. He may think that the saving work is done
upon him in an instant; you must not think so.
That is all an error proceeding from a false interpretation of certain figurative language of Scripture; such
as "new birth," "new creation"-figurative phrases
which apply to the soul, only so far as the soul's nature will admit; and it does not admit of an instant's
experience being the preparation for heaven. He who
has received this instantaneous communication, may
think that in that moment he has got a grace, a something-a something like a pass-word to heaven; but
you, if you will have any reason in your religion, must
not think so. If you think at all, you cannot think so
If you imagine, you may imagine what you will.
And truly, it is no moderate stretch of imagination that
is here supposed. For if an instant's experience is
enough to prepare the soul for heaven, I must wonder
why a life was given for it. No, in one moment we
can only begin. But that beginning must nevertheless be made. What is never begun, is never done.
On that great resolve, rests the burden of all hunlan
hope. On that great bond is set the seal of eternity.
If we have never made that bond with our souls to be
true and pure; if we have never taken up that resolve,
I see not how we can be Christians. If all our impulses were good, we might yield ourselves up to them.
If there were no temptations, we should need no purpose. If there were a tide in the ocean of life that set
right towards the desired haven, we might cast ourselves upon it and let it bear us at its will. But what
would you expect, if a ship were loosened from the




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 373
wharf, and without any course set, or any purpose ta
make a voyage, it were to take such fate as the winds
and waves might send it? You know what its fate
would be; to founder amidst the seas or to be wrecked
on the shore; it would reach no haven. And so upon
the great deep of life, a moral voyage is to be made;
amidst winds and waves of passion, and through
clouds and storms of temptation and difficulty, the
course must be held; and it will not be held, if it is
not firmly set. Certainly, no man will make the
voyage, unless he is determined to make it.  How
many launch forth upon the'ocean of life without any
such determination; and their ship is swayed this way
and that way by unseen currents, and is carried far
astray by smooth tides and softly breathing winds; but
surely, unless a time comes, when the thoughtless
mariner arouses himself, and directs his course and
spreads his sails for the haven, he will never reach it!
I must lay this emphatic stress upon beginning; and
I would that it might be a point of personal inquiry.
I will use no intrusive liberty with your thoughts; but
I would say, have you begun?  Have you resolved?
for there is nothing on earth so much requiring a resolve. Let not this matter then, be wrapped in mystery. In clear reality, let it stand before us; in close
contact, let it come to us. There is something wrong,
of which the soul is conscious. The resolve required
is this; to do it no more. There is some secret indulgence, some bosom sin. The resolve is, to tear that
sin from the bosom, though it be dear as a right hand
or a right eye. Some duty, or course of duties, is
neglected; the resolve is to set about it, this day, this
hour. In short, the resolve is, a great, strong, substantial purpose to do right in all things; it is to set
up the standard of duty as that beneath which we will
32




374         THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
walk all our life through; to give our hearts without
any reserve to God, to truth and sanctity and goodness
This is what our doctrine says in regard to convez
sion. And now what does it say, on the subject of
progress? Does the message which it delivers, minister to sloth, negligence, or procrastination?   What
does it say? Your life's work is growth in goodness
and piety.  It is a daily work, or it is no work at all.
Every day you must advance. Practical religion is
self-culture. God has given you a natural piety, and
a natural benevolence, as he has given you a natural
reason.  With one as with the other, your business is
culture. The seed is in you, as the seed of the coming harvest is in the soil. Every thing depends on culture.  Does it discourage the industry of the husbandman to tell him that the seed is provided, and planted
in the earth; that there is a germ that will grow if he
will take care of it? Nay, that is the very reason
why he will work. Or does he refuse to work, because
it is necessary that God's sun and air quicken the soil?
And why any more that God's spirit must shine and
breathe upon his soul?
In this rational and generous self-culture, is the secret of spiritual strength. There is nothing which
most men so much feel as the want of vitality and
earnestness in their religion. Their talk about it is
dull and mournful; their prayers are cold and reluctant; their interest is languid, their Sabbaths and their
religious meetings in conference-rooms and schoolhouses, are heavy and sluggish! And why is all this?
It is, provided they are sincere, because their views of
religion are irrational, mystical, essentially uninteresting; because the thing in question, is severed fiom
the living fountains of all true emotion. Let me state
it to you thus.  You have a friend, a dear and lovely




