UMAftY 
 
 Of 
 
 SANWEQO
 
 I

 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE WRITINGS 
 
 CHARLES A. CHEEVER, M.D. 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR.
 
 EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM THE WRITINGS OP 
 
 CHARLES A. CHEEVER, M.D. 
 
 WITH A MEM O IB 
 
 A. P. PEABODY. 
 
 for |3n'6ate frculat(on. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON & SON, 
 
 22, SCHOOL STREET. 
 1854.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 MEMOIR 1 
 
 AN ADDRESS ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED MASON, 
 DELIVERED AT THE FORENSIC HALL IN PORTS- 
 MOUTH 53 
 
 AN ORATION DELIVERED IN PORTSMOUTH, ON 
 
 JULY 4, 1825 90 
 
 DOES HOPE OR REALITY CONTRIBUTE MOST TO 
 
 HUMAN HAPPINESS ? 117 
 
 EXCUSES FOR THE NEGLECT OF RELIGION . . . 132 
 ON THE IMPORTANCE OF PERSONAL RELIGION TO 
 
 HAPPINESS IN THIS WORLD 156 
 
 RELIGION OF EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE .... 184 
 Is THE ECLAT OF MILITARY FAME FOUNDED 
 EITHER ON SOUND REASON OR ON MORAL 
 
 PRINCIPLE? 202 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE MIND . . ,218
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PA OB. 
 
 SPEECH AT A MEETING OF THE PORTSMOUTH 
 UNITARIAN ASSOCIATION 276 
 
 SPEECH AT A MEETING IN BEHALF OF THE ESTAB- 
 LISHMENT OF A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM . . 287 
 
 SPEECH AT AN ANNUAL MEETING OF THE PORTS- 
 / 
 MOUTH SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY .... 298
 
 MEMOIR.
 
 M E M I 
 
 THE name of CHEEVER was probably first 
 brought to New England by that justly 
 celebrated classical teacher, Ezekiel Chee- 
 ver, who came to this country in 1637; 
 exercised his profession successively in 
 New Haven, Ipswich, Charlestown, and 
 Boston ; and died in 1708, at the age of 94. 
 Thomas Cheever, one of his descendants, 
 became, early in the last century, an in- 
 habitant of the part of Lynn now consti- 
 tuting the town of Saugus, and established 
 his abode on the estate which still bears 
 the family name. His grandson, Abijah 
 Cheever, was graduated at Harvard Uni- 
 1
 
 Z MEMOIR. 
 
 versity in 1779, and, after the usual period 
 of professional study, enlisted as a surgeon 
 on board a private armed vessel in the ser- 
 vice of the United States. He was taken 
 prisoner by a British cruiser, and, after va- 
 rious and perilous adventures, was finally 
 exchanged by cartel, and restored to his 
 friends. He then established himself in 
 the practice of medicine in Boston. He 
 married Elizabeth Scott. Their children, 
 both born in Boston, were Elizabeth, who 
 still lives on the ancestral estate in Saugus ; 
 and CHARLES AUGUSTUS, the subject of this 
 memoir. 
 
 CHARLES was born on the first of De- 
 cember, 1793. When he was nineteen 
 months' old, his mother, who is remem- 
 bered as a woman of uncommon personal 
 beauty and loveliness of character, was 
 removed by death. He was at once taken 
 in charge by his father's sister, resident at
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 Saugus. To her he was largely indebted 
 for the early development of his moral 
 nature and his religious susceptibilities. 
 Endowed with a strong mind, imbued 
 with the firmest principles, and cherishing 
 hardly less than a mother's love for her 
 orphan nephew, she made it her sedulous 
 and successful endeavor to impress him 
 with a deep sense of his accountability, 
 an undeviating regard to truth and jus- 
 tice, and a profound reverence for God 
 and for things sacred. His childhood was 
 marked by no striking incident, except that 
 in his third year he was rescued, at the 
 last moment, from a condition of immi- 
 nent peril. In playing with some lambs 
 near the house, he was tempted to follow 
 them into a swamp, where he was found 
 at night, after several hours' search, sunk 
 to his chin in water, and nearly exhausted. 
 He continued at Saugus till he entered 
 college, except during the brief period of
 
 4 MEMOIR. 
 
 his father's second marriage. He was 
 thus educated in a rural neighborhood, 
 with simple tastes and habits, and among 
 people who retained, to a great degree, 
 the primitive manners and character of 
 the New England yeomanry. He was 
 universally beloved iby those of every age, 
 and was regarded almost as a member of 
 every family circle within the range of his 
 acquaintance. His leisure hours were 
 spent in cultivating his garden, and in 
 such rural employments and recreations 
 as his secluded residence offered. Frank- 
 ness, generosity, delicacy, and purity were 
 the prominent traits of his boyhood. 
 
 He was fortunate in his teacher. He 
 was prepared for college under the tuition 
 of the clergyman of the place, Rev. Mr. 
 Frothingham, (subsequently of Belfast, 
 Me.,), an accomplished scholar, whose 
 worth was only equalled by his modesty, 
 and who would have achieved the lite-
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 rary and professional distinction he de- 
 served, had his appreciation of his own 
 powers corresponded with the esteem in 
 which he was held by all who knew him. 
 There grew up a life-long attachment, of 
 the closest character, between him and 
 his pupil ; and we well remember how, 
 when sinking under the infirmities of 
 helpless age, he kindled into unwonted 
 animation at the mere mention of Chee- 
 ver's name, and rehearsed numerous inci- 
 dents and traits of his early life, which 
 showed us how. veritably " the child was 
 father of the man." On the other hand, 
 his pupil always spoke of him with the 
 profoundest veneration and the warmest 
 affection, and was wont to ascribe to his 
 example and influence many of the 
 choicest intellectual impulses and moral 
 principles that shaped and guided his 
 course in after life. They met for the 
 last time, when the shadow of death was
 
 D MEMOIR. 
 
 visibly gathering over the elder, and im- 
 perceptibly stealing upon the younger ; 
 and but a few months elapsed before they 
 were united in closer society, where the 
 farewell is never uttered. 
 
 Cheever entered Harvard University in 
 1809, and was graduated in 1813. Here 
 he was a good, but not a distinguished 
 scholar. He was punctual and regular in 
 the discharge of his college duties, and 
 passed through that fearful ordeal with 
 his purity unsullied, his ingenuousness un- 
 impaired, and his conscientious regard to 
 duty strengthened by trial. His class- 
 mates speak of him as a general favorite, 
 and as having been most esteemed by 
 those whose esteem was best worth hav- 
 ing. As is msually the case, he cherished 
 his college intimacies and friendships with 
 peculiar fondness so long as he lived ; and, 
 beyond his immediate family, there were 
 few whose names were so often on his
 
 MEMOIR. 7 
 
 lips, or seemed to hold a dearer place in 
 his memory, than those of Brazer, Savage, 
 Adams, and Ware, and others among the 
 dead and the living whom we might 
 enumerate. 
 
 On leaving college, he immediately en- 
 tered his name as a student of medicine 
 with Dr. John Warren, then Professor of 
 Anatomy and Surgery in the University. 
 His choice of a profession probably re- 
 sulted, not alone from sympathy with his 
 father, but also from a latent conscious- 
 ness of natural aptitude. Its studies were 
 congenial to his taste, and at once called 
 into exercise whatever of intellectual ener- 
 gy had been dormant during his college 
 life, so that he distinguished himself 
 equally for his thoroughness us a student 
 and for his keenness as an observer of the 
 morbid aspects of humanity. Yet he en- 
 tered upon his novitiate with sensibilities 
 so tender, as to occasion him great men-
 
 8 MEMOIR. 
 
 tal suffering in his early conversance with 
 scenes of distress, and to awaken more 
 than once the purpose of abandoning his 
 chosen vocation. Indeed, in this regard, 
 his subsequent experience only gave him 
 strength of nerve, without rendering him 
 less susceptible of painful emotion; and 
 those who enjoyed his services were well 
 aware that his assumed nonchalance of 
 manner was but a thin cloak for sympa- 
 thies as true and deep as ever heaved a 
 human heart. On the death of Dr. War- 
 ren in the spring of 1815, he transferred 
 his relations as a student to Dr. John B. 
 Brown, the son-in-law of his first precep- 
 tor, and became, at the same time, an 
 inmate of his family. At this period, the 
 entire dispensary practice of Boston was 
 in the hands of Dr. Brown ; and Cheever, 
 as his eldest pupil, was constantly em- 
 ployed in this service, thus having a 
 larger opportunity for clinical study than
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 9 
 
 fell to the lot of any other young man 
 in New England. In this field of duty, 
 he manifested at once his characteristic 
 humanity, and a skill and prudence be- 
 yond his years. Large numbers of the 
 foreign population of Boston were under 
 his charge, and in his professional walks 
 he became intimate with the saintly Che- 
 verus ; and it was often his privilege to 
 be the minister of healing in wretched 
 abodes, where the good Bishop, with his 
 own hands, lighted the fire, prepared the 
 gruel, and smoothed the pillow. Such a 
 colleague must have been invaluable to 
 the young practitioner, in hallowing for 
 his regard the various ills of afflicted 
 humanity, and in dictating those delicate 
 attentions, which ever after rendered his 
 science and skill doubly precious and 
 availing. 
 
 After taking his medical degree, Dr. 
 Cheever made a voyage to the West
 
 10 MEMOIR. 
 
 Indies, mainly for the purpose of intro- 
 ducing vaccination as a preventative for 
 the smallpox; for, though Jenner's first 
 treatise had been issued eighteen years 
 previously, his discovery had worked its 
 way into adoption very slowly on this 
 side of the Atlantic. He took with him 
 a healthy Irish boy just vaccinated, to 
 furnish the virus which was to constitute 
 his capital; and in this matter he was 
 dependent on the kind offices of his excel- 
 lent friend, Bishop Cheverus, who procured 
 for him his subject, brought him on board 
 the vessel, religiously commended him to 
 his watch and ward, and knelt over him 
 on the deck, to confer his apostolic bless- 
 ing. Of this voyage we have no record, 
 and only know that it was attended with 
 success as to its main purpose, and was 
 regarded as happy and profitable, for its 
 opportunities of observation and profes- 
 sional experience.
 
 MEMOIR. 11 
 
 In the autumn of 1816, Dr. Cheever 
 established himself in the practice of 
 medicine at Portsmouth, N. H., where he 
 was favorably introduced by a classmate, 
 extensively connected with families that 
 occupied a prominent place in business 
 and in social life. His earliest practice 
 was in this circle, and from the first he 
 gained the strongest hold on the con- 
 fidence and affection of his patients. 
 There were several families in which, 
 from that time to the day of his death, 
 no other physician was employed ; and 
 it was one of the rarest events for a 
 person or a family, who had once had 
 experience of his skill, to look elsewhere 
 for advice, unless in case of the adoption 
 of one of the more recent systems of 
 practice. But his professional progress 
 was very slow. He found several emi- 
 nent physicians already in the field. 
 There were the Drs. Cutter, father and
 
 12 MEMOIR. 
 
 son, whose reputation rested equally on 
 mature scientific knowledge, successful 
 experience, and amenity of manners and 
 character; and, after their death, there 
 remained Dr. Pierrepont, who united to 
 the highest grade of professional skill, 
 the culture of a finished scholar, and the 
 graces of a saint. Neither with these nor 
 with his coevals was Dr. Cheever ever 
 willing to assume the position of a rival 
 or competitor. On the contrary, he was 
 as careful of his brethren's fair fame as 
 his own, and was solicitous only for such 
 business as might come to him by the 
 unbiassed choice of his patients. To- 
 ward Dr. Pierrepont he maintained a 
 strictly filial attitude; and, as the infirmi- 
 ties of old age essentially impaired his 
 bodily faculties, while his mind remained 
 souri"d, clear, and strong, it was Dr. Chee- 
 ver's delight to be to him as eyes, ears, 
 hands, and feet, and to preserve for him,
 
 MEMOIR. 13 
 
 as far as possible, his full circle of practice, 
 by relieving him of its burdensome labors, 
 by bringing and keeping the facts con- 
 nected with each case before his distinct 
 cognizance, and by performing, in his 
 stead, such operations as demanded keen- 
 ness of vision or strength of nerve, thus 
 prolonging his usefulness, and securing 
 for him its appropriate revenue. 
 
 In various ways, Dr. Cheever's keen 
 sense of honor and native delicacy un- 
 doubtedly interfered with his apparent 
 advancement during the earlier years of 
 his residence at Portsmouth ; but it was 
 only to ensure for him a higher and more 
 permanent position in the esteem of the 
 whole community. The popularity which 
 he would not stoop or turn aside to seek, 
 overtook him in good time. He gradu- 
 ally won his way to the very foremost 
 rank in point of professional reputation, 
 and the demands on his skill were limited
 
 14 MEMOIR. 
 
 in number and in extent of territory only 
 by his ability to meet them. 
 
 On the 8th of July, 1823, he was mar- 
 ried to Ann Mary Haven, daughter of 
 John Haven, Esq., an eminent merchant 
 in Portsmouth, and sister of the class- 
 mate whose friendship had been his chief 
 motive in the choice of a place of settle- 
 ment. In her he enjoyed, for a brief 
 period, all the domestic happiness that 
 can fall to the lot of man. Gentle, sym- 
 pathetic, devout, uniting with high intel- 
 lectual cultivation, the most attractive 
 graces of character, she at once satisfied 
 his ideal of female loveliness and excel- 
 lence; and, alike by her life and by its 
 hallowed memories, aided largely in the 
 development of all that was noble, pure, 
 and true in his own spirit. But the deep- 
 est " shadows gathered early upon their 
 home. On the 4th of July, 1826, she 
 died, leaving two orphan boys, the young-
 
 MEMOIR. 15 
 
 est an infant but a few days old. His 
 agony of grief at her departure was in- 
 tense, almost beyond endurance ; and 
 for a long time, while he shrank not from 
 his full measure of duty and responsi- 
 bility, the world seemed to him desolate, 
 and life a weariness. Indeed, though 
 subsequently his home was again made 
 happy, the wound-marks of this first 
 heavy grief were never effaced, his spirits 
 never recovered their former elasticity and 
 buoyancy, and the anniversary of his be- 
 reavement was ever after a day of deep 
 solemnity and chastened sorrow. In Oc- 
 tober, 1830, he was married to Adeline 
 Haven, the sister of his first wife, and, 
 for the residue of his days, his helper in 
 every good work, the devoted mother of 
 his children, his supporter and comforter 
 under every trial and burden, and the 
 tender and assiduous nurse of his in- 
 firmity and decline. By this marriage he
 
 16 MEMOIR. 
 
 had four children, all of whom but the 
 eldest died in infancy. 
 
 These repeated bereavements, though 
 borne with Christian resignation, were 
 most profoundly felt; for, in addition to 
 a father's love, he had a strong sympa- 
 thy with childhood, and took almost a 
 mother's delight in all the phenomena of 
 the powers and affections in the earliest 
 stages of their development. To what 
 he had thus suffered in his own family, 
 his friends were no doubt largely in- 
 debted for his signal tenderness and 
 assiduity in the professional treatment of 
 their children; and for a sympathy with 
 them, in crises of apprehension and grief 
 similar to those that had occurred in his 
 own experience, for which, hardly less than 
 for his promptness and skill, he won their 
 lasting attachment and gratitude. But 
 still severer domestic trial was appointed 
 to him. In the summer of 1838, his
 
 MEMOIR. 17 
 
 second son, then a lad of twelve years, 
 was drowned while bathing in the Piscata- 
 qua River. The body was soon recovered, 
 and, with a coolness and intrepidity never 
 surpassed, he took the lead in the measures 
 employed for his restoration; but, when 
 they were found unavailing, he seemed, for 
 the time, entirely prostrated in body and 
 mind. For a long time afterward, he 
 was in an infirm state of health. But 
 he was not wont to yield to depression. 
 He rather sought a remedy for his own 
 griefs in a more devoted attention to those 
 whom it was his ministry to succor and 
 relieve ; yet, by the bed of suffering and 
 death, and in his intercourse with the af- 
 flicted, there was always that in his man- 
 ner which reminded those around him 
 how deeply he had suffered. 
 