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 375
friend; and towards that being your affections are not
dull and sluggish. But why is that friend dear and
lovely?  Because generous and noble-hearted, kind
and gentle, full of disinterestedness and purity and
truth? Then I tell you that your friendship is a part
of religion. It is of the same nature as religion. It
is no other than a portion of the beauty of the Divinity
that is shed forth in the heart of your friend. Again,
you have an enthusiasm for all that is morally sublime
and beautiful. The patriot that dies for his country;
the martyr that calmly goes to the stake, when one
word, one little word uttered, will give him life and
fortune, and splendour, and he will not speak that false
word; the patient and heroic sufferer amidst pain and
calamity; the great sufferer when he breathed the.
prayer, Father, forgive them; these, win admiration
draw tears from you perhaps, as you think of them.
And again, I tell you that this is a part of religion.
Once more, you have an interest in this matter. Surely
you would be happy. Uneasiness, destitution, selfinflicted pain are hard to bear. But was ever a soul,
full of the love of God, full of kindness and gentleness, full of serenity and trust; was ever such a soul
essentially unhappy? How then can fainting and
famishing creatures, gather in converse around this
fountain of all healing and comfort, and not be thrilled with inexpressible emotion? Let me suggest one
more thought. There is one great Being.who is the
first and chiefest object of religion-God! And God
is every where. Can there be indifference where it is
felt that God is? And he is every where. In the
crowded meeting, in thy lonely and retired walk, in
the ever lovely, holy and beautiful nature that is spread
around you, in the silent and star-lit dome of heaven,
and beneath your humble roof, in all that fills it with




376         THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
comfort and joy and hope, ay, or touches it with disciplinary sorrow, in all, God is: the nearest, the holiest;
the greatest, the kindest of beings; and can indifference live in that sublime and blessed presence?
Now what is religion? It is not merely to feel all
this, at certain times and seasons, but it is to make it
the reigning habit of our minds. To feel it, is comparatively easy; to form it into the very structure of
our souls, is quite another thing. I cannot very well
understand how any man should want the feeling:
but I can very well understand, how he should want
the character. For this it is precisely, that is the
greatest and rarest of all human attainments.  This
it is, to have Christ formed within us, the hope of glory.
Jesus, the blessed Master, lived that perfect life. In
him each good affection of the humanity, had its fullness, its permanence, its perfection. How reverend,
how holy, how dear, how soul-entrancing, is that incarnate loveliness; God in him, God with us; the
brightness of the Father's glory and the express image
of his person! Oh! could we be like him! all our ungoverned agitations, all our vain longings, all our distracting passions, all our needless griefs and pains,
would die away from us; and we should be freed from
the heavy, heavy burden of our sins! I almost fear,
my friends, so to express myself; lest it should be construed into the hackneyed and whining lamentation
of the pulpit, and should win no respect, no sympathy
with you. No, it is with a manly grief, with an indignant sorrow, and shame, that every one of us should
lament, that he has not more unreservedly followed
the great and glorious Master!
And let me add, that this is no visionary nor impracticable undertaking. It is what we all can do, with
God's help, if we will. It is what is bound upon us




IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 377
by the simplest perceptions of rectitude in our own souls
bound upon us by the very feelings of conscience and
obligation which God has implanted within us.
Finally, it is what we must do, if we would attain
to happiness here or hereafter. The hours are stealing
on, when the veil of eternity shall part its awful folds,
and the great and dread hereafter shall receive us.
Solemn will be that hour! Lightly do we hear of its
daily coming to one and another round us now; little
do we think of what it was to them; but so will not
be its coming-with lightness or with little thoughtso will not be its coming to us. The gathering and
swelling thoughts of that hour, no one can know but
he who has felt it drawing nigh. Earth recedes;
and earth's ambition, gain, pleasure, vanity, shrink
to nothing; and one thought spreads all around
and fills the expanding horizon of eternity —am  I
ready? Have I lived so, as to meet this hour? And
believe me, in no court of human theology, must that
question be answered. No imaginary robe of another's
righteousness-I speak not now of God's mercy in
Christ; that, we may be sure, will be all that mercy
consistently can be; no mystic grace claiming superiority to all deeds of mercy and truth; no narrow, technical hope of salvation garnered up in the heart, will
avail us there; but the all-deciding question will bewhat were we? and what have we done?  What
were we, in the whole breadth and length of all our
good or all our bad affections?  That awful question
we must answer for ourselves. No one shall be there
to answer for us. No answer shall be given in there,
but that which comes from every day and hour of
our lives.  For there is not a day nor an hour of our
lives, but it contributes to make us better or worse; it
has borne the stamp of our culture or carelessness, of
32*