 Of incidents that can be written for the 
 public eye, the quiet routine of his profes- 
 sional life was necessarily barren. Yet of 
 2
 
 18 MEMOIR. 
 
 those memorials of his skill, assiduity, and 
 kindness, which neither time nor eternity 
 can efface, were we to commence the re- 
 cord, the pen would drop in utter weari- 
 ness before our materials grew sensibly 
 less. The events that left the deepest 
 traces in his heart were the deaths of 
 those with whom he had been most inti- 
 mately associated. In 1833, he was called 
 to part from his pastor, Rev. Dr. Parker, 
 for whom he cherished all of a brother's 
 affection, and whose long illness had been 
 cheered by his daily visits, and his unre- 
 mitted services as a physician and friend. 
 Between Dr. Parker and himself there 
 were numerous points of resemblance, as 
 there had been many years of the closest 
 intimacy. They were alike in openness 
 and transparency of character, in the ab- 
 horrence of pretence and affectation, and 
 in straightforward simplicity of address 
 and manner. They had ministered to-
 
 MEMOIR. 19 
 
 gether almost constantly among the sick 
 and dying, with the entire mutual con- 
 fidence, befitting the members of two 
 professions, whose functions are so in- 
 separably intermingled, and each of which, 
 without overstepping its own province, 
 may so essentially further the other's pur- 
 poses. The habits of intercourse thus 
 formed, and the mutual attachment thence 
 resulting, had been strengthened during 
 the season of Dr. Cheever's bereavement 
 and loneliness, when the good pastor's 
 devoted attention and kindness claimed 
 and won for him more than a brother's 
 place in the desolated household. His 
 death, therefore, constituted a strongly- 
 marked and melancholy epoch in the life, 
 of which we are now gathering the memo- 
 rials. 
 
 Perhaps still more severely felt, as it 
 came upon him under the consciousness 
 that his own life was rapidly waning,
 
 20 MEMOIR. 
 
 was the sudden decease, in 1852, of John 
 "W. Foster, who was for many years Dr. 
 Cheever's most intimate associate and 
 friend. Unlike in temperament, often dif- 
 fering in opinion ; the one slow, wary, self- 
 distrustful, the other ardent and sanguine ; 
 they were kindred spirits in their love of 
 goodness, in their advocacy of the right 
 and the true, and in numerous plans of 
 benevolent effort for individuals and the 
 community. They met almost daily, and 
 their habitual discourse was of the highest 
 themes of thought, and the profoundest 
 experiences of the inner life. Dr. Cheever 
 seemed to regard his friend's departure 
 almost as his own death-summons, felt 
 detached from the world by his removal, 
 and during the residue of his life constantly 
 spoke of reunion with him as among the 
 foremost thoughts and hopes connected 
 with the heavenly society. 
 
 His surviving children were educated, to
 
 MEMOIR. 21 
 
 an almost unprecedented degree, under his 
 own supervision. He reviewed with them 
 the studies of his youth. He was their com- 
 panion and helper in their recreations. He 
 was careful to make home the happiest place 
 for them, the centre of their enjoyment, the 
 spot around which the choicest remem- 
 brances of their early days should cluster. 
 While he maintained a father's dignity, 
 and failed not of the deference, reverence, 
 and honor which are a father's due, his 
 intercourse with them was that of an elder 
 brother. For the last few years of his life, 
 they were necessarily separated from him. 
 The eldest left him in 1840, to commence 
 a business-life under better auspices than 
 was possible in his native town ; and the 
 youngest son entered Harvard College in 
 1848. But, while he felt their absence 
 most keenly, he had abundant reason to 
 rejoice in their merited success in their 
 respective walks in life, and in home at-
 
 22 MEMOIR. 
 
 tachments only strengthened by the neces- 
 sity which cast their lot elsewhere. 
 
 Those who enjoyed his professional 
 services in seasons of illness and suffering, 
 little knew to what an extent his tender 
 sympathy with them was the result of 
 fellow-feeling. But so it was. For more 
 than twenty years, he was aware of the 
 insidious and inevitable progress of the dis- 
 ease that terminated his life. A cancerous 
 tumor of the intestines, beyond the power 
 of medical relief, and commencing where 
 surgical aid could have been of no avail, 
 was during this period slowly developing 
 itself. At times it occasioned the most 
 excruciating pain, and left him intervals, 
 never of entire, but only of comparative 
 ease. But, unwilling to awaken anxiety 
 in his behalf, or to impair the enjoyment of 
 those around him, he suffered in silence. 
 Most of his friends supposed him in vigor- 
 ous health ; and his own family only knew 

 
 MEMOIR. 23 
 
 that he was laboring under some internal 
 disease, but were wholly unaware of its 
 magnitude and its dangerous nature. At 
 length it reached a stage, at which the 
 alternative was immediate dissolution, or a 
 series of delicate and perilous surgical ope- 
 rations. On the 19th of May, 1852, he 
 conceived and announced his resolution to 
 put himself under the care of the surgeons 
 of the Massachusetts General Hospital. 
 On the next day he visited his patients as 
 usual, gave the most minute directions for 
 their management during his absence, com- 
 mended them to the care of a younger pro- 
 fessional brother, and left his home with a 
 strong presentiment that he should never 
 cross his own threshold again. He re- 
 mained at the hospital three months, under 
 the care of Dr. J. Mason Warren, and un- 
 derwent three successive operations for the 
 reduction of the tumor, which it was found 
 impossible to extirpate.
 
 24 MEMOIR. 
 
 At this stage of our narrative, we cannot 
 deny ourselves the satisfaction of introduc- 
 ing a few extracts from his letters, written 
 in a recumbent posture, and in great weak- 
 ness and pain, and indicating the cheerful 
 and hopeful spirit in which he sustained 
 his sufferings. 
 
 To Mr. 
 
 BOSTON, Massachusetts General Hospital, 
 Saturday, May 22. 
 
 My dear Sir, Having recovered a little 
 from the sudden somerset I made on Thursday, 
 I suppose you would like to know how it came 
 about, and where is my whereabouts. On Tues- 
 day, Wednesday, and Thursday nights, I passed 
 very miserable ones ; the last so much so, that I 
 had conceived, concocted, and by daylight the 
 next morning announced to my poor wife, who 
 had been so devoted, and so harassed by my suf- 
 ferings, that at 11 o'clock we would take the cars 
 for Boston. I found that she was about to pro- 
 pose something similar. My reasons were, that 
 Adeline would soon be worn down by my com-
 
 MEMOIR. 2O 
 
 plaints, and without the ability of doing much 
 for me ; and then I could be of no further use 
 in the medical profession, and might as well be 
 away, if I could hope to gain any thing by it; 
 then here I should be in the centre of all the 
 surgical knowledge in the country : so here I am. 
 Thursday I went to the Revere ; got along in 
 the cars by lying on the ladies' settees ; sent 
 for Dr. Mason Warren, stated the case, and let 
 him have a primary examination; he recom- 
 mended my coming to the hospital, where I should 
 have every attention. Yesterday I came here ; 
 the irritation from the examination produced a 
 good deal of soreness. Last night I passed 
 a pretty comfortable night ; but this morning am 
 in considerable pain. It is determined not to 
 operate till I am more quiet ; of course I shall 
 take the ether, but the consequences of operat- 
 ing cannot but be severe; not till the first of 
 the week certainly, as there is nothing to hurry 
 me away. It is not hoped to have the operation 
 radical ; all we can hope for is to be made more 
 comfortable; how that may be, no mortal can 
 tell. I must try, therefore, to submit myself to 
 the will of Him who is ever kind and good. I
 
 26 MEMOIR. 
 
 do pray to be freed from pain ; for to my excita- 
 ble constitution that is all but insupportable. 
 Yours, truly, CHAS. A. CHEEVER. 
 
 To Dr. 
 
 BOSTON, Hospital, May 25, 
 Tuesday morn. 
 
 Dear Doctor, Well, here I am on my back, 
 and now making my second attempt to write, 
 which shall 'be to you, with whom, through so 
 many years, I have passed without a single 
 irritated feeling or heart-burning ; or, if one ever 
 occurred, almost as soon adjusted as made (some- 
 thing to boast of between two rival doctors). 
 On Saturday, I wrote our mutual friend, Mr. 
 
 , as the centre and head of us all, well 
 
 knowing that all my friends were his, and that 
 he would communicate with you all. It is best 
 on the whole I should be here, as you know we 
 agreed the morning I left Portsmouth; not but 
 I could have got along under your care, and that 
 of my friends ; but as it was plain I had arrived 
 at a crisis of my disease where I must stop, and 
 at once, it was best I should be removed from 
 all harassing solicitations to make visits, or even
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 27 
 
 give advice ; for, during the last month or two, 
 many a time have I yielded to make visits when 
 I would have gladly paid double my fees to 
 have been let alone. Besides, I am here in a 
 delightful place of quiet, and the centre of the 
 first surgical skill of New England. I shall 
 yield myself up to the doctors to do as they will, 
 with the only condition that I must be spared 
 from pain as far as possible, for my excita- 
 ble constitution will not brook it : severe and 
 long-continued pain would drive me mad. As 
 much as I have enjoyed this beautiful world, I 
 would not, could not, consent to purchase years 
 of existence at the expense of even a few months' 
 severe suffering. So, you see, my dread is not 
 death, that or any other danger I can, no 
 doubt, look full in the face as well as any other 
 man. I can easily consent to be an invalid the 
 remainder of my days, if they can be but passed 
 in comparative comfort; for with the aid of books, 
 the best of friends, the means of living, and a 
 kind Providence, I could be very happy, though 
 unable to move about much. 
 
 On Friday I came here, and was cursorily 
 examined by Dr. M. "Warren. He agreed with
 
 28 MEMOIR. 
 
 me that a radical removal of the whole could not 
 probably be made, but a partial one, which might 
 communicate relief, and put me in a way of 
 being comfortable. Yesterday was the day to 
 have had a more thorough one with the specu- 
 lum, and to decide upon the nature, extent, &c. 
 of disease, mode of operation, &c. If it can 
 be done with the knife, I shall much prefer it, 
 as less painful and tedious. But he was called 
 out of town, so I suppose we shall have it to-day. 
 I have no dread of the operation per se, for I 
 shall take ether enough to drown all suffering ; 
 but of its consequences I have some doubts and 
 misgivings. However, I have made up my mind, 
 that I have nothing further to do with it, but to 
 submit to what may be deemed best, and resign 
 myself into the hands of that good Being who 
 will do more for me than I can even ask or 
 think. Believe me yours sincerely, 
 
 C. A. CHEEVER. 
 
 To Mr. 
 
 Massachusetts General Hospital, 
 Wednesday, June 2. 
 
 My dear Sir, As you must, I know, feel 
 anxious to hear from me, I write a short account
 
 MEMOIR. 29 
 
 of myself, which you may communicate to my 
 friends. 
 
 After you left me, and the effects of ether 
 off, of course I suffered considerably : still it was 
 attended with many alleviating moments. From 
 day to day I think my pain has been less and 
 less. What with the kindest of friends, and a 
 good Providence to watch and guard me, I am 
 as comfortably cared for as a human being can 
 reasonably expect. 
 
 The doctor has made another examination this 
 morning. With the aid of ether, I got through 
 very well, though it was not necessary to take 
 away my consciousness. He says matters have 
 improved very much. I think, however, they 
 are contemplating another operation. I told him 
 I was ready to submit to any thing but down- 
 right manslaughter. What may be the event, I 
 leave in the hands of that Being who has thus 
 far most kindly and benevolently protected me. 
 I never expect to be firm again. If I can be 
 comfortable and free from suffering, I should 
 like to live, because life to me has always, when 
 I felt well, been full of enjoyment. 
 
 Dr. K , in a letter to me, in consideration,
 
 30 MEMOIR. 
 
 I suppose, of my past sufferings, says he never 
 means to complain any more. He is mistaken 
 about me. I have suffered, it is true, in silence ; 
 but my sufferings were periodical, and when the 
 relief came, there was a charm and zest to life 
 almost indescribable. He has suffered almost 
 constantly for a long life, and ten thousand times 
 as much as I have. I cannot name all my 
 friends ; but whoever asks for me I consider one, 
 and to him send greeting. 
 
 Very truly yours, &c. 
 
 C. A. CHEEVEE. 
 
 To Mr. and 
 
 Massachusetts General Hospital, 
 June 20. 
 
 My dear old Friends, I do not mean old in 
 the Methuselah-sense of the word, but in the 
 sense in which time has so much endeared you to 
 my heart. From my earliest experience of pro- 
 fessional life, you took me up, and have adhered 
 to me with a faithfulness far beyond my deserts. 
 For this, and your ever-unvarying kindness, you 
 have my most profound reverence and regard. 
 On my side, I think I have endeavored to do
 
 MEMOIR. 31 
 
 my duty towards you. On looking back, what 
 scenes crowd upon the memory, of suffering and 
 death, with which we have been familiarly con- 
 nected ; and how much have we to thank God 
 for his unnumbered mercies, though " clouds 
 and darkness surround his throne " ! Faith, my 
 good friends, is the only anchor we can rest upon 
 in trial and sickness, and the only true one which 
 will not desert us in prosperity. Faith, I say, 
 but not that mere intellectual belief which thinks 
 the arguments and reasons for a belief in the 
 promises of Christianity on the whole the most 
 preponderating, and therefore to be received as 
 truth; but that heart-felt faith, and which is 
 so deep and strong, as in some to amount almost 
 to mathematical demonstration. People with 
 such faith we all of us have had the pleasure of 
 knowing and enjoying. Such, amongst the dead, 
 were Dr. Haven, Dr. Parker, and, only be- 
 cause more recent, the more impressive, our late 
 
 lamented friend, J. "W. Foster. Mr. , and 
 
 others I could mention, I have no doubt, enjoy 
 an equal amount of faith ; that is, there is never 
 the shade of a shadow of doubt resting upon 
 their minds. As to Mr. Foster, it always seemed
 
 32 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 to me, that he was living as much in the future 
 as the present; that the veil which conceals 
 the future was always rolled up, and that the 
 beyond was illuminated to his mind with the 
 beams of a noon-day sun. What a death-scene ! 
 No display ! but, calm as a " summer's eve," he 
 resigned cheerfully his spirit to the God who 
 gave it. I thought then, I think so now, but for 
 the robbery, I should have been glad to have 
 gone down to the grave in his place. He seemed 
 to realize and enjoy that sentiment of Dr. Chan- 
 ning, " It is a privilege to die." But as to most 
 of us, and myself in particular, this high faith 
 has never taken full possession. The most we, 
 or at least I, can get, is an occasional glimpse, 
 which, when vouchsafed, is glorious indeed; but, 
 "like angels' visits, they are few and far be- 
 tween." 
 
 June 22, Tuesday. 
 
 To you, Mr. , one of my earliest and 
 
 dearest friends, what word of comfort can I 
 impart to cheer your despondency, or alleviate 
 your "pains ? Alas ! words will not do it. The 
 most I can wish for you is, that you may enjoy 
 that faith which will bring before you all the
 
 MEMOIR. 33 
 
 glories of the future as if they were present 
 realities ; and why should you not have this 
 blessed foretaste of the joys of the other world ? 
 Your life, it appears to me (I would not flatter), 
 has been that of a sincere, humble Christian, 
 " doing justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly 
 before God." What more can we do ? All can 
 look back upon many shortcomings, and even 
 sins of commission. But God will forgive us, if 
 the general tenor of our lives has corresponded 
 with his precepts. Cheer up, then. I have pre- 
 dicted that you would yet be raised to comfort in 
 this world. May it become true ! 
 
 To Mrs. , the good mother, the untiring, 
 
 faithful wife, how much you must enjoy from 
 a consciousness of the sacred performance of 
 duty ! and what a glorious crown of rejoicing is 
 reserved for you in the future ! Farewell ; my 
 love to all the family. This is probably the last 
 friendly letter I shall write to any one, as my 
 strength will not support it. This is the effort of 
 two days. But I felt it due to you for all your 
 kindness. C. A. c. 
 
 Mr. , who paid me a most consolatory 
 
 visit Monday evening, last evening, will 
 3
 
 34 MEMOIR. 
 
 communicate to you all about me. There is 
 no probability of my going through a third ope- 
 ration at present, if ever. I am too much ex- 
 hausted. I try to keep up my spirits ; they do 
 not often desert me; but I was pretty well 
 
 down when Mr. called and cheered me 
 
 up. Love to all. Yours, truly, 
 
 CHAS. A. CHEEVER. 
 
 To Mr. 
 
 Mass. General Hospital, June 80. 
 
 My dear Sir, I send you a sort of bulletin 
 of my health. I wish I could say, that I was as 
 well as last week ; then I expected to have been 
 at Saugus to recruit in ten days. But, on 
 Saturday morning, an exploration was proposed 
 with the aid of ether; and that was all I sup- 
 posed it was, until I found the effects were worse 
 than any before, and I suffered very much Satur- 
 day, Sunday, and Monday: since which it has 
 gradually been diminishing, though still severe. 
 Then.it was the doctor told me he had broke 
 it up still more ; the previous soreness, &c., ac- 
 counting for the aggravated suffering. In addi-
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 35 
 
 tion to my other troubles, I am threatened with 
 an abscess on the tuberosity of the ischium (the 
 bone on which we sit) ; so you see I am environed 
 about. The doctor says that it is nothing but a 
 sympathy of the great nerves with the parts ope- 
 rated on ; that, if it goes on, it will be a common 
 abscess, and nothing more. I don't know: he 
 feels, however, pretty certain. I endeavor to 
 leave it to him, and put my trust in Providence. 
 One thing is certain, my removal from the hos- 
 pital is quite remote. Well, if I must go on, and 
 continue to be sick, I could not be better situated. 
 The hospital is as cool and comfortable as we could 
 wish. Yesterday, when the heat in the city was 
 90 degrees, and people were melted down, I was 
 lying most of the day under a blanket; and 
 Adeline says she did not feel the heat. Besides, 
 I have all my family about me. I can truly bear 
 testimony to your remark, " that sickness is not 
 unmitigated suffering." There are a great many 
 ameliorating circumstances ; and it is surprising 
 what little things will give a change and a tone 
 to the feelings of the sufferer, even though they 
 last but a short time. But then multiply them 
 as they occur through twenty-four hours, it is
 
 36 MEMOIR. 
 
 surprising how great the product proves to be. 
 I could illustrate this, but enough for the present. 
 I know I have suffered greatly, particularly for 
 one so sensitive : still, thank God, I have found 
 a good many alleviations. 
 
 I don't think I have been so low-spirited as I 
 was, since you left me : your visit cheered me 
 up very much. And now, my good friend, what- 
 ever may be my fate, accept from me my most 
 sincere thanks for your untiring kindness and 
 sympathy for me and mine through a long course 
 of years ; and, giving my love to your wife and 
 children, believe me, Yours truly, 
 
 C. A. CHEEVEE. 
 
 To Mr. 
 
 July 20. 
 
 And now, my dear Friend, what shall I say 
 to you for all your feeling and kindness shown to 
 me 1 Your visits to me have been very consola- 
 tory, inspiring me with hope and confidence, par- 
 ticularly as regards the future ; for so imperfect 
 have I been, that I hardly dared to look beyond 
 the present. One expression of yours took deep
 
 MEMOIR. 37 
 
 root in my mind, viz. that you had no doubt that 
 God would do the very best with every one of 
 his children that could be done ; that is, that his 
 capacity would admit of: so that there is hope 
 for all whose intentions in life on the whole are 
 good, even though their faith be only as a grain 
 of mustard-seed. Indeed, we are so differently 
 constituted, mentally, that faith is much more 
 lively in some. I have known many, sincerely 
 good people as I believe, and struggling to do and 
 be good; yet all their lives under a cloud. Is 
 it not so ? The mind cannot be forced, and some 
 are more easily convinced than others. I never 
 heard a sermon of yours but I gave to it my full 
 intellectual assent; and yet, as I have said to 
 you, the veil between this and the future has 
 never been lifted, as it has to you ; and many I 
 have known who seemed to possess a sort of 
 mathematical demonstration hi regard to it. I 
 hope and pray I may have clearer views. I be- 
 lieve perhaps as much as my nature and occupa- 
 tion admit of. I rely on the love of God, who 
 has done so much for me. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 C. A. C.
 
 38 MEMOIR. 
 
 These letters exhibit something of Dr. 
 Cheever's mental condition during his resi- 
 dence at the hospital ; but we cannot find 
 words adequate to our remembrance of 
 his serenity, gentleness, and lowliness of 
 spirit, while under this severe trial. He was 
 almost never depressed, though he enter- 
 tained no sanguine expectations of recovery. 
 For many days he was conscious of being 
 in imminent danger, but was himself 
 surprised to find how calmly he could 
 look death in the face. He constantly ex- 
 pressed his grateful sense of the assiduity 
 of his medical attendants, the kindness of 
 his numerous friends, and the unwearied 
 devotion of those nearest to his affections. 
 He enjoyed much from the delightful as- 
 pects of nature, as seen from the windows 
 of his apartment, and from the flowers with 
 which loving hands kept his room profuse- 
 ly supplied. And not alone for their own 
 intrinsic value did he prize these sources of
 
 MEMOIR. 39 
 
 relief and solace in human sympathy, and 
 in the unuttered sympathy of nature. They 
 were to his soul types and pledges of the 
 divine benignity, and gave perpetual nutri- 
 ment to his religious trust and hope. On 
 the grounds of that hope he often conversed 
 with the profoundest humility, yet with a 
 willing self-surrender to the divine mercy. 
 He expressed the humblest self-estimate, 
 spoke lightly of the virtues that had en- 
 deared him to so many hearts, gave utter- 
 ance to a deep sense of his imperfections 
 and frailties, and placed his reliance wholly 
 on the redeeming mercy of God in Christ. 
 At the same time, his tender thoughtful- 
 ness for others attached a peculiar beauty, 
 nay, even a lofty moral grandeur, to these 
 months of suffering. When he could not 
 lift his head from the pillow, and could 
 hold his pen but for a few moments at a 
 time, he wrote almost daily some letter of 
 sympathy to patients whom he had left in
 
 40 MEMOIR. 
 
 a feeble or dying condition, to aged friends 
 who had leaned on his kindness, to chronic 
 invalids to whom he might impart comfort 
 from his own experience, and to those of 
 the depressed, afflicted, needy, and deso- 
 late among his acquaintance, who might 
 be soothed and cheered by such tokens of 
 remembrance. At the same time, he kept 
 up his cognizance of such prolonged cases 
 of illness as had been under his care, and 
 forgot his own pain and peril in devising 
 means and resources for their relief or res- 
 toration. Never was he more assiduous 
 in labors of love than under a burden of 
 debility and bodily anguish which might 
 almost have justified selfishness. 
 
 After a few weeks, he was convalescent ; 
 and, though he looked forward to but a 
 partial recovery, and had no expectation of 
 being, restored to active duty, he yielded 
 himself with grateful resignation to the 
 trials, restrictions, and infirmities of an
 
 MEMOIR. 41 
 
 invalid's life for the rest of his days. 
 About the middle of August, he left the 
 hospital, to spend several weeks at the 
 family mansion in Saugus. These weeks 
 he deemed the happiest of his life. He 
 renewed such of his old acquaintance as 
 death had spared, sat in the farm-houses 
 where he had played in his boyhood, per- 
 formed easy labors on the grounds planted 
 and adorned by his father and his ances- 
 tors, visited and relieved the sick in the 
 neighborhood of his sojourn, and enjoyed 
 the quiet of home-life with his sister and 
 his immediate family. Never had he been 
 more gentle, loving, or confiding. Never 
 had he ministered more richly to the happi- 
 ness of those whose happiness had been 
 the study of his life. Never Had the child- 
 like and the manly attributes of character 
 been more beautifully blended in his 
 demeanor and character. Under the sha- 
 dow of death, the fruits of piety and love
 
 42 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 were ripening for the harvest. On the 
 17th of September, he was seized with an 
 illness which presented at first no alarming 
 symptoms, but which, on account of the 
 condition of his system, admitted not of 
 the usual modes of relief. He gradually 
 lapsed into a lethargic state, and, with no 
 consciousness of the approach of death, 
 sank in painless dissolution on the morn- 
 ing of September 22. He died where, 
 could he have chosen the spot, he would 
 have asked that he might close his days. 
 He was spared the agony of parting, and 
 the dreaded experience of the death-strug- 
 gle. He was permitted to pass away, 
 before life had become a weariness. And 
 those who loved him best, while they can 
 never cease to regret that they can see his 
 face no more, can yet own, in the oppor- 
 tuneness of his death, the kind appoint- 
 ment of Him who in equal mercy gives and 
 takes away. On September 24, his obse-
 
 MEMOIR. 43 
 
 quies were attended by his family, his 
 pastor, and a few of his nearest friends; 
 and his body was laid in the family-tomb, 
 in the old ancestral orchard, with many 
 tears, and in profound sorrow, yet with 
 only grateful and blessed remembrances, 
 and in a hope full of immortality. 
 
 For his profession, Dr. Cheever pos- 
 sessed a singular aptitude. His powers of 
 observation were peculiarly keen ; and his 
 prognosis of disease was characterized 
 alike by its intuitive quickness, and its 
 almost unfailing accuracy. In his practice, 
 he united prudence and promptness, gentle- 
 ness and energy. No emergency, however 
 sudden, found him unprepared. When 
 there was time for deliberation, he generaUy 
 pursued a mild and expectant treatment ; 
 but, when life and death were poised on 
 the decision of the moment, he could have 
 instant recourse to the desperate remedy or 
 the capital operation. Always calm and
 
 44 
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 self-collected in times of danger, he sus- 
 tained the confidence and hopefulness of 
 his patients, when the least shadow of mis- 
 giving or despondency might have been 
 fatal. His accurate eye and steady hand 
 concurred^ with his moral intrepidity in 
 giving him eminent skill and success as a 
 surgeon ; and he was wont to express his 
 peculiar satisfaction in surgical practice, 
 on account of its definiteness and certainty 
 of aim, and the promptness of the relief 
 which it affords. His professional offices 
 were rendered doubly precious by his per- 
 fect reliableness as a true-hearted, frank, 
 honorable man. He abhorred nothing so 
 much as subterfuge, trickery, and conceal- 
 ment. He never prescribed for the sake of 
 doing something, or expressed groundless 
 hopes, or cherished baseless expectations. 
 He dealt plainly with his patient when he 
 could bear plain-dealing ; and, when a full 
 disclosure of his case might have been pre-
 
 MEMOIR. 45 
 
 judicial to him personally, he never failed to 
 apprise those around him how much they 
 might have to fear, or how little to hope. 
 His sympathies were deep and strong, and 
 seemed to grow more tender with the very 
 experiences which might have hardened a 
 spirit of coarser make and less delicate 
 sensibilities. There was, indeed, no osten- 
 tatious expression of sympathy ; but it was 
 manifested in every gentle office and kind 
 attention which blended wisdom and love 
 could suggest; and there are many who 
 have been drawn more closely to him by 
 his intense fellow-feeling with them un- 
 der bereavement, than when full success 
 crowned his skill and care. 
 
 In social life, he was acknowledged by 
 all as a true-hearted neighbor, friend, and 
 citizen. No trail of meanness, no shade of 
 dishonor, no imputation of sordid selfish- 
 ness, could be attached to his name while 
 he lived, or can cleave to his memory in
 
 46 MEMOIR. 
 
 death. Warm, ardent, and impulsive, if 
 he was ever rash, it was in the utterance of 
 the truth; if over-earnest, it was in ad- 
 vocacy of the right; if indignant, it was 
 against pretension, fraud, or hypocrisy. He 
 was the friend of the poor ; and, for those 
 especially who had seen better days, it was 
 his constant endeavor to ward off the con- 
 sciousness of want, and the irksomeness 
 of a dependent condition. He knew how 
 to give, without wounding the self-respect 
 of his beneficiary. He made no show of 
 beneficence ; but there are not a few who 
 testify that at critical periods his kindness 
 alone stood between them and utter desti- 
 tution. A large portion of his professional 
 services were gratuitous; and that not 
 alone or chiefly among those who could 
 not have paid him, but wherever the charge 
 might have caused straitness or distress. 
 His books, after his death, exhibited his 
 characteristic benevolence; containing, in
 
 MEMOIR. 47 
 
 numerous instances, a slight or merely no- 
 minal charge for services rendered through 
 a series of years. It may be said of him, 
 with literal truth, that he never received 
 fees that were not easily and willingly 
 paid. In all his relations to the commu- 
 nity at large, he was public-spirited and 
 enterprising ; the active advocate of educa- 
 tion, order, social reform, and progress. 
 
 His character rested on a firm basis of 
 Christian faith and principle. His conver- 
 sance with suffering and death, so far from 
 generating the hardness of feeling, coldness 
 of heart, and sceptical tendencies, which 
 have been so falsely and cruelly laid to the 
 charge of the medical faculty (for no pro- 
 fession can exhibit a larger proportional 
 number of consistent and devoted Chris- 
 tian believers), only made him more vividly 
 sensible of the need of an omnipotent sup- 
 port for the soul under physical anguish 
 and in the near prospect of death. With
 
 48 MEMOIR. 
 
 reverent curiosity and earnest longing, he 
 watched and treasured up the spiritual 
 experiences connected with illness and dis- 
 solution ; and was wont, for his own edifi- 
 cation, still to frequent the death-chamber 
 of the resigned and devout, when human 
 help had ceased to be of avail, deeming it 
 a precious privilege to look at both worlds 
 through the clarified vision of those who 
 stand on the confines of both. The insti- 
 tutions of religion had not only his nega- 
 tive sanction, but the full support of his 
 example and influence. No stress of pro- 
 fessional engagements, no weariness or 
 exhaustion, kept his seat at church vacant, 
 unless there was some absolute necessity 
 for his aid at the very hour of service. He 
 was for many years a communicant, and 
 attested the sincerity of his self-consecra- 
 tion- at the altar of Christian piety by 
 uniform religious reverence, and by a guile- 
 less and faithful life.
 