378       THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
our fidelity or our neglect. And that stamp, which
our life's experience sets upon our character, is —I
speak not my own word, but God's word-that stamp
is the very seal of retribution.
Does this seem, my friends, but a sad and stern conclusion of the matter; not encouraging to our hopes,
nor accordant with the mercy of the Gospel?  The
Gospel? Is it a system of evasions and subterfuges
and palliatives, to ease off the strict demand of holiness?
No) let theology boast of such devices, and tell men
that as they have sowed so shall they not reap; but
believe me, the Gospel is the last thing to break the
everlasting bond that connects happiness with goodness, with purity. And who would have it otherwise?
Who would be happy, but on condition of being good,
and in proportion as he is good? What true man
asks, that over his corrupt and guilty heart, while such,
may be poured a flood of perfect bliss? Our nature
may be fallen and low; but that flood would sweep
away the last vestige of all its honour and worth.
God never created a thing so vile as that would be.
No, it is a noble being that he has given us, though,
alas! it be marred and degraded; and upon the
eternal laws of that being, must we build up our welfare. It is a glorious privilege so to do; to do what
the noble Apostle spoke of as his own law and hope,
when he said,-and be assured, that must be our law
and hope-" I have fought a good fight, I have finished
my course, I have kept the faith; henceforth there is
laid up for me a crown, which the Lord, the righteous
Judge, will give me in that day; and not to me only,
but to all who love his appearing."




XXIV.
SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME.
INSUS ANSWERED THEM AND SAID, VERILY, VERILY I SAY UNTO YOU, YE SEER
MEB NOT BECAUSE YE SAW THE MIRACLES, BUT BECAUSE YE DID EAT OF
THE LOAVES AND WERE FILLED. LABOUR NOT FOR THE MEAT WHICH
PERISHETH1 BUT FOR THAT MEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO ETERNAL LIFE.John vi. 26i 27.
THE contrast here set forth, is between a worldly
mind and a spiritual mind: and so very marked and
striking is it, that the fact upon which it is based
may seem to be altogether extraordinary, a solitary instance of Jewish stupidity, and not applicable to any
other people, or any after times. Our Saviour avers
that the multitude who followed him, on a certain occasion, did so, not because they saw those astonishing
miracles, that gave witness to his spiritual mission;
but simply, because they did eat of the loaves, and
were filled.  Yet, strange as it may seem, the same
great moral error, I believe, still exists; the same preference of sensual to spiritual good, though the specific
exemplification of the principle can no longer be exhibited among men. But let us attend to our Saviour's
exhortation. " Labour not for the meat that perisheth,
but for that meat which endureth unto eternal life."
The word labour, refers to the business of life.  It is
as if our Saviour had said, work, toil, care, provide,
for the soul.  And it is in this sense of the word, as
well as in the whole tenor of the passage, thlat I find
the leading object of my present discourse: which is




380        THE NATURE OF RELIGION
to show that spiritual interests, the interests of the
mind and heart, the interests of reason and conscience,
however neglected, however forgotten amidst the pursuit of sensual and worldly objects, are nevertheless
real and supreme; that they are not visionary because
spiritual; but that they are most substantial and
weighty interests, and most truly deserving of that
earnest attention, that laborious exertion, which is
usually given to worldly interests.
So does not the world regard them, any more than
did the Jews of old. It is written that the "children of
this world are wiser in their generation"-i. e. after their
manner wiser, " than the children of light." But the
children of this world, not content with this concession,
are apt to think that they are every way wiser. And
the special ground of this assumption, though they
may not be aware of it, is, I believe, the notion which
they entertain that they are dealing with real and substantial interests. Religious men, they conceive, are
occupied with matters which are vague and visionary,
and which scarcely have any real existence. A great
property is something fixed and tangible, sure and
substantial. But a certain view of religion, a certain
state of mind, is a thing of shadow, an abstraction
vanishing into nothing. The worldly-wise man admits
that it may be well enough for some people; at any
rate, he will not quarrel with it; he does not think it,
worth his troubling himself about it; his aim, his plan,
his course, is a different one, and —the implication isa wiser one.
Yes, the very wisdom implied in religion is frequently accounted to be wisdoml of but an humble order;
the wisdom of dulness or of superstitious fancy or
fear; or at most, a very scholastic, abstract, useless
wisdom. And the very homage which is usually paid




SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 381
to religion, the hackneyed acknowledgment that it is
very well, very proper, a very good thing; or the more
solemn, if not more dull confession of "the great irnportance of religion;" and more especially the demure
and mechanical manner in which these things are said,
proclaim  as plainly as any thing can, that it has not
yet become a living interest in the hearts of men. It
has never, in fact, taken its proper place among human
concerns. I am afraid it must be said, that with most
men, the epithet most naturally attaching itself to religion, to religious services, to prayers, to books of sermons, is the epithet, dull. And it is well known, as a
fact, very illustrative of this state of mind, that for a
long time, parents in this country were wont to single
out and destine for the ministry of religion, the dullest
of their sons.
I know of nothing more important, therefore, than to
show that religion takes its place among objects that
are of actual concern to men and to all men; that its
interests are not only of the most momentous, but of
the most practical character; that the wisdom  that
winneth souls, the religion that takes care for them,
is the most useful, the most reasonable of all wisdom
and discipline. It is of the care of the soul, then, that
I would speak; of its wisdom, of its reasonableness, of
its actual interest to the common sense and welfare of
men.
The ministry of the Gospel is often denominated
the care of souls; and I consider this language, rightly
explained, as conveying a very comprehensive and interesting description of the office. It is the care of
souls. This is its whole design, and ought to be its
whole direction, impulse, strength, and consolation.
tnd this, too, if it were justly felt, would impart an interest, an expansion, a steady energy, a constan'




382        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
growth, and a final and full enlargement to the mind
of the Christian teacher, not surpassed, certainly, in
any other profession or pursuit in life. Whether the
sacred office has had this effect to as great an extent
as other professions, is, to the Clergy at least, a very
serious question. I am obliged to doubt wThether it
has. Certainly, to say that its spirit has been characterized by as much natural warmth and hearty earnestness as that of other pursuit; that its eloquence
has been as fiee and powerful as that of the Senate
and the Bar; that its literature has been as rich as
that of poetry or even of fiction; this is more than I
dare aver.
But not to dwell on this question; it is to my present purpose to observe that the very point, from which
this want of a vivid perception of religious objects has
arisen, is the very point from which help must come.
Men have not perceived the interests of the mind and
heart to be the realities that they are. Here is the
evil; and here we must find the remedy. Let the
moral states, experiences, feelings of the soul, become
but as interesting as the issue of a lawsuit,'the success
of business, or the result of any worldly enterprize,
and there would be no difficulty; there would be no
complaint of dullness, either fiom our own bosoms or
from the lips of others. Strip off from the inward soul
those many folds and coverings-the forms and fashions
of life, the robes of ambition, the silken garments of
luxury, the fair array of competence and comfort, and
the fair semblances of comfort and happiness-strip
the mind naked and bare to the view; and unfold
those workings within, where feelings and principles
make men happy or miserable; and we should no more
have such a thing as religious indifference in the world!
Sin there might be, outbreaking passion, outrageous




sPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 383
vice, but apathy there could not be. It would not re
quire a sentiment of rectitude even; it would hardly
need, that a man should have any religion at all, to
feel an interest in things so vital to his welfare. Why
do men care as they do for worldly things? Is it not
because they expect happiness, or think to ward off
misery with them?  Only let them be convinced then,
that happiness and misery depend much more upon
the principles and affections of their own minds, and
would they not transfer the greater portion of their interest, to those principles and affections? Would it
not result from a kind of mental necessity, like that
which obliges the artisan to look to the mainspring of
his machinery? Add, then, to this distinct perception
of the real sources of happiness, an ardent benevolence,
an earnest desire for men's welfare; and from this
union would spring that spiritual zeal, that ardour in
the concerns of religion and benevolence, of which so
much is said, so little is felt; and of which the deficiency is so much lamented. I am willing to make
allowance for constitutional differences of temperament, and indeed for many difficulties; but still I
maintain that there is enough in the power of religious
truths and affections to overcome all obstacles. I do
maintain, that if the objects of religion were perceived
to be what they are, and were felt as they ought to be,
and as every man is capable of feeling them, we
should no more have such things among us, as dull
sermons or dull books of piety, or dull conferences on
religion, than dull conversations on the exchange or
dull pleadings at the bar, or even than dull communications of slander by the fireside.
I have thus far been engaged with stating the obvious utility and certain efficacy of the right conviction
on this subject.  But I have done it as preliminary




384         THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
to a closer argument for the right conviction.  Let us,
then, enter more fully upon consideration of the great
spiritual interest. Let us, my brethren, enter somewhat at large, into the consideration of religion as an
interest; and of the place which it occupies among
human interests. Among the cares of life, let us consider the care of the soul. For it is certain that the
interior, the spiritual being, has as yet obtained no just
recognition, in the maxims of this world.
The mind indeed, if we would but understand it. is
the great central power, in the movements of this
world's affairs. All the scenes of this life, from the
busiest to the most quiet, firom the gravest to the gayest,
are the varied developments of that same mind. The
world is spread out as a theatre for one great action,
the action of a mind; and it is so to be regarded,
whether as a sphere of trial or of suffering, of enjoyment or of discipline, of private interest or of public
history. Life, with all its cares and pursuits, with all
its aspects of the superficial, the frivolous and the gross,
is but the experience of a mind. Life, I say-dull,
plodding, weary life, as many call it, is, after all, a spiritual scene; and this is the description of it that is
of the deepest import to us.
I know and repeat, that the appearances of things,
to many at least, are widely different from this representation. I am not ignorant of the prevailing and
wordly views of this subject. There are some, I know,
who look upon this life as a scene not of spiritual interests, but of worldly pleasures. The gratifications
of sense, the opportunities of indulgence, the array in
which fashion clothes its votaries, the splendour of
entertainments, the fascinations of amusement, absorb
themt; or absorb, at least, all the admiration they feel
for the scene of this life. Upon others, again, I know




St IRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 385
that,;he cloud of affliction descends; and it seems to
thel, to come down visibly. Evil and trouble are to
thent, mainly things of condition and circumstance.
Their are thinking chiefly of this thing as unfortunate,
and of that, as sad; and they forget that intrinsic
character of the mind which lends the darkest hue,
and which might give an aspect of more than earthly
brightness, to all their sufferings. And then again, to
ihe eyes of others, toil presents itself; with rigid
sinews and strong arm, indeed, but weary tooweary, worn down with fatigue, and perhaps disconsolate in spirit. And to its earthly-minded victimsfor victims they are with that mind-it seems, I know,
as if this world were made but to work in; and as if
death, instead of being the grand entrance to immortality, were sufficiently commended to them, as a rest
and a release. And last of all, gain, the master pursuit of all, since it ministers to all other pursuits, urges
its objects upon our attention.  There are those, I
know, to whom this world-world of spiritual probation and immortal hope as it is,-is but one great
market-place; a place for buying and selling and getting profit; a place in which to hoard treasures, to
build houses, to enjoy competence, or to lavish wealth.
And these things, I know, are called interests. The
matters of religion are instructions; ay, and excellent
instructions; for men can garnish with epithets of
eulogium, the objects on which they are to bestow
nothing but praise. And such, alas! are, too often,
the matters of religion; they are excellent instructions, glorious doctrines, solemn ordinances, important
duties; but to the mass of mankind, they are not yet
interests. That brief word, with no epithet, with tic
pomp of language about it, expresses more, far more,
than most men ever really attribute to religion, and
33




386        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
the concerns of the soul. Nay, and the interest that
is felt in religion-I have spoken of dulness-but the
interest that is felt in religion, is often of a very doubt
ful, superficial, unreal character. Discourses upon religion, excite a kind of interest, and sometimes it might
seem, as if that interest were strong. And strong of its
kind, it may be. But of what kind is it?  How deep,
how efficient is it?  How many are there, that would
forego the chance of a good mercantile speculation, for
the moral effect of the most admirable sermon that ever
was preached? Oh! no: then it is a different thing.
Religion is a good thling by the by; it is a pleasant'
thing for entertainment; -it is a glorious thing to muse
and meditate upon; but bring it into competition or
comparison with real interests, and then, to many, it at
once becomes something subtile, spiritual, invisible,
imperceptible: it weighs nothing, it counts nothing, it
will sell for nothing, and in thousands of scenes, in
thousands of dwellings in this world, it is held to be
good for nothing!  This statement, God knoweth, is
made with no lightness of spirit, though it had almost
carried me, from the vividness of the contrast which it
presents, to lightness of speech.  How sad and lamentable is it, that beings whose soul is their chief distinction, should imaogine that the things which most concern them, are things of appearance! I said, the
vividness of the contrast; yet in truth it has been but
half exhibited. It seems like extravagance to say it,
but I fear it is sober truth, that there are many whom
the very belief, the acknowledged record of their immortality, has never interested half so deeply as the
frailest leaf on which a bond or a note is written;
many whom no words of the Gospel ever aroused and
delighted, and kindled to such a glow of pleasure, as
a card of corrmplimlent, or a sentence of human eulo



SPIRITUAL IN'rERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 387
gium! Indeed, when we draw a line of division between the worldly and spiritual, between the beings of
the world and the beings of the soul, between creatures of the outside and creatures of the intellect and
of immortality, how few will really be found among
the elect, the chosen and faithful! And how many
who could scarcely suspect it, perhaps, would be found
on the side of the world-would be found among those
who in their pursuits and judgments, are more affected by appearances than by realities; who are more
powerfully acted upon by outward possessions, than
by inward qualities; who, even in their loftiest sentiments, their admiration of great and good men, have
their enthusiasm full as much awakened by the estimation in which those men are held, as by their real
merits.
And when we consider all this, when we look upon
the strife of human passions too, the zeal, the eagerness, the rivalship, the noise and bustle, with which
outward things are sought; the fear, the hope, the
joy, the sorrow, the discontent, the pride of this world,
all, to so great an extent fastening themselves upon
what is visible and tangible; it is not strange that
many should come almost insensibly to feel as if they
dwelt in a world of appearances; and as if nothing
were real and valuable but what is seen and temporal.
It is not altogether strange, that the senses have
spread a broad veil of delusion over the earth, and
that the concerns of every man's mind and heart,
have been covered up and kept out of sight, by a
mass of forms and fashions, and of things called interests.
And yet, notwithstanding all these aspects of things,
I maintain, and I will show, that the real and main
interest which concerns every man lies in the state of