 MEMOIR. 49 
 
 Brief and imperfect, indeed, has our 
 sketch of our friend been. It has been less 
 Our design to make him known where he 
 was unknown while living, than to refresh 
 the memory of the many friends, who 
 would gladly preserve, with the lineaments 
 of his countenance, some feeble attempt at 
 his moral portraiture. Had the writer 
 loved him less, he might have been able to 
 enter into a more rigid analysis of his cha- 
 racter. But, where our affections are 
 warmly interested, the critical judgment as 
 to details is suspended, and we can only 
 give shape to the impression made upon 
 us by the aggregate of our friend's mental 
 and moral qualities. By such a standard, it 
 is hardly possible to over-estimate the sub- 
 ject of this memoir ; for no man can have 
 held a dearer place than he in the respect, 
 affection, and gratitude of those who 
 enjoyed his friendship, were relieved by his 
 skill, or comforted by his charity. For 
 4
 
 50 MEMOIR. 
 
 them we have written ; for those who loved 
 him in life, whose tenderest sympathy was 
 with him in his trials and sufferings, and 
 who can never let his memory die.
 
 ADDRESSES AND ESSAYS.
 
 ADDRESSES, &c. 
 
 AN ADDRESS ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED MASON, 
 DELIVERED AT THE FORENSIC HALL IN PORTS- 
 MOUTH, IN 1828. 
 
 DEATH, at all times a solemn and an 
 afflictive event, is peculiarly solemn and 
 afflictive, when a young man falls its vic- 
 tim. We can look with emotions compa- 
 ratively calm and subdued upon one worn 
 down by the cares and infirmities of age, 
 as he slowly descends to the tomb. As 
 the evening of his days has approached, 
 by its lengthening shadows we have been 
 admonished, that the night of death was at 
 hand. For an event like this, we are always
 
 54 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 prepared. It is in accordance with the great 
 law of change and dissolution, stamped 
 upon every thing about us. We see empires 
 decaying, the proudest monuments of art, 
 the works of nature, the great globe itself, 
 waxing old, and mouldering away ; and 
 man himself, the noblest work of all, after 
 a few short years at most, must join the 
 general wreck. When death comes, there- 
 fore, in obedience to this universal decree, 
 we bow to it as to an inexorable law of 
 our nature, the completion of an inevitable 
 destiny. Nay, more ; sad and dreadful as 
 is the alternative, we would not reverse it. 
 We would not, under the circumstances of 
 our being, plead for our friends an exemp- 
 tion from its resistless sway. We would 
 rather be grateful, that, to the broken-heart- 
 ed, there is an asylum from the storms of 
 the world ; that there is a retreat from the 
 bleak winter of age ; that there is one spot 
 where its cares and sorrows can never enter,
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 55 
 
 though it be no other than the dark and 
 silent mansion of the tomb. 
 
 But when one is cut down in the morn- 
 ing of his days, in the season of bloom 
 and of promise, who shall tell how over- 
 whelming the calamity, how deep the 
 despair of blighted hopes, and warm affec- 
 tions blasted ? Oh ! then, if ever, the cup 
 of affliction is filled to the brim. From 
 being the merciful friend we have contem- 
 plated it, to worn-out, exhausted nature, 
 we can view death now only as shrouded 
 in gloom and dismay s the scourge of our 
 race, the relentless destroyer of all our 
 hopes. With an iron grasp, it fastens 
 upon the strength of manhood, the prop of 
 age, the joy of friendship, the pride of so- 
 ciety ; and he withers away. At a moment, 
 it may be, when his hopes are brightest, and 
 his prospects most flattering, when he is 
 just entering upon the busy scenes of the 
 world, to mingle in its cares and its joys,
 
 56 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 with the promise of being useful and honor- 
 able and happy, a comfort and an honor 
 to his friends, and a blessing to the commu- 
 nity, his countenance is changed, and he 
 is summoned away. It is here that the 
 power of death is terrible indeed. We are 
 overwhelmed with the havoc and desolation 
 it produces. What eye melts not in tears, 
 as it gazes on the form over which disease 
 and death have swept with resistless fury ? 
 It is all in ruins. To see the countenance, 
 so recently lighted up with the smiles of 
 joy and of gladness, all glowing with health 
 and intelligence, its features now blighted 
 and motionless, and cold with the damps 
 of the grave ; the eye, once all on fire, its 
 lustre quenched, to beam no more ; the lips, 
 whence flowed the accents of kindness and 
 love, hushed and silenced for ever ; and that 
 frame-of manly vigor and strength, so full 
 of activity and life, in its mechanism so 
 strange, so wonderful, crushed at a blow,
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 57 
 
 all in ruins, but the mind, the soul; and 
 even that has vanished from our view, 
 never more to cheer and gladden us with 
 its presence ; never more to meet us again, 
 till that awful day, when we shall stand 
 together, as stand we must, before the bar 
 of God ; in view of a scene like this, oh ! 
 what are we, and what is human life ? 
 
 " The spider's most attenuated thread 
 Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie 
 On earthly bliss it breaks at every breeze." 
 
 In a season of deep affliction like this 
 we cannot drown our sorrows in oblivion, 
 or fly from an aching heart. What shall 
 mitigate its anguish ? In vain, now, do 
 we talk of resistless fate and of inevitable 
 destiny ; and say of how little importance 
 it is when or how many of the tender 
 ties of affection are broken ; since, sooner 
 or later, we must fall and mingle together 
 in the common dust. Arguments and
 
 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 maxims like these may amuse our minds 
 when all is still and peaceful about us. 
 They may sound manful in our ears, when 
 we are gliding down the current of life, 
 without a single gathering cloud to darken 
 the prospect, or a threatening storm to ruf- 
 fle its surface. We may imagine that we 
 shall be able to brace ourselves up, and 
 endure with stoicism and bravery the heavi- 
 est calamities and afflictions, if they come 
 upon us with the sanction of an unaltera- 
 ble doom. But let this calm be troubled ; 
 let the tempest break ; let a wasting pesti- 
 lence blast, one after another, by our sides, 
 the fondest objects of our hearts, or a distant 
 and an unseen grave open to receive one of 
 them, where then are our boasted sup- 
 porters and comforters? Reason and phi- 
 losophy, alas ! however much they might 
 have- promised in the distance, when no 
 danger was at hand, and all was sunshine, 
 are cold and comfortless, when we are
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 59 
 
 dealing with the realities of life, in the 
 dark hour of anguish and sorrow. They 
 may amuse the intellect; but the iron is 
 in the heart, and they cannot reach the 
 source of wounded affections. 
 
 Our friends cannot help us. They may 
 hover around us, and like guardian angels 
 minister to the mind diseased; but they 
 cannot root out the bitterness of grief. 
 Their generous endeavors to pour in the 
 balm of consolation, and alleviate sorrow, 
 command our gratitude, and may possibly 
 mitigate the intensity of suffering ; but, af- 
 ter all, it is by the sympathy and solicitude 
 of others that we are the more forcibly 
 reminded of the deprivation of kind hands 
 and warm hearts that have left us for ever. 
 The world, with its pleasures and allure- 
 ments, cannot help us. The joyful scenes 
 of life were only so from participation ; and 
 now that the friends who gave a zest to life, 
 and rendered every scene of enchantment
 
 60 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 more dear by a communion of interest 
 and of feeling, have gone, they have lost 
 their charms, and we pass heavily along 
 though every thing around us may be smil- 
 ing through a bleak and wintry waste ; 
 every day, every hour, every spot, bringing 
 powerfully to the mind some mournful 
 associations connected with the departed. 
 
 These are the sorrows which bow down 
 the heart beyond the power of human con- 
 solation ; and, for a time at least, if we have 
 any sensibility, and look not beyond the 
 world for support, we must be wretched 
 indeed. If with our friends we believe we 
 are committing to the dust the minds, the 
 virtues and affections, which endeared them 
 so much to us when living, then well may 
 we sit down in sackcloth and ashes, and 
 give ourselves up to hopeless despair; well 
 may we suppress every motive to more ge- 
 nerous and nobler purposes of living, with 
 the hope of meeting them again ; for we
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 61 
 
 shall soon lie down with them in forgetful- 
 ness and oblivion. 
 
 But, thanks be to God, we are not thus 
 deserted in our moments of weakness and 
 sorrow. A light breaks in upon us in our 
 darkest hours, and reveals a "bright path 
 leading through the gloom of the grave, 
 even to the throne of the Almighty." They 
 but tread the path that the blessed hath 
 trod ; " a path of suffering and of glory, 
 bedewed with the tears of earth, but bright- 
 ened with the gleams of heaven." With 
 the eye of faith, we can see our virtuous 
 friends, as they leave us, bursting the fetters 
 of death, and winging their way beyond 
 the stars, to a brighter, happier world ; to a 
 nobler sphere of existence, better adapted, 
 than the clouded, checkered scenes of earth, 
 for the development of the faculties and 
 affections of the mind, in an always pro- 
 gressive improvement, and a happiness for 
 ever enduring. Impressed with feelings like
 
 62 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 these, though the bolt may have struck us 
 to the heart, and every joy seem to be 
 withering and dying around us, hope and 
 mercy will lend their soft and benignant 
 influences to mitigate the anguish of our 
 sufferings. Our minds dwell no longer 
 upon the well-loved form, now hushed in 
 death, our hearts sink not with it into 
 the clay-cold grave ; for the spirit has un- 
 folded its wings, and flown to heaven, 
 where we, after the discipline, the trials, 
 and sorrows of life are all over, if faithful 
 to our trust, shall meet it again, and meet 
 to part no more. 
 
 My friends, an event like the one we have 
 been considering has brought us together 
 this evening. We have come, as young 
 men, to pay a simple tribute of affection 
 and respect to the memory of one, wHo, 
 wheli but commencing like ourselves the 
 journey of life, has been suddenly called to 
 his final account. We have come, too, I
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 63 
 
 trust, to listen to the admonitions of an 
 event, so solemn and impressive, to learn 
 from it our duties, and gather up strength 
 for their performance. 
 
 ALFRED MASON,* whose early loss we 
 mourn, was born on the 4th of March, 1804, 
 and under circumstances of parentage, sin- 
 gularly fitted to elicit and bring forward his 
 naturally sagacious and inquisitive mind. 
 It is not, however, my intention to dwell 
 upon the early scenes of his childhood. A 
 thousand little incidents, with their kindred 
 emotions, rather to be felt than described, 
 must rush upon your minds, when I advert 
 to days on which memory fondly lingers, 
 before the charm and magic of existence 
 were broken by the trials and vicissitudes 
 of maturer years. His early life he spent 
 amongst you; and how cheerfully and 
 
 * D ; ed on the 12th of April, 1828, aged 24 years, 
 at Bellevue Hospital, which he entered February 24.
 
 64 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 happily, will not be forgotten. You all 
 remember his docility and gentleness, the 
 ingenuousness and sweetness of his tem- 
 per, the amiable simplicity of his character, 
 and the noble generosity of his soul. 
 
 After passing the usual period at Phillips' 
 Exeter Academy, where he gained the at- 
 tachment and esteem of all who knew him, 
 he entered Bowdoin College. Here the 
 same qualities of the mind and heart, 
 which endeared him to his earliest friends, 
 made him esteemed and beloved in every 
 connection he formed. If, however, he was 
 not particularly distinguished in the routine 
 of college exercises, it was not that he was 
 deficient in industry, or insensible to the 
 importance of mental cultivation, for in a 
 very large class he exerted a commanding 
 influence, by his extensive information on 
 subjects of general and polite literature, 
 and by his unrivalled eminence in a parti- 
 cular department of knowledge, but be-
 
 DEATH OP ALFRED MASON. 65 
 
 cause he viewed the prescribed studies of 
 a college course as comparatively of infe- 
 rior value to one who had marked out for 
 himself a path in life in which they would 
 prove, at least, of doubtful utility ; and he 
 had strength and elevation of character to 
 forego the trifling distinctions they might 
 confer, in his love for pursuits which were 
 more congenial to his taste, and for which 
 he ever evinced a most remarkable genius. 
 It is the remark of one who knew him 
 best, a classmate and an intimate friend, 
 " that he discovered in early life a decided 
 partiality for natural science ; and, as he 
 increased in years, it ripened into the most 
 devoted and exclusive attachment. He 
 flung his arms around her inanimate form, 
 and, like Pygmalion's statue, nature grew 
 into life and beauty and intelligence be- 
 neath his warm embrace ; and neither 
 mathematics nor poetry, politics nor plea- 
 sure, could shake his constancy, or estrange 
 6
 
 66 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 his love from those charms that won his 
 youthful heart." 
 
 Thus early did he show a predilection 
 for studies in which he afterwards became 
 a remarkable proficient. Nor was he with- 
 out sympathy in these high and noble pur- 
 suits. It was his good fortune, at this 
 period, to attract the notice of one whom 
 our country has delighted to honor, as 
 having attained to the very foremost rank 
 in natural science ; and for whom, in a 
 particular branch, we should perhaps be 
 unwilling to yield the palm of distinction 
 to any in the world. From him our young 
 friend received the greatest assistance. He 
 caught his spirit, and, by his aptitude for 
 learning, his industry, and enthusiastic 
 exertion, did honor to the distinguished 
 attentions that had been so liberally and 
 so -generously bestowed upon him. He 
 particularly devoted himself to the sciences 
 of t physiology, natural history, chemistry,
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 67 
 
 and mineralogy ; and in each, particularly 
 the latter, made very high and honorable 
 attainments. To his knowledge of this 
 particular branch, our Athenasum is in- 
 debted for many of its valuable specimens, 
 and for its classification and scientific 
 arrangement. 
 
 It was probably the connection of these 
 branches of science, which he so much 
 loved, with that of medicine, to which they 
 are auxiliaries, which led him to pursue it 
 as a profession. Having honorably com- 
 pleted his education at Brunswick, he 
 entered his name, as a student of medicine, 
 with a distinguished physician of this place, 
 whose known ardor and zeal in the pursuit 
 of science was a pledge of success to a 
 favorite pupil. Being naturally endowed 
 with a mind active, ardent, and discrimi- 
 nating, he possessed every requisite for 
 success and distinction in the profession he 
 had chosen, not only from the acuteness
 
 68 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 of his discernment, his decision, and judg- 
 ment, but from an exalted sense of inte- 
 grity, and a truly humane and philanthropic 
 disposition. To the cultivation of the 
 several branches of his profession, he devot- 
 ed himself with the most unwavering zeal 
 and untiring industry. Indeed, all the 
 energies of his soul seemed to be conse- 
 crated to the advancement of his favorite 
 object. It was in him a passion to which 
 every thing of minor importance was com- 
 pelled to give way. He did not thus en- 
 gage in it, however, from mere pecuniary 
 views of its importance, though these were 
 probably estimated, as they should be, of 
 real though subordinate value ; for there 
 was nothing selfish or mercenary in his 
 nature. No. He loved his profession as a 
 science, in its nature ennobling to a dili- 
 gent "cultivator, and in its effects a blessing 
 to mankind. He labored for principles. 
 He believed, with the great Rush, that
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 69 
 
 medicine without principles is an humble 
 art and a degrading occupation ; but, con- 
 nected with them, the sure road to honor, 
 and to the moral and intellectual elevation 
 of character. With such just and ennobling 
 views of the art, he, at different periods, 
 visited the first medical schools of our 
 country, always acquiring something valu- 
 able to add to his stock of acquirements, 
 and always returning with an ardor un- 
 abated for still further improvement. 
 
 It might be supposed, that, in a mind 
 thus constituted, and devoted as it was to 
 the discipline of severe study and abstruse 
 investigation, there would be but little op- 
 portunity for the exercise of the finer feel- 
 ings of our nature. But, in this respect, 
 he possessed a delightful harmony of cha- 
 racter. He did not cultivate his under- 
 standing at the expense of his heart : they 
 grew up and flourished together. With a 
 most affectionate disposition, there were
 
 70 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 united in him a delicate and tender sen- 
 sibility to the sufferings of others, which 
 manifested itself in the most unwearied 
 efforts for doing them good, and a bene- 
 volence which was limited only by his 
 powers of usefulness. He was truly the 
 friend of the sick and the destitute, extend- 
 ing to them, as opportunity offered, not 
 only the high offices of his profession, but, 
 as we have not unfrequently witnessed, the 
 bountiful hand of kindness and charity. 
 Accustomed, from his situation in life, to 
 mingle with the most cultivated society, 
 he carried into the world a love for its 
 refined and elevated enjoyments. Nature, 
 indeed, had formed him for the pleasures 
 of friendship and of social intercourse ; and 
 how much he enjoyed them, no one who 
 remembers his affability and playfulness of 
 manner, and the happiness which beamed 
 from every expression of his countenance, 
 will ever forget. Happy himself, he made
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 71 
 
 every one about him happy, by the cheer- 
 fulness and vivacity of his disposition, and 
 by a singularly frank, accessible, capti- 
 vating, yet unassuming deportment. He 
 diffused a charm over the various relations 
 and endearments of domestic life, by the 
 ardor and strength of his attachments, by 
 the kindness and gentleness of his spirit, 
 and by his indifference to self in his deep 
 solicitude for the happiness and welfare of 
 the circle with which he was connected. 
 
 The same zeal which characterized him 
 in the medical profession distinguished 
 him in every thing he undertook ; ever 
 active and ardent, and ever extending his- 
 influence to the promotion of human im- 
 provement. In this respect, he will be 
 remembered for his generous labors in the 
 instruction of a' class of young ladies in 
 the elements of botany, and in one of our 
 Sunday-schools as a faithful and intelli- 
 gent teacher of the principles of our holy
 
 72 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 religion ; and, while he carried into life a 
 respect and reverence for its sacred insti- 
 tutions, affections so ardent and elevated, 
 we trust, must have imbibed a portion of 
 its benevolent spirit, and been warmed by 
 its heavenly influences. 
 
 That a mind and heart thus cultivated, 
 as they had already made him respected 
 and beloved, would have rendered him an 
 ornament to the medical profession, the 
 messenger of mercy, indeed, to the distresses 
 of suffering humanity, cannot be doubted. 
 "Why they were not permitted to ripen into 
 greater usefulness, and extend more widely 
 their benevolent influences, is concealed 
 from us by Him who knoweth what is 
 best for us ; and we would reverently bow 
 to this act of his inscrutable providence. 
 
 Early in the last autumn, he left this 
 place .for New York, where he took up his 
 residence, and passed the winter, under the 
 instruction of an eminent practitioner, in
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 73 
 
 the most assiduous attention to his studies, 
 and in unremitted exertions for still further 
 attainments. Believing that a large hos- 
 pital would afford him superior facilities for 
 improvement, and for witnessing disease 
 in its greatest variety and most malignant 
 forms, he solicited the situation of assist- 
 ant-surgeon at Bellevue Hospital; and it 
 is honorable to him, that, so highly were 
 bis qualifications appreciated, from very 
 many applicants, he was selected to the 
 office. 
 
 During the winter, an epidemic had pre- 
 vailed in the hospital, which, although it 
 had apparently subsided at the time of 
 his entrance, shortly afterward made its 
 appearance again, spreading through the 
 crowded wards with greater severity and 
 fatality than before had been known. To 
 a young man of his warm and generous 
 character, with a deep sense of responsi- 
 sibility, and a heart overflowing with sym-
 
 74 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 pathy, it may be easily imagined how 
 trying and laborious must have been the 
 situation in which he was placed ; and how 
 kind, how faithful, and how vigilant he 
 was in the practice of his duties, amid the 
 appalling scenes of suffering and death, we 
 have the testimony of his senior in office ; 
 and many a grateful heart that survived 
 the peril will ever hold his name in ten- 
 der remembrance. Regardless of danger 
 where he had known duties to perform, 
 and worn down by care and anxiety in 
 unremitted attempts to stay the desolation 
 that was spreading around him, he fell a 
 victim to a distemper, which, though 
 treacherous and perhaps flattering in its 
 attack, soon developed, in the destruction 
 of his reason and strength, its inveterate 
 and fatal malignancy. 
 
 Thus died our friend, after a few days' 
 illness, at the early age of twenty-four, in 
 the midst of life, when the world was
 
 DEATH OP ALFRED MASON. 75 
 
 bright, when he had gained the confidence 
 of success, and was reaping the rewards of 
 an honorable ambition, and the faithful 
 cultivation of the powers and faculties 
 which God had given him. 
 
 We could have wished, if consistent 
 with His will, that a mind so ardent and 
 intelligent, so devoted to generous exertion 
 and noble enterprise, might have been 
 spared to his friends and to society; yet 
 not our will, but His be done. We would 
 not recall him ; we would not have had 
 him purchase even life at the expense of 
 his duty. No. He had sought the situa- 
 tion which proved indeed his grave, and 
 we would not have had him shrink from 
 its dangers. To those who loved him best, 
 as they fondly dwell upon the virtues of 
 his character, how happy will be the reflec- 
 tion, that his last days were passed in 
 endeavoring to soften the pillow of distress, 
 in administering to the wants of the sick
 
 76 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 and the dying ! And oh how consoling the 
 thought, that he died in the cause of suf- 
 fering humanity ; that he died at the post 
 of his duty! It may be, too, that, his 
 work accomplished, his duties done, in the 
 faithful improvement of mind and develop- 
 ment of character, he is wanted in a loftier 
 sphere of existence, for nobler purposes, 
 and for still higher advancement. It may 
 be, he has been mercifully removed from 
 impending woe, from disappointments and 
 sorrows, which would have damped his 
 ardor, and ruined his peace. It is certain 
 that the event, however afflictive it may 
 be, is the allotment of infinite Goodness 
 and of unerring Wisdom. Then 
 
 " Weep not for him ! He died in early youth, 
 Ere hope had lost its rich, romantic hues ; 
 When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth, 
 And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant hues ; 
 His summer prime waned not to days that freeze, 
 His wine of life was run not to the lees. 

 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 77 
 
 " It was not his to feel 
 The miseries that corrode amassing years ; 
 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel ; 
 To wander sad down age's vale of tears, 
 As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree, 
 And on earth's wintry waste alone to be. 
 
 " Weep not for him ! by fleet or slow decay, 
 It never grieved his bosom's core to mark 
 His friends loved best to fade away, 
 His prospects wither, or his hopes grow dark." 
 
 We shall see him no more. His body 
 sleeps in the dust, and his spirit has re- 
 turned to the God who gave it, who will, 
 with unerring wisdom, estimate the im- 
 provement of the faculties and affections 
 which his inspiration enkindled, and his 
 energy sustained. In him society has lost 
 a valuable membej, whose bright example, 
 and the memory of whose virtues, cannot 
 be too strongly cherished; science, an ac- 
 tive and zealous votary in her cause ; and 
 his kindred and friends, the kind and affec- 
 tionate spirit that ever delighted in doing
 
 78 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 them good. Indeed, the anxiety expressed 
 at the intelligence of the increasing danger 
 of his illness, and the universal sorrow 
 manifested at his death, are unequivocal 
 testimonials, how highly he was valued 
 and beloved, and how deeply his loss is 
 lamented. 
 
 In view, then, of an event so solemn and 
 impressive, how empty and vain must 
 appear every pursuit which has not for its 
 object the elevation of the intellectual and 
 moral portions of our nature ! It is charac- 
 ter formed upon them which alone can be 
 valuable to us ; for it is character, which, 
 as it is improved or neglected, will light 
 our way to heaven, or sink us in wretched- 
 ness and woe. 
 
 A voice warns us from the grave of 
 the young, that in "the midst of life we 
 are in'death ; " that, although in the vigor 
 and freshness of youth, we can no more 
 escape than him we mourn, "the arrow
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 
 
 79 
 
 that flieth in darkness, or the destruction 
 that wasteth at noonday." And yet how 
 few of us realize, in its fullest extent, this 
 solemn, this momentous truth ! How few 
 of us believe it to be possible, that we may 
 be now standing upon the verge of eterni- 
 ty, and that our next step may be into the 
 grave! Still, believe it or not, prepared 
 for it or not, ere another year shall have 
 closed, for some of us the mandate will 
 have been issued, and we shall have been 
 gathered with the mighty congregation of 
 the dead. The history of the past and 
 of the present is the history of death. 
 Where, let me ask, are the friends that 
 participated with us in the pleasures of 
 childhood ? If we have reached maturity, 
 the number of the living bears no compari- 
 son to that of the dead. If we have arrived 
 .at old age, we are like a few scattered mo- 
 numents in a barren waste. Every thing 
 about us is in ruins. Indeed, the pathway
 
 80 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 of life is thickly strewn with those who 
 entered, as gladly as ourselves, upon its 
 busy and flattering scenes. At every step, 
 some faithful companion is dropping by 
 the way ; and, one by one, as we advance, 
 we are parting for ever with the dearest 
 objects of our hearts. And yet, living, as 
 we literally do, amongst the dying and the 
 dead, with all this certainty before us, how 
 heedlessly we pass along; how regardless 
 of preparation for an event, beyond all 
 others the most solemn, and in its conse- 
 quences the most awful ! 
 
 The truth is, however, that there is not 
 one of us but hopes and intends, at some 
 distant period, to be earnest in the pre- 
 paration for death. Our excuse is, that we 
 are young ; that the allurements and seduc- 
 tions of life are strong; and that the re- 
 quired improvement of mind and cultiva- 
 tion of heart are too great a tax upon 
 enjoyment, and detract too much from *our
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 81. 
 
 pleasures; that this gloomy preparation 
 for death is the business of age ; that we 
 shall have less to contend with, and can 
 engage in it with more certainty of success, 
 when passion is hushed, and appetite 
 exhausted, and infirmity and disease are 
 drawing us off from the heat and bustle of 
 life, and uniting their influence to break up 
 the ties which have bound us so strongly 
 to the world. How foolish and absurd an 
 argument like this, when we consider, that, 
 ere old age shall arrive, most, if not all, of 
 us will have been called to our final ac- 
 count ! But admit it. "Well, old age has 
 come, with all its promised advantages for 
 the commencement and completion of our 
 duties ; for the preparation for an event for 
 which a whole life has been expressly de- 
 manded of us ; and for the performance of 
 those solemn requisitions, for which a life 
 extended to its utmost limits can never 
 be too long. We are as weak and as in- 
 6
 
 82 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 firm as could possibly be wished for our 
 purpose. Passion and appetite are dead ; 
 the illusions of life are dispelled ; and the 
 world, so bright with its attractions, has lost 
 its power. We are forlorn and miserable ; 
 our friends have dropped around us like 
 autumn leaves, and we are left to buffet 
 the pitiless storms of age alone and 
 amongst strangers. Disease, too, is rack- 
 ing our frames ; and every thing about us 
 is conspiring to loosen our hold upon the 
 earth, to rouse us to a sense of our danger, 
 and of our rapid approach to the grave. 
 But we forget, that, with our animal 
 powers, our minds have decayed ; the frosts 
 of time have collected about the heart, and 
 sealed up every avenue to sympathy and 
 affection. Our sensibility to impression is 
 impaired; and the moral sense, so long 
 silenced and subdued, has lost its power of 
 action. Or, if conscience be roused from a 
 lethargy so dreadful, to a sense of remorse,
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 83 
 
 our contrition must be feeble and imperfect, 
 since memory, now almost extinguished, 
 can but indistinctly call over the catalogue 
 of sinful neglects and criminal indulgences. 
 This is the state we thought so auspi- 
 cious, so favorable, to repair the errors of a 
 misspent or a corrupt and polluted life. I 
 say not that amendment is impossible, even 
 when deferred to so late a period of exist- 
 ence. But I do say that he chance of suc- 
 cess is all but a hopeless one, and I appeal 
 to experience for the truth of the assertion. 
 Show me the man, who has spent a life of 
 degrading negligence, with a body decayed 
 and broken down by debasing pleasures, 
 and a mind exhausted and polluted by sin- 
 ful indulgence, or who has passed his life 
 only with a careless indifference to the con- 
 cerns of the future ; and has, at its close, so 
 deeply lamented, and so far atoned for the 
 errors of the past, as to imbibe the spirit, 
 and be animated and warmed by the prin-
 
 84 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 ciples and feelings, he had so long and so 
 wantonly abused. Show me the man! 
 I say not but he may be found; but, for 
 every such one, I will show you a thou- 
 sand, who, after repeated promises of dis- 
 tant amendment, have gone down with 
 gray hairs to their graves, without a sin- 
 gle hope to brighten the darkness and 
 alleviate the terrors which hang over an 
 hereafter; who, in their passage through 
 life, at its different stages, like us it may 
 be, " resolved, and re-resolved, and died the 
 same." 
 
 Again, we think too lightly of intellec- 
 tual and moral improvement; for in this 
 consists the greatest happiness and highest 
 dignity of our nature. It is mind which 
 will render us useful and honorable in the 
 world, which will survive the shocks of 
 misfortune and the sleep of the grave. 
 Nor, as we believe, can any distant amend- 
 ment atone for a neglect to improve it.
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 85 
 
 And what a solemn consideration is this ! 
 We say, then, that, if improvement be 
 neglected, the neglect is an irreparable 
 one; we must suffer for it in this world, 
 and in the world which is to come : its 
 consequences are eternal; and no repent- 
 ance, no future amendment, can ever repair 
 the loss. What ! and can this possibly be 
 true! Is not happiness promised to the 
 returning prodigal ? Is it ever too late to 
 repent, and meet with acceptance ? No. 
 It >is never too late ; and the penitent, 
 the contrite in spirit, shall be for ever 
 happy in heaven. Still, we repeat and 
 believe, that the consequences of neglect- 
 ing to cultivate and advance the moral 
 and intellectual powers which God has 
 given us are strictly eternal. For what is 
 heaven but a heaven of intellect and of 
 affection, where mind meets mind in its 
 upward flight, still further unfolding and 
 developing its powers, going onward in
 
 86 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 knowledge and virtue, still brightening 
 from glory to glory, and approaching still 
 nearer and nearer the great Source of light 
 and intelligence, throughout the boundless 
 ages of eternity? We cannot conceive of 
 supreme felicity as consisting in mere free- 
 dom from sin and from suffering, in inglo- 
 rious ease, or a monotonous round of 
 enjoyment ; but in activity, in calling into 
 exercise every faculty, every virtue and 
 affection we possess, in enlarging and ex- 
 panding them, in fathoming still further, it 
 may be, the designs and mysteries of our 
 Creator, and participating more and more 
 for ever with him in his perfect goodness 
 and intelligence. Of consequence, then, 
 we must enter upon eternity with advan- 
 tages widely differing from one another to 
 continue this upward progress ; and the ad- 
 vance we shall have of one another will be 
 proportionate to the relative culture of our 
 minds, and the moral improvement of the
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 87 
 
 opportunities we possess. It is impossible, 
 from what we know of the nature of 
 mind, that it should be otherwise ; it is 
 impossible that the injuries of an idle, mis- 
 spent life should be repaired by a few hours 
 or days of penance or sincere repentance 
 at its close. The offering, it is true, that is 
 laid upon the altar of our God by the 
 humble and penitent offender, though 
 snatched from the remnant of a corrupt 
 and polluted life, will be accepted, and its 
 subject will be for ever perfectly happy; 
 for all the capacity for happiness for which 
 his character is formed will be filled. 
 Yet the consequences of his vices and 
 imperfections will for ever remain. It is 
 so in the natural, it will be so, we believe, 
 in the moral world. In neither, although 
 amendment may partially restore, can it 
 elevate us to that consummation of bliss 
 to which we might otherwise have at- 
 tained. We do not see that the man who
 
 88 ADDRESS ON THE 
 
 has debased and polluted his mind by low 
 pleasures and pursuits, however deep and 
 sincere his repentance, can be immediately 
 restored to a capacity, a high relish, for 
 intellectual employments, or that he who 
 has never advanced in moral attainments 
 can at once, by a short period of sorrow for 
 his folly, be rendered capable of the highest 
 moral felicity. No more do we believe it to 
 be possible, that the mere passage of such 
 a mind from time to eternity will produce 
 any miraculous change in its capacity for 
 happiness. 
 