388        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
his own mind; that habits are of far more consequence
to him than possessions and treasures; that affections,
simple and invisible things though they be, are worth
more to him, than rich dwellings, and broad lands, and
coveted honours. I maintain, that no man is so worldly, or covetous, or voluptuous-that no man is so busy,
or ambitious, or frivolous, but this is true of him. Let
him be religious or not religious; let him be the merest
slave of circumstances, the merest creature of vanity
and compliment that ever existed; and still it is true,
and none the less true, that his welfare lies within.
There are no scenes of engrossing business, tumultuous pleasure, hollow-hearted fashion, or utter folly, but
the deepest principles of religion are concerned with
them. Indeed, I look upon all these varied pursuits as
the strugglings of the deeper mind, as the varied developments of the one great desire of happiness.
And he who forgets that deeper mind, and sees nothing,
and thinks of nothing, but the visible scene, I hold to
be as unwise as the man, who, entering upon the
charge of one of our manufactories, should gaze upon
the noisy and bustling apparatus above, should occupy
himself with its varied movements, its swift and bright
machinery and its beautiful fabrics, and forget the
mighty wheel, that moves all from beneath.
But let us pursue the argument. The mind, it will
be recollected, is that which is happy or unhappy, not
goods and fortunes; not even the senses; they are but
the inlets of pleasure to the mind. But this, as it is a
mere truism, though a decisive one in the case, is not
the proposition which 1 am to maintain.  Neither am
I to argue on the other hand, that the mind is independent of circumstances; that its situation, in regard
to wealth or poverty, distinction or neglect, society or
solitude, is a thing of no consequence. As well say




SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 389
that its relation to health or sickness is a thing of no
consequence. But this I say and maintain, that what
every man has chiefly at stake, lies in the mind; that
his excellence depends entirely upon that; that his
happiness ordinarily depends more upon the mind itself, upon its own state and character, than upon any
outward condition; that those evils, with which the
human race is afflicted, are mainly evils of the mind:
and that the care of the soul, which religion enjoins,
is the grand and only remedy for human wants and
woes.
The considerations which bear upon this estimate
of the real and practical welfare of men, may be
drawn from every sphere of human life and action;
from every contemplation of mankind, whether in
their condition, relations or attributes; from society,
from God's providence, from human nature itself.
Let us, then, in the first place consider society, in
several respects: in a general view of the evils that
disturb or afflict it; in its intercourse; in its domestic
scenes; in its religious institutions; and in its secular
business and worldly condition. These topics will
occupy the time that remains for our present ineditation.
It is the more desirable to give some latitude to this
part of our illustration, because it is in social interests
-and competitions especially, that men are apt to be
worldly; i. e., to be governed by.considerations extrinsic and foreign to the soul. The social man, indeed,
is often worldly, while the same man, in retirement, is
after his manner devout.
What then are the evils in society at large? I answer, they are, mainly, evils of the mind. Let us descend to particulars. Some, for instance, are depressed
and irritated by neglect; and others are elated and in
338




390        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
jured by flattery. These are large classes of society
around us; and the first, I think, by far the largest
class. Both are unfortunate; both are wrong, proba-,
bly; and not only so, but society is wrong for treating
them in these ways; and the wrong, the evil in every
instance, lies in the mind. Some again want excitement, want an object; and duty and religion would
fill their hearts with constant peace, and with a plenitude of happy thoughts. Others want restraint, want
the power to deny themselves, and want to know that
such self-denial is blessed; and true piety would teach
them this lofty knowledge; true piety would gently
and strongly control all their passions. In short, ennui and excess, intemperance, slander, variance, rival
ship, pride, and envy,-these are the miseries of society, and they are all miseries that exist in the mind.
Where would our account end, if we were to enumerate all the things that awaken our fears, in the progress and movements of the social world around us?
Good men differ, and reject each other's light and countenance; and bad men, alas! agree but too well;
wise men dispute, and fools laugh; the selfish grasp;
the ambitious strive; the sensual indulge themselves;
and it seems, at times, as if the world were going
surely, if not swiftly, to destruction!  And why?
Only, and always, and every where, because the mind
is not right. Put holy truth in every false heart, instil
a sacred piety into every worldly mind, and a blessed
virtue into every fountain of corrupt desires; and the
anxieties of philanthropy might be hushed; and the
tears of benevolent prayer and faith might be dried
up: and patriotism and piety might gaze upon the
scene and the prospect with unmingled joy. Surely,
then, the great interests of society are emphatically the
interests of religion and virtue.




SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 391
Gather any circle of society to its evening assembly. And what is the evil there?  He must think
out little, who imagines there is none. I confess that
there are few scenes that more strongly dispose me to
reflection, than this. I see great and signal advantages,
fair and fascinating opportunities for happiness. The
ordinary, or rather the ordinarily recognised evils of
life, have no place in the throng of social entertainment. They are abroad indeed, in many a hovel and
hospital, and by many a wayside; but firom those brilliant and gay apartments they are, for the time, excluded. The gathering is, of youth and lightness of
heart and prosperous fortune. The manly brow flushed
with the beauty of its early day, the fair form of outward loveliness, the refined understanding, the accomplished manner, the glad parent's heart, and confiding
filial love, and music and feasting, are there; and yet
beneath miany a soft raiment and many a silken fold,
I know that hearts are beating, which are full of disquietude and pain. The selfishness of parental anxiety,
the desire of admiration, the pride of success, the mortification of failure, the vanity that is flattered, the illconcealed jealousy, the miserable affectation, the dis
trustful embarrassment,-that  comprehensive difficulty which proceeds to some extent indeed from the
fault of the individual, but much more froml the general fault of society,-these are the evils from which
the gayest circles of the social world need to be reformed; and these too, are evils in the mind.  They are
evils which nothing but religion and virtue can ever
correct. The remendy must be applied where the
disease is, and that is to the soul.
But now follow society to its homes. There is, indeed, and eminently, the scene of our happiness or of
our misery.  And it is too plain to be insisted onl, that




392        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
domestic happiness depends ordinarily and chiefly
upon domestic honour and fidelity; upon disinterestedness, generosity, kindness, forbearance; and the vices
opposite to these, are the evils that embitter the peace
and joy of domestic life. Men in general are sufficiently sensible to this part of their welfare. Thousands all around us, are labouring by day and meditating by night, upon the means of building up in:omfort and honour, the families, with whose fortunes
and fate their own is identified. Here, then, if any
where-here in these homes of our affection, are
interests. And surely, I speak not to discourage a
generous self-devotion to them, or a reasonable care
of their worldly condition. But I say, that this condition is not the main thing, though it is commonly
made so. I say that there is something of more consequence to the happiness of a family, than the
apartments it occupies, or the furniture that adorns
them; something of dearer and more vital concernment, than costly equipage or vast estates or coveted
honours. I say, that if its members have any thing
within them, that is worthy to be called a mind, their
main interests are their thoughts and their virtues.
Vague and shadowy things they may appear to some;
but let a man be ever so worldly, and this is true; and
it is a truth which he cannot help: and all the struggle
of family ambition, and all the pride of its vaunted
consequence and cherished luxury, will only the more
demonstrate it to be true.
Choose, then, what scene of social life you will; and
it can be shown beyond all reasonable doubt, that the
main concern, the great interest there, is the state of
the mind.
What is it that makes dull and weary services at
church; if, alas! we must admit that they sometimes




SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 393
are so. A living piety in the congregation, a fervent
love of God, and truth, and goodness, would communicate life, I had allnost said, to the dullest service
that ever passed in the house of God: and, if destitute
of that piety, the preaching of an angel would awaken
in us only a temporary enthusiasm. A right and holy
feeling would make the house of God, the place for
devout med4tation, a place more profoundly, more
keenly interesting, than the thronged mart, or the can
vassing hall, or the tribunal that is to pass judgment
on a portion of our property.  Do you say that the
preacher is sometimes dull, and that is all the difficulty?
No, it is not all the difficulty; for the dullest ha.s anguer
that ever addressed an infuriated mob, when speaki:ng
their sentiments, is received with shouts of all'11lse.
Suppose that a company were assembled to consiler
and discuss some grand method to be proposed, for
acquiring fortunes for themselves-some South-Sea
scheme, or project for acquiring the mines of Potosi.;
and suppose that some one should rise to speak to that
company, who could not speak eloquently, nor in an
interesting manner: grant all that; but suppose this
dull speaker could say something, could state some
fact or consideration, to help on the great inquiry.
Would the company say that they could not listen to
him?  Would the people say that they would not
come to hlear him agoain?  No, the speaker might be
as awkward and prosaic as he pleased; he might be
some humble observer) some young engineer: hl,'lie
would have attentive and crowded auditories. A feeling in the hearers would supply all other deficiencies.
Shall this be so in worldly affairs, and shall *there
be nothing like it in religious affairs? Grant that the
speaker on religion is not the most interesting; grant
that he is dull; grant that his emotions are constitu