 If, then, the neglect of improvement may 
 be, in the sense explained, for ever irrepa- 
 rable, in its consequences strictly eternal, 
 how important is the cultivation of the 
 mind, how important the formation of cha- 
 racter ! 
 
 A word more, and we part to mingle 
 again in the cares and pleasures of the 
 world. We have seen the importance of
 
 DEATH OF ALFRED MASON. 89 
 
 improvement, and its happy exemplifica- 
 tion in the character of one whom we 
 honored and respected for his attainments, 
 and loved for his virtues. We admire the 
 generosity and purity of his character, his 
 devotion to the duties of his profession, 
 and the unwearied industry and ardor he 
 exhibited in the acquirement of knowledge. 
 But, above all, we admire the energy of 
 character, the moral courage which ani- 
 mated and sustained him in the discharge 
 of his duties, amidst scenes of suffering 
 and of danger. Let us hold his name in 
 tender remembrance, and endeavor to imi- 
 tate his noble example. Let our exertions 
 for usefulness and improvement keep pace 
 with the current of our lives, so that, if 
 death should suddenly overtake us, we 
 may like him be found at the post of duty. 
 Then, whether sooner or later the last dread 
 summons shall arrive, if we have fulfilled 
 the great purpose of existence, our lives,
 
 90 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 like his, will have been long. For " hono- 
 rable age is not that which standeth in 
 length of time, nor which is measured by 
 number of years ; but wisdom is the gray 
 hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old 
 age." 
 
 AN ORATION DELIVERED IN PORTSMOUTH, 
 ON JULY 4, 1825. 
 
 ON this day, my friends, the hearts of a 
 whole nation are united in celebrating one 
 of the most interesting events recorded in 
 the history of the world ; an event, which, 
 as the annals of nearly the last half-century 
 have demonstrated, is to us, in its conse- 
 quences, beyond all others great and glo- 
 rious.' There can be no division of senti- 
 ment here; every eye beams, and every 
 bosom beats high with joy, at the approach
 
 ORATION. 91 
 
 of this jubilee of our country's freedom. 
 All ranks and stations in life delight to 
 honor and commemorate it; for no one 
 is so elevated as to be beyond the reach of 
 its influence, and no one so wretched as 
 not to participate in the blessings of 
 liberty. Around its altar we have assem- 
 bled, to cherish its sacred fire, to fortify 
 our patriotism, and to renew our vows of 
 fidelity to its cause. 
 
 Our first tribute is due to those who pro- 
 cured for us what we so highly prize and 
 enjoy. Let each one, then, bring up his of- 
 fering of gratitude to the memory of those, 
 who, through Providence, stood forth the 
 champions of the equal rights of mankind ; 
 to those who showed that jealous regard 
 to law and right, which snuffs tyranny on 
 every tainted breeze ; who, with scarcely a 
 weapon for attack, or a fort for defence, 
 presented themselves as barriers against its 
 most insidious encroachments ; and who,
 
 92 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 through the course of a long and bloody 
 struggle, were as illustrious for their vir- 
 tues, as for the glory of their achievements. 
 We may have heard of contests as sangui- 
 nary, and of deeds of heroism as brilliant, 
 as were theirs ; but in vain shall we look, 
 in the history of revolutions, for the moral 
 grandeur which distinguished our fathers. 
 The baser passions, so apt to burst forth in 
 all their fury in times of political excite- 
 ment, formed no part in the composition 
 of their characters. There was no display of 
 impetuosity or passion, no exhibition 
 of cruelty, or revenge for the accumulated 
 injuries they had received. No ! there was 
 an elevation, a purity of feeling, rendered 
 sacred by the cause they had espoused. 
 They engaged in it as for something whose 
 value was to live beyond the excitement 
 of ttie moment. They felt it to be a 
 contest for principles which were to confer 
 durable blessings upon their children and
 
 ORATION. 93 
 
 the world. All was calmness and delibera- 
 tion. They felt the iron hand of despotism 
 pressing heavily upon them, and they re- 
 sisted from a firm and honest conviction 
 of right, and with an unshaken confidence 
 in the justice of their cause ; but not till 
 they had petitioned and implored in vain 
 for redress. We deprecate as false and 
 unfounded the insinuation of a modern 
 historian, that these attempts of our fa- 
 thers for reconciliation were but so many 
 artifices of diplomacy to preserve a character 
 for moderation which they did not possess, 
 so many tricks to appease the disaf- 
 fected, and bring over to their cause those 
 more loyally disposed than themselves. It 
 is an attack upon their integrity, which 
 no American can brook. No: they were 
 honest in their endeavors for an honor- 
 able adjustment of the differences. The 
 very character of the men engaged proves 
 this ; the unwavering attachment they had
 
 94 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 always manifested to the mother-country 
 proves it ; the ceaseless efforts they made, 
 through almost the whole course of the 
 conflict, prove it; nay, more, the forlorn- 
 ness, the apparent hopelessness, of the 
 cause they had espoused, attests their 
 sincerity of intention. We wish to defend 
 their memories from the slightest imputa- 
 tion, to do honor to all their virtues, and to 
 hold them in grateful reverence. 
 
 It is not, then, merely their heroism and 
 prowess in arms that we admire, though 
 instances might be adduced, of more than 
 Spartan valour, such as Rome, in her best 
 days, would have delighted to honor; 
 but that patient endurance of injury, till 
 endurance became no longer a virtue, that 
 benevolence, that genuine simplicity and 
 singleness of heart in their exertions, first 
 to avert, and then to mitigate, the cala- 
 mities of war. And, above all, when sur- 
 rounded, as they were, by an implacable
 
 ORATION. 
 
 95 
 
 foe, and suffering from famine and disease, 
 we admire that unbending patriotism which 
 no allurements could corrupt; that firm- 
 ness of purpose which no calamities could 
 shake ; that entire immolation of self in the 
 cause of their country, that prudence and 
 wisdom in providing for its wants and 
 guarding against its dangers, in encourag- 
 ing the timid, rousing the irresolute, stimu- 
 lating the torpid, conciliating the adverse, 
 and subduing the factious. These were the 
 virtues, these were the traits of character, 
 of those master-spirits of the Revolution, 
 which distinguished them from all others, 
 and of which every American has reason 
 to be proud. 
 
 Love of country in them seemed to be 
 a part of their religion, as sacred and as 
 pure, calling for the greatest exertions, 
 and commanding the greatest sacrifices. 
 Personal aggrandisement had no attrac- 
 tions for them : their country vindicated,
 
 96 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 their ambition was satisfied. Illustrious 
 patriots ! The glorious work achieved, 
 their duties done, most of them sleep in 
 the bosom of that soil they so gallantly de- 
 fended. Peace to their ashes, revered be 
 their memories ! 
 
 Whatever of civil and political freedom 
 we enjoy, we owe to them. Whatever 
 blessings have resulted to us in the world 
 from our independence, we owe to them. 
 That our now great and happy country 
 is not still groaning under the chains of 
 a foreign despotism, is because they guard- 
 ed and protected the weakness of her in- 
 fancy. 
 
 " They were the watchmen by an Empire's cradle, 
 Whose youthful sinews showed like Rome's ; whose head 
 Tempestuous rears the ice-encrusted cap 
 Sparkling with polar splendors, while her skirts 
 CatcB. perfume from the isles ; whose trident yet 
 Must awe in either ocean ; whose strong hand 
 Freedom's immortal banner grasps, and waves 
 Its spangled glories o'er the envying world."
 
 ORATION. 97 
 
 But it is not to the boundaries of our own 
 country that the blessings of our glorious 
 Revolution are limited. In the emphatic 
 words of the illustrious guest of the nation, 
 " The first gun fired at Lexington was the 
 signal-gun to the liberty of the world." 
 The spirit of liberty, first nurtured here, has 
 with its fire electric pervaded unnumbered 
 hearts, and roused to enthusiasm in her 
 cause, the torpid, the abject, and degraded 
 of all countries. Here commenced that 
 well-ordered series of oppositions, that sys- 
 tem of revolutions, if I may so speak, which, 
 like the terrible convulsions of nature, have 
 in our own times shaken kingdoms and 
 thrones to their centre. It is not saying 
 too much, that our success has opened a 
 new and a brighter prospect in human 
 affairs; that the happy laws under which 
 we live, and the free institutions, both of 
 government and religion, which we enjoy, 
 have exerted an influence in leading man- 
 7
 
 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 kind to more just, more exalted notions of 
 their natural rights, and in dispelling that 
 darkness and mystery with which policy 
 has ever guarded her systems of despotism ; 
 that, from the practical and happy demon- 
 stration we have given of the absurdity of 
 kings and the folly of hereditary titles, men 
 have been induced, by an application of 
 similar principles to themselves, to inquire 
 into the true nature of governments, to in- 
 vestigate the legitimate sources of power, 
 and hence, with an understanding of their 
 duties and obligations, to acknowledge 
 no other sovereignty than the will of the 
 people, no other badges of distinction than 
 those of mind. It is in vain that the poten- 
 tates of the earth may confederate under 
 the deceptive articles of what they have 
 been pleased to denominate, in former times, 
 a Holy Alliance, for the better security of 
 their crowns, and to be the better enabled 
 to resist the encroachments of Liberty upon
 
 ORATION. 99 
 
 their dominions. They may, indeed, pro- 
 duce some temporary checks, and a suspen- 
 sion of the fate which awaits them. But 
 the bolt is hurled; their doom is sealed; 
 their destruction inevitable. The spirit of 
 the age, which is at work, continues to 
 advance, and will move on as steady as 
 time, and as certain as fate, to the accom- 
 plishment of its glorious purposes. 
 
 We may mourn over ill-fated Spain and 
 degraded Portugal, dejected and crushed, 
 as they have been, by factions from within, 
 and desolation from without, and admire 
 the ardent attachment to liberty displayed 
 by those who have fallen victims in their 
 cause. But in their own bosoms are to 
 be found their sources of wretchedness. 
 They must be content to wear, and deserve 
 to wear, the galling fetters of sceptred 
 tyrants, while a rapacious priestcraft are 
 permitted to prey upon their strength, and 
 French wolves' to prowl upon their borders.
 
 100 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 The fountains of public virtue and morality 
 must be purified, the vacillating O'Donnels 
 and perfidious Miguels of the age must be 
 immolated, ere they can hope to make a 
 firm, a triumphant resistance. The strug- 
 gle may, indeed, be long and dreadful ; 
 but the principles of republicanism are 
 gathering strength from their diffusion ; and 
 their dejected sons will ere long, we trust, 
 rise in the majesty of their strength, and, 
 with tenfold vengeance, break their chains 
 upon the heads of their oppressors. The 
 spirit of Riego still lives in the bosoms 
 of his descendants; and after-times shall 
 chant the praises of their patriot martyrs, 
 as their memories are now loaded with 
 obloquy and shame. 
 
 And as for Ireland, impoverished and 
 persecuted, and that too by the land of 
 our fathers, disciplined sufficiently, as we 
 thought, in our revolutionary school, by a 
 nation proud of her liberal policy and insti-
 
 ORATION. 101 
 
 tutions, loud in her professions of mercy 
 and benevolence, and claiming to be the 
 bulwark of religion, will not the land where 
 an Emmett bled rouse her to a sense of 
 danger, to the fear of a more dreadful 
 repetition of those bloody scenes? Shall 
 Irish orators and statesmen plead in vain 
 for redress, for emancipation? In vain 
 shall a Brougham thunder conviction? 
 Alas for the persecuted "descendants of 
 the cross ! " 
 
 But turn we to brighter scenes. To a 
 nation in our own hemisphere, which, in ex- 
 tent, in fertility, and climate, will vie with all 
 Europe, but which has been bowed down, 
 since the memory of man, by persecutions, 
 cruel and relentless beyond parallel, we 
 have already extended the hand of recog- 
 nition, and saluted her as a sister republic. 
 
 From the venerated plains of Greece, on 
 every gale, is wafted to our ears the ani- 
 mating voice of freedom exulting in victory.
 
 102 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 Guided, as she professes to be, by the light 
 of our mild and benignant laws, and imi- 
 tating the precepts and example of our own 
 Washington, Greece, once the cradle of 
 science and art, the nursery of virtue, and 
 of every thing noble and generous in our 
 natures, but despised and enslaved, a 
 prey alike to the depredations of the intel- 
 lectual robber and to savage violence, 
 like "a giant from the slumber of ages," 
 again puts forth her strength in the contest 
 for a national existence. Humanity weeps 
 at the recital of her wrongs, and philan- 
 thropy shudders at the barbarity of her 
 brutal oppressors. It is a contest between 
 religion and infidelity, a war of extermi- 
 nation, the convulsive effort of slavery for 
 emancipation. But, amidst her dangers 
 and sufferings, we will not despair. The 
 spirit of freedom, which animated her in 
 her days of fenown, is not lost in the slavery 
 of her descendants. The modern achieve-
 
 ORATION. 103 
 
 ments of her patriots for their altars and 
 their firesides, when compared with the 
 Marathon or Thermopylae of the ancients, 
 lose nothing of their splendor or glory. 
 There again, in their bloody struggles, as 
 of old, it is liberty or death ! 
 
 " They'll victors exult, or in death be laid low, 
 With their backs to the field, and their feet to the foe, 
 And, leaving in battle no blot on their name, 
 Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame." 
 
 The most feeble attempts in the cause 
 of liberty, wherever they are made, we hail 
 as evidence of the spirit that is abroad, 
 as the dawn of a brighter day. It is the 
 cause of the whole human race, the cause 
 of religion and truth. As we value our own 
 institutions, and would have their blessings 
 extended to our fellow-creatures; as we 
 love our species, and feel humbled by their 
 degradation and sufferings ; as we would 
 wish for the diffusion of knowledge and 
 Christianity among mankind, and would
 
 104 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 have their light dissipate the darkness and 
 error which ignorance, superstition, and bi- 
 gotry have cast over the human mind, we 
 must look forward with hope to the time 
 when governments, founded on the prin- 
 ciples of moral subordination and political 
 equality, shall be everywhere erected over 
 the ruins of arbitrary power. 
 
 To return. Never, with but few excep- 
 tions, perhaps, since the day which con- 
 secrated this as an anniversary, has its 
 annual return found our country in circum- 
 stances more prosperous and happy than 
 the present. At peace with all the world, 
 and aloof from the jars and contentions 
 which are continually desolating the fairest 
 portions of Europe, we enjoy the blessings 
 which a free government and free institu- 
 tions alone can bestow. We possess a 
 country extending its fertile hills and luxu- 
 riant vales on every side, embracing every 
 climate, and rich in every production that
 
 ORATION. 105 
 
 the needs or the luxury of man can pos- 
 sibly crave. We have seen the geographi- 
 cal distinctions of our country, which, more 
 than aught else perhaps, threatened its 
 future division, broken down by national 
 highways, which facilitate intercourse, and 
 invite a community of feeling and of 
 interest, among its different inhabitants. 
 Canals, too, as if by enchantment, wind 
 their way through forests and mountains 
 hitherto deemed inaccessible ; fertilizing 
 their borders, and bearing upon their 
 bosoms the exhaustless treasures of our 
 inland country, to every quarter of the 
 habitable globe. We have also the in- 
 creasing privileges of numerous institu- 
 tions for the encouragement of industry, 
 for the protection of science and art, and 
 the promotion of knowledge, everywhere 
 widely diffused ; and, above all, the religion 
 of nature and of nature's God without re- 
 striction, everywhere open to the worship
 
 106 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 of all. And, having assumed an elevated 
 station among the nations of the earth, 
 from our strength, our enterprise, and our 
 ardent attachment to liberty, we are now 
 building for ourselves a literary name. The 
 insulting taunts of " Who reads an Ameri- 
 can book ? and where is their philosophy ? " 
 are gradually losing their force and their 
 bitterness in the increase of genius and of 
 intellectual strength, displayed in our pub- 
 lications of every character, and in the 
 mighty lessons on the philosophy of go- 
 vernment we are teaching to the world. 
 
 This is no exaggerated picture of our 
 country's felicity. Its rise and progress 
 have almost exceeded human belief. Fifty 
 years ago, had any one predicted of Ameri- 
 ca what we now see and know, it would 
 have been considered as the vagary of a 
 distempered fancy, or the dream of some 
 visionary enthusiast. 
 
 With these bright and happy scenes of
 
 ORATION. 107 
 
 prosperity before us, where a grand experi- 
 ment seems to be now making to deter- 
 mine what a nation may become when 
 placed in circumstances the most favorable, 
 our motives to exertion proportionally in- 
 crease, and the weight of our obligations 
 becomes almost overwhelming. It is use- 
 less, and worse than useless, that we enjoy 
 such a free government and institutions, if 
 we use not our utmost exertions in preserv- 
 ing, improving, and transmitting them in 
 all their purity to our posterity. We must 
 gather up all our strength to the work. 
 "We owe it to those who fought and bled 
 for us ; we owe it to our own reputation ; 
 we owe it to the world. 
 
 From whence, then, are we to look for 
 our dangers? Not, surely, from abroad. 
 The attempts at subjugation, whenever 
 they have been made, have been so trium- 
 phantly defeated, that we hazard nothing 
 from a repetition of the experiment. Na-
 
 108 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 ture's walls and bulwarks alone are almost 
 a sufficient security. No ! The danger is 
 from within, from ourselves; from the 
 same causes which have swept off republics 
 as proud and as elevated as our own ; and 
 from causes, which, if suffered to diffuse 
 their influence amongst us, will as assured- 
 ly lead to a similar catastrophe. They are 
 faction, ignorance, and corruption ; the 
 natural enemies, the canker-worms, of re- 
 publics. Preserve a pure and an active 
 public spirit; from the wasting and deso- 
 lating effects of faction, ignorance, and cor- 
 ruption let us be kept ; and we have nothing 
 to fear. 
 
 I need not detail to you the baneful 
 effects of faction upon the peace and hap- 
 piness of society. They have been but too 
 severely felt in the contentions between 
 the great political parties which at one 
 time threatened the destruction of our 
 country. You have witnessed its power
 
 ORATION. 109 
 
 in the subversion of order and morality, in 
 the breach of public and private confidence, 
 in the animosities and jealousies of men ; 
 destroying the bonds of social intercourse, 
 and exciting them to pursue each other 
 with the hatred of murderers. You have 
 seen the ties of kindred and affection torn 
 asunder, and every thing humane and li- 
 beral and noble in our natures withering 
 under its " infernal blight and blast." Dif- 
 fusing its deadly influence in every direction, 
 you have even seen it entering the sacred 
 enclosures of literature and science, and 
 poisoning the very fountains of know- 
 ledge and virtue. Our presses teemed 
 with corruption, tainted the atmosphere 
 of public opinion, and assailed with the 
 envenomed shafts of calumny and slander 
 the fairest characters and the brightest 
 names. 
 
 During these times of political excite- 
 ment, we have witnessed also the artful
 
 110 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 and designing of all parties, under the 
 mask of patriotism, worming themselves 
 into place, by corrupting our elections, and 
 courting our favor and flattering our vani- 
 ty, at the expense of our understandings ; 
 defeating, in fact, the very essence of re- 
 publicanism, the free and unbiassed judg- 
 ment of the people in the choice of their 
 rulers. 
 
 These were dark spots, and I would that I 
 could blot them from our country's history. 
 Nor would I for a moment recur to those 
 degenerate times, if passed they have, but 
 to point out the miseries of an ignorant 
 and a contentious spirit, and, if possible, to 
 apply an antidote to its rancor and malig- 
 nity ; and the most effectual one I believe 
 to be the general diffusion of knowledge. 
 This seems to be particularly necessary 
 under a government like ours, where every 
 man has a share in its control, and where 
 so much depends on the manner in which it
 
 ORATION. Ill 
 
 is exercised ; for, while a single individual 
 may confer lasting benefits to his country 
 by a skilful and an honest exercise of his 
 rights, who shall set bounds to the evils 
 and miseries which may be entailed on us 
 by one unacquainted with his duties, or 
 corrupt in their performance ? I say, who 
 shall set bounds to them ? For it not un- 
 frequently happens that the most important 
 subjects, the most momentous questions, 
 hang upon the decision of a single indivi- 
 dual ; and that one, it may be, a very igno- 
 rant and a very perverse one. Hence the 
 importance, the absolute necessity, of edu- 
 cating every freeman to a knowledge of 
 his duties. He must not be a mere ma- 
 chine, the tool of party, or the dupe of the 
 designing. He must have an education 
 adapted to his country. 
 
 Our citizens should not only acquire an 
 elementary education, but should possess 
 also, to a certain degree, a knowledge of
 
 112 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 the principles of our government, its policy, 
 its laws, the wants of the people ; in short, 
 they should be well informed on every sub- 
 ject on which they are liable to be called to 
 legislate, or to exercise their right of suffrage. 
 I know this may be considered as visionary, 
 as proposing what cannot in the nature of 
 things be carried into effect. Be it so. 
 We may not expect to rival in government 
 the fabled Utopia : the model, however, 
 should be perfect, to have the imitation 
 even tolerably successful. But I have said 
 that a general diffusion of knowledge is 
 the only effectual antidote to the greatest 
 enemy of a free country, an ignorant and 
 a contentious spirit. By instructing men 
 in their duties and obligations ; by encou- 
 raging them to a freedom of inquiry for 
 truth, wherever to be found ; by teaching 
 them the principles which should actuate 
 their conduct, the importance of their 
 exertions to society, and the highness of
 
 ORATION. 113 
 
 their destiny, we have the best, the only 
 security against an abuse of their power. 
 
 It is knowledge that is to soften and 
 purify the heart, and to render it suscep- 
 tible of virtuous impressions. It is this 
 which is to break down a selfish, contracted 
 spirit, and to calm the turbulence of pas- 
 sion. It is this which is to enlarge the 
 mind, to correct its errors, and to eradicate 
 the prejudices, animosities, and jealou- 
 sies, which ignorance and corruption have 
 planted in our natures. Let men become 
 acquainted with the reasonableness of 
 laws and the necessity of restraints, and 
 the chance is, they will become obedient. 
 Make them wise, and you will make them 
 aware of the imbecility of their minds, and 
 their proneness to error, and, consequently, 
 more tolerant and charitable toward others. 
 They will then see that there may be dif- 
 ferences of opinion, consistent with virtue, 
 and that he is not necessarily an enemy to 
 
 8
 
 114 FOURTH-OF-JULY 
 
 his country whose political views are op- 
 posed to their own. By cultivating their 
 minds, you will render them superior to 
 the tricks and intrigues of party excite- 
 ment, and proof against the corruptions of 
 a licentious press, and the artifices of the 
 wicked and designing. Nay, more; by 
 doing all this, you will probably render 
 them virtuous. For it is a settled truth, 
 that, where the greatest ignorance prevails, 
 there will generally be found the greatest 
 corruption, the greatest obstinacy of opi- 
 nion, and the greatest intolerance. 
 
 But it may be said, that much has al- 
 ready been done for the diffusion of know- 
 ledge. It is true ; and we rejoice to believe 
 that we have more general intelligence and 
 wisdom amongst us, than can be found in 
 any other country on the face of the globe. 
 We should be grateful for this. It is the 
 principal cause of our present prosperity, 
 and the pledge of our future glory. Our
 
 ORATION. 115 
 
 motives, however, to still farther exertions 
 will be strengthened when we reflect upon 
 the importance of general intelligence to a 
 community ; and that it is in this way, and 
 in this alone, we can hope to preserve the 
 purity of our institutions, and to transmit 
 them unsullied to those who are to come 
 after us. But if, after all, we become guilty 
 of the sin of ingratitude to our fathers, arid 
 unmindful of the claims of posterity upon 
 our exertions ; if we suffer the excitements 
 of party and the petty contentions for office 
 to corrupt our integrity, and to distract us 
 from our duties ; if, in our anxiety for the 
 aggrandizement of self, we lose sight of 
 our patriotism, what may not be the fate 
 of our republic ? But I forbear : we will 
 indulge in no gloomy forebodings on this 
 happy occasion. This is with our country, 
 we trust, but the morning of her appointed 
 career. " She shall continue to rise and to 
 brighten ; and, (I borrow the sentiment,)
 
 116 FOURTH-OF-JULY ORATION. 
 
 like the orb of day, move on among the 
 nations of the earth with steady progress 
 and increasing splendor. In her wisdom 
 and virtue will be the greatness of her 
 strength, and her knowledge will give 
 radiance to her beams. And if nations, 
 like individuals, must have their rise and 
 decay, when she shall have arrived at 
 the meridian of her glory, at that point 
 from which a nation's prosperity begins to 
 decline, may the God of heaven, who 
 assigneth to the nations their time and 
 their place, command with the voice to 
 which even the fixed laws of nature will 
 bow, that she long stand still; a source 
 of light, a centre of harmony, and a mani- 
 festation of his power and glory, to the 
 admiring world."
 
 117 
 
 DOES HOPE OR REALITY CONTRIBUTE MOST TO 
 HUMAN HAPPINESS! 
 
 Read before the Portsmouth, Forensic Society. 
 
 THAT the happiness which is derived from 
 Hope is superior to that of Reality, is an 
 axiom to which every man of experience 
 and reflection must readily assent. Nor 
 is this the conviction of the restless and 
 discontented alone: it belongs equally to 
 the giddy and to the serious, to the man 
 who is still drinking at the fountains of 
 pleasure, as well as to him who has nearly 
 exhausted the cup of misery. All will 
 acknowledge the utter insufficiency of 
 reality to happiness; all will unreservedly 
 confess, that there has been no occurrence 
 in life which has given them unmingled 
 satisfaction, and no single expectation 
 which has been fully gratified. The reali- 
 zation of hope, too, even when attended
 
 118 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 with delight, often disgusts from an unceas- 
 ing repetition of its pleasures, or is alloyed 
 with evils which the sagacity of the most 
 skilful could not have foreseen or prevented. 
 Quarrel we must with fate ; and, if no solid 
 grounds of complaint can be found to exist, 
 so fickle are our natures, that our powers of 
 invention will be taxed to furnish us at least 
 with those which are imaginary. The con- 
 summation of our most ardent desire is 
 now, as we say, altogether misplaced, and 
 it is too soon or too late for the true enjoy- 
 ment of its transports. Youth is not too 
 young for the .happiness which belongs only 
 to the present, and age is too far advanced 
 and too feeble to feel the delights which 
 were promised to the future. And yet there 
 is a principle within us, which, defying the 
 experience of age, gains new courage from 
 disappointment, and allures us still forward 
 from scene to scene, and from one stage of 
 existence to another, with the promise of
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 119 
 
 brighter and of more lasting joys. It is hope 
 that urges us onward. To its dictates we all 
 of us cheerfully yield; for from their in- 
 fluence we receive most of the comforts of 
 life, of a life which is fast passing away, 
 amid hopes which are the more fascinating 
 the farther they are removed from fruition, 
 and realities which serve but to convince 
 us how much more enjoyment we have 
 derived from anticipation. 
 
 But is it true that the joys of hope will 
 bear any proportion to those of reality ? 
 Is it true that the gratification of the 
 present must yield in comparison with 
 hopes which are generally illusory, and but 
 too often merely the gilded dreams of inex- 
 perience ? And are we doomed to chase 
 through life a seductive phantom, which, 
 while it amuses with its promises, and 
 cheers with its brightness, will lead to no 
 substantial enjoyment? Let experience 
 and facts answer these questions.
 
 120 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 Ask those whose lives have been de- 
 voted to the acquisition of fame, of riches, 
 and of worldly distinction, what they have 
 received from possession as an equivalent 
 to the hopes they have enjoyed in the pur- 
 suit. Admit, too, that success has crowned 
 their various desires, and that their path 
 through life has ever been strewed with 
 flowers ; still is there not to every rose a 
 treacherous thorn, which the enchantment 
 of distance had concealed from the view ? 
 and have they not received from reality 
 pains which never entered into the fond 
 calculations of hope ? 
 
 The man who is ambitious of wealth, 
 by the aid which he receives from the in- 
 fluence of hope in stimulating him to exer- 
 tion, is enabled to contend with the various 
 obstacles to its attainment ; and, however 
 difficult the road, is still happy in the pur- 
 suit, so long as a fruition is promised to 
 the desires which nothing but riches can
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 121 
 
 gratify. Nor does hope desert him in his 
 course, but still allures him on with her 
 seductive smiles to the bound beyond 
 which he has promised that all his wishes 
 should end. 
 
 And, now that he has arrived at the very 
 verge of consummation, why is he still rest- 
 less and dissatisfied, and still ardently look- 
 ing forward to the future ? And where are 
 all the delightful and splendid realities for 
 which he has so long and so strenuously 
 contended? Some, alas! have vanished 
 at the touch, some have faded from indul- 
 gence, and all have failed to impart their 
 expected felicity. True happiness is sel- 
 dom an attendant upon wealth, and it is 
 rare to see a man relax in his avidity and 
 exertion for greater gains. The truth is, 
 that every acquisition becomes the mother 
 of new wants and of new pains, which will 
 still draw upon the sources of hope for 
 relief, while our dependence upon her for
 
 122 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 her future bounty is in no degree shaken 
 by the ill success of the past. 
 
 Similar is the case with those who 
 have devoted their lives exclusively to the 
 pursuits of literature and of science. The 
 same principle, having guided and protected 
 them through all the trials they may have 
 to encounter, will at last conduct them to 
 the goal of all their wishes. But here the 
 same conclusion, in favor of the pleasures 
 of hope, will be the result of their experi- 
 ence. They will readily acknowledge how 
 much more they have enjoyed from the 
 pleasing anticipations they had in the pur- 
 suit, than from the actual attainment, which 
 has served but to convince them how much 
 more is to be known, and to make them 
 conscious of an ignorance of which they 
 were unaware at the commencement. 
 