394        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
tionally less earnest than yours are; yet I say, what
business have you to come to church to be passive in
the service, to be acted on, and not yourselves to act?
And yet more, what warrant have you, to let your
affections to your God depend on the infirmity of any
mortal being?  Is that awful presence that filleth the
sanctuary, though no cloud of incense be there; is the
vital and never-dying interest which you have in your
own mind; is the wide scene of living mercies that
surrounds you, and which you have come to meditate
upon; is it all indifferent to you, because one poor,
erring mortal is cold and dead to it? I do not ask
you to say that he is not dull, if he is dull; I do not
ask you to say that he is interesting; but I ask you to
be interested in spite of him. His very dulness, if he
is dull, ought to move you. If you cannot weep with
him, you ought to weep for him.
Besides, the weakest or the dullest man tells you
truths of transcendent glory and power. He tells you
that " God is love;" and how might that truth, though
he uttered not another word, or none but dull words;
how might that truth spread itself out into the most
glorious and blessed contemplations!  Indeed, the
simple truths are, after all, the great truths. Neither
are they always best understood. The very readiness
of assent is sometimes an obstacle to the fulness of
the impression. Very simple matters, I am aware, are
those to which I am venturing to call your attention,
in this hour of our solemnities; and yet do I believe,
that if they were clearly perceived and felt among
mnen at, large, they would begin, from this moment,
the reeneration of the world 
But pass now from the silent and holy sanctuary, to
the bustling scene of this world's business and pursuit.
"Here," the worldly man will say, " we have reality.




SPIRITUAL INTERESTS, REAL AND SUPREME. 395
Here, indeed, are interests.  Here is something worth
being concerned about."  And yet even here do the
interests of religion and virtue pursue him, and press
themselves upon his attention.
Look, for instance, at the condition of life, the possession or the want, of those blessings for which business is prosecuted. What is it that distresses the poor
man, and makes poverty in the ordinary condition of
it, the burden that it is? It is not, in this country,it is not usually, hunger, nor cold, nor nakedness. It
is some artificial want, created by the wrong state of
society. It is something nearer yet to us, and yet
more unnecessary.  It is mortification, discontent,
peeyish complaining, or envy of a better condition;
and all these are evils of the mind. Again, what is it
that troubles the rich man, or the man who is successfully striving to be rich? It is not poverty, certainly,
nor is it exactly possession. It is occasional disappointment, it is continual anxiety, it is the extravagant
desire of property, or worse than all, the vicious abuse
of it; and all these too are evils of the mind.
But let our worldly man, who will see nothing but
the outside of things, who will value nothing but possessions, take another view of his interest.  What is
it that cheats, circumvents, overreaches him? It is dishonesty.  What disturbs, vexes, angers him?  It is
some wrong from another, or something wrong in himself. What steals his purse, or robs his person? It is
not some unfortunate mischance that has come across
his path. It is a being in whom nothing worse resides,
than fraud and violence. What robs him of that,
which is dearer than property, his fair name among
his fellows?  It is the poisonous breath of foul and
accursed slander.  And what is it, in fine, that threatens the security, order, peace and well-being of society




396        THE NATURE OF RELIGION.
at large; that threatens, if unrestrained, to deprive
our estates, our comforts, our domestic enjoyments, our
personal respectability and our whole social condition,
of more than half their value? It is the spirit of injustice and wild misrule in the human breast; it is
political intrigue, or popular violence; it is the progress
of corruption, intemperance, lasciviousness, the progress of vice and sin, in all their forms. I know that
these are very simple truths; but if they are very
simple and very certain, how is it that men are so
worldly?  Put obligation out of the question; how is
it that they are not. more sagacious and wary with
regard to their interests? How is it that the means
of religion and virtue are so indifferent to many, in
comparison with the means of acquiring property or
office?  How is it that many unite and contribute so
coldly and reluctantly for the support of government,
learning, and Christian institutions, who so eagerly
combine for the prosecution of moneyed speculations,
and of party and worldly enterprises? How is it, I
repeat? Men desire happiness; and a very clear
argument may be set forth to show them where their
happiness lies. And yet here is presented to you the
broad fact-and with this fact I will close the present
meditation; that while men's welfare depends mainly
on their own minds, they are actually and almost universally seeking it in things without them; that among
the objects of actual desire and pursuit, affections and
virtues, in the world's esteem, bear no comparison
with possessions and honours; nay, that men are every
where and every day, sacrificing, ay, sacrificing affections and virtues, sacrificing the dearest treasures of
the soul, for what they call goods, and pleasures, and
distinctions.