 Nor is it in regard to common objects 
 and concerns alone that we must feel the 
 force of these remarks : they apply with
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 123 
 
 equal strength to many of the strongest ties 
 of affection, and of the most endearing re- 
 lations in life. There are a thousand ills, 
 which it is unnecessary to detail, attendant 
 on the possession of our friends and of our 
 children, which never made a part of the 
 fairy visions of hope. 
 
 It will be objected, that there is a class 
 of realities, the pleasures of which can 
 in no way be approximated but by posses- 
 sion. These are a release from suffering, 
 and the indulgence of animal appetites. 
 So far as the gratification is essential to 
 the relief of positive pain, of hunger, of 
 thirst, and, in short, to the preservation 
 of bodily health, I will allow the strength of 
 the objection. But, in thus yielding, I trust 
 that my opponents will pay a passing tri- 
 bute to hope for the agency she has had in 
 exciting them to procure these enjoyments, 
 while I shall retain them as exceptions 
 merely to prove the truth of the general rule.
 
 124 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 All the indulgences of appetite, however, 
 beyond the limits we have prescribed, are 
 so short in their duration, so easily satiated 
 by habit, and so often the causes of actual 
 misery, that, while it must be confessed, 
 they give more joy, they will also appear 
 more amiable as well as more fascinating 
 in the prospective. 
 
 Every thing, in fact, we hope for is 
 gilded with beauties which fade in the 
 possession. It is so in the material as well 
 as in the moral and intellectual world. 
 What distance is to the works of nature 
 and art, hope is to fruition. And the 
 analogy between them is, I think, strong 
 and impressive. It is distance in each 
 which "lends enchantment to the view," 
 which covers the defects and softens the 
 asperities of reality. The most beautiful 
 landscape in nature would appear rude 
 and unpolished on a nearer approach ; and 
 the most delicate touches of the pencil of a
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 125 
 
 Raphael, or the most splendid works which 
 have fallen from the chisel of a Canova, 
 would lose all their charms by too close an 
 inspection. 
 
 But, while the objects we look forward 
 to as the consummation of desire and the 
 perfection of happiness, though attended 
 with pleasure, are in reality all of them 
 clouded with darkness and woe, and at 
 best but the shadows of bliss, which, eluding 
 the grasp, are soon lost to the view ; still 
 it should not be forgotten, that the path 
 to possession, however dark and difficult, 
 has ever been brightened by the cheering 
 beams of hope ; and that, whatever may 
 have been the miseries we have endured 
 from reality, she has given us no pain in 
 the pursuit. It is indeed from this peculiar 
 feature in her character that I principally 
 argue for the superiority of her pleasures. 
 Again, while many of the pleasures which 
 are derived from reality are short in their
 
 126 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 duration, and most of them declining in 
 strength from the moment of possession, 
 hope is ever on the alert, ever active, and 
 generally increasing in intensity as it ap- 
 proaches its object. 
 
 But what I consider of greater conse- 
 quence than all to the support of the cause 
 I have advocated, is the longer duration of 
 hope, and the greater proportion of life 
 which is spent in its pleasures. It is evident 
 that all gratifications must be placed at 
 sensible distances from each other, and that 
 the intervals of time which must necessari- 
 ly elapse will vary with the circumstances 
 of each. But these spaces in existence 
 would be lost to happiness, did not hope 
 graciously interpose with her endeavors to 
 bind together these broken links in the 
 chain of enjoyment. There is, in fact, 
 scarcely a respite allowed to her labors of 
 mercy and benevolence. She may, indeed, 
 die in fruition ; but, like the Phoenix from
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 127 
 
 its ashes, she soon bursts forth with new 
 vigor to perfect the work of general hap- 
 piness. 
 
 I have thus sketched, though very im- 
 perfectly, a few of the objects of hope as 
 they occur in some of the most important 
 situations of life. I have given to posses- 
 sion all the enjoyments which my oppo- 
 nents can possibly claim, and to hope the 
 gratification of the objects she has desired. 
 And now, we ask, on which side does the 
 balance of happiness lie? On that of hope, 
 which, besides encouraging us in difficulty, 
 and supporting us in adversity, has ever 
 been ready to administer to our pleasures, 
 and to comfort us with her joys ; or on that 
 of reality, which has been proved to be 
 a mingled cup of joy and of sorrow, the 
 ingredients of which are differently pro- 
 portioned to the varying circumstances 
 of individuals, but essentially composed of 
 pleasures which cloy by indulgence, and
 
 128 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 of pains which we feel not except from 
 possession ? 
 
 It is difficult, I know, to convince us of 
 the truth of, a proposition against which 
 both our feelings and our practice are en- 
 listed. We may have a speculative faith 
 upon a subject of this character ; while, in 
 fact, our conduct seems to claim an exemp- 
 tion from a general law of nature. And it 
 may be, that, in view of the intimate con- 
 nection of misery with reality, we are 
 disposed to arraign the goodness of our 
 Creator, and to complain that it must 
 have been his intention in our creation 
 to make us miserable. But will facts 
 justify such a conclusion ? Is there any 
 one so base as to acknowledge that life 
 has become a burden, and existence a 
 curse rather than a blessing? We were 
 undoubtedly designed to be happy: we 
 are happy, and happy enough for our situa- 
 tions. Nor have I at all subtracted from
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 129 
 
 the sum of human enjoyment, by ascribing 
 it to a different source than that of reality. 
 The truth is, that the Almighty has tem- 
 pered every thing with justice and kindness ; 
 and what he has taken from the happiness 
 of reality, he has mercifully added to hope. 
 Every thing under his administration is be- 
 nevolently and equitably designed ; there is 
 just enough of pleasure in the gratification 
 of our wishes to encourage us in hoping, 
 and just enough of misery to loosen our 
 hold upon earth, and induce us to look 
 forward to higher and more lasting joys. 
 
 Could I now be permitted to reverse the 
 picture, it would be still more faithful to 
 nature, and exhibit in more glowing colors 
 the pleasures of hope. But, as the question 
 is confined to gratification alone, I shall 
 make but a few observations. 
 
 I could show you, did the question allow, 
 how much pleasure we derive from hoping 
 for objects which are beyond the bounds of
 
 130 HOPE AND REALITY. 
 
 probability, and which we can never enjoy ; 
 how thus the very finest feelings of our 
 natures, which would otherwise be lost, are 
 called into operation; how with the aid 
 of fancy we build one fairy castle upon 
 the ruins of another, each successive one 
 surpassing the last in beauty and splendor ; 
 and, more than all, I could show you how 
 hope contributes to the happiness of a life 
 which would otherwise be insupportably 
 wretched. 
 
 Hope is, indeed, the solace of all our 
 woes, and, as such, was undoubtedly in- 
 tended by our Creator. Even in heathen 
 mythology, she was considered the best 
 gift of the gods, and was the last which 
 fell from the box of Pandora, as an anti- 
 dote to the miseries and ills it contained. 
 And it is not only when our bark is gliding 
 smoothly upon a summer's lake that we 
 feel the sweets of her influence ; it is when 
 the sea is rough and the waves run high,
 
 HOPE AND REALITY. 131 
 
 and a shipwreck is threatened to all we 
 hold most dear, that she benevolently sup- 
 ports and protects us. To every heart which 
 a sad reality has broken, she offers the balm 
 of consolation; and, in our most dejected 
 hours, her beams will break in upon the 
 twilight, when the sun of our happiness 
 has gone down, as we may imagine, for ever 
 and ever. In the cold damps of the dun- 
 geon she offers her comforts, and wipes the 
 tear from the eye of despair. To the dying 
 Christian she whispers the soft accents of 
 peace; to the expiring but penitent sin- 
 ner, the hope of salvation. And when the 
 shades of death have gathered about us, 
 and the boundaries of time are passed, 
 may not our principal pleasure for the fu- 
 ture consist in hoping, still hoping to know 
 more and more of the Infinite Jehovah ? 
 
 " Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
 Pealed their first notes to sound the march of time, 
 Thy joyous youth began, but not to fade.
 
 132 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 When all the sister-planets have decayed, 
 When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
 And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, 
 Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
 And light thy torch at nature's funeral pile." 
 
 EXCUSES FOR THE NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 
 
 Read before the South Parish Society for Mutual Improvement, in 
 1826. 
 
 THOUGH we lament with others the de- 
 pravity of man, as evinced in his frequent 
 commission of crimes and omission of 
 duty, yet, bad as the world is, and es- 
 tranged as it may be in practice from the 
 pure principles of the gospel, we cannot 
 but hope that it is gradually improving. 
 "We rejoice to believe, that the age we live 
 in, while advancing in science and art, 
 and in every thing which can contribute to 
 the comfort or ameliorate the condition of 
 man, is distinguished also for its Christian
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 133 
 
 exertions in the cause of religion and piety ; 
 that societies and associations are multi- 
 plying about us, where the wisdom of 
 age and the ardor of youth are combining 
 with a liberal and generous spirit for the 
 suppression of almost every species of vice, 
 and the promotion of every good and be- 
 nevolent design. 
 
 Permit me, then, to congratulate you all, 
 but particularly the young, at. meeting so 
 many on this new and interesting occasion. 
 We have assembled, we trust, under the 
 most happy auspices, for the purpose of 
 mutual improvement in religious know- 
 ledge and Christian virtue. The subject 
 is one of the most noble and sublime that 
 can employ the faculties of our minds, or 
 engage the affections of our hearts ; worthy 
 of intellectual and accountable beings ; of 
 beings weak and frail like ourselves, who 
 should live only to become wiser and 
 better, who feel the insecurity of their
 
 134 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 present existence, and are deeply solicitous 
 for the future. 
 
 Indeed, so important is religion to every 
 individual, and so tremendous the conse- 
 quences which it involves, that, to a reflect- 
 ing mind, it must be a matter of surprise 
 that any one can be found so dead to his 
 own interests, and so abandoned, as to 
 remain a stranger to its comforts, or ne- 
 glectful of its precepts. It is offered to us 
 in love by a Being whose very essence is 
 love, to guide us through the trials, and 
 temptations of a changing world, to sup- 
 port us in affliction, to comfort us in death, 
 and finally to lead us to happiness and 
 heaven. It is, moreover, urged upon us as 
 the only condition of salvation ; and en- 
 forced, if neglected, by the severest threat^ 
 enings of judgment to come. And yet 
 how few of us, comparatively, appreciate 
 its value, or embrace it as the grand and 
 leading object of our lives!
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 135 
 
 Could a being from another world, an in- 
 telligent being like ourselves, be introduced 
 for the first time to this world of ours, and 
 see the rich displays of a Creator's goodness 
 in the wisdom and beauty of his works, and 
 the admirable adaptation of every thing 
 to the wants and desires of the race which, 
 in his goodness, he had permitted to in- 
 habit it ; could he be made acquainted with 
 the relation existing between men and their 
 Creator, that they were entirely dependent 
 on the benevolence of an Almighty Parent, 
 and miserable and weak and wretched and 
 helpless without his care and protection; 
 that every comfort and pleasure they en- 
 joyed, from that of the mere consciousness 
 of existence to those the most refined and 
 exalted in their character, were entirely the 
 fruits of bounty and kindness ; that his love 
 for them was that of a tender Parent for his 
 children, accommodating his discipline to 
 their varied characters and dispositions,
 
 136 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 exacting no duties from them which it was 
 not for their happiness to perform, nor 
 inflicting punishment but for their good ; 
 who had made them accountable beings, 
 and in kindness had given them but a short 
 time for preparation here, that he might the 
 sooner introduce them to a higher and hap- 
 pier state of existence, and yet long enough, 
 if improved, to ensure them the rewards of 
 the faithful; should he, further, be told 
 that this Almighty Being, in addition to an 
 animal existence, had given them intellec- 
 tual natures, with a capacity for improve- 
 ment unlimited and eternal, souls which 
 were to live for ever; that he had created 
 them after his own image, and but little 
 lower than the angels, with minds by 
 which they could look around and abroad 
 upon the world, and with the eye of faith 
 gather new and unceasing arguments for 
 praise and adoration ; that to their mental 
 endowments he had annexed a moral sense
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 137 
 
 as a faithful sentinel, to warn them of the 
 most distant approaches of vice, and which, 
 if cherished and cultivated, would, with 
 almost the delicacy of instinct, point out the 
 evil from the good; should the scheme of 
 divine Providence be still more unfolded, 
 and could he witness the wonderful com- 
 bination of means that was employed to 
 prepare them for a future state of existence ; 
 how he was continually reminding them 
 of their dependence, their accountability 
 and future destiny, by mingling judgments 
 with his mercy; endeavoring to loosen 
 their hold on earth, and fix it on heaven, 
 by the most forcible appeals to their 
 feelings and consciences, in severing the 
 tenderest ties of life and sending their 
 friends one after another to that bourne 
 from whence no traveller returns; and, 
 above all, that there might be no apology, 
 from the sluggish perception of their na- 
 tures, for neglect or disobedience to his
 
 138 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 laws, how directly and pathetically he ad- 
 dressed himself to their bodily senses by 
 sending the Son of his bosom to allure them 
 by his perfect example, to instruct them by 
 his word, and finally to suffer and die that 
 they might live for ever ; how transcend- 
 ently great, would not such a being ex- 
 claim, how transcendently great and 
 glorious the scheme, how admirably adapt- 
 ed the means to the end ! How fortunate 
 the mortals in tlie protection and love of 
 such an Almighty Parent and Friend ! 
 Under a government so perfect and wise, 
 with so much to be hoped for from obe- 
 dience to its laws, and so much to be feared 
 from their violation, would not such a being 
 expect, and reasonably expect, to find its 
 subjects universally holy and happy ? 
 
 But what would be his astonishment at 
 the vast amount of sin and iniquity which 
 would crowd upon his view ! What would 
 be his astonishment to find such a race
 
 NEGLKCT OF RELIGION. 139 
 
 living without hope and without God in 
 the world ; enjoying such rich gifts of his 
 providence, without their hearts rising in 
 gratitude to the Almighty Dispenser of 
 these blessings ; drinking in iniquity like 
 water, in the indulgence of every species 
 of crime, from the most venial to those of 
 the blackest and most horrible dye, heedless 
 of his laws and unmindful of his fatherly 
 corrections ; to find with what untiring zeal 
 and unwearied industry they are pursuing 
 some earthly good, in its nature transitory 
 and fleeting, to the neglect of the only good 
 which is eternal ; ever busying themselves 
 about trifles, and chasing some phantom of 
 happiness through a weary round of vexa- 
 tion and disappointment ; to witness their 
 indifference and contempt for the dreadful 
 threatenings of the Almighty, and the 
 admonitions of his providence ; unmoved 
 by a sigh of penitence and remorse for 
 themselves, following one friend after an-
 
 140 
 
 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 other to the grave, overwhelmed it may 
 be with a selfish grief, but despising the 
 rich offer of a Saviour; to witness their 
 wretched approach to the grave, standing 
 upon the brink of eternity, without a single 
 comfort in review of the past, or a single 
 hope for the future; and finally sinking 
 into misery indescribably wretched! mo- 
 numents at once of God's goodness in their 
 creation, and of their own folly and guilt 
 in perverting such free and unbounded 
 privileges ! 
 
 And now, in view of the unmerited 
 goodness of God and of their guilty dis- 
 obedience, what would such a being as we 
 have been supposing, what should we, say 
 of this sinful race? Rational beings, are 
 they .called? Should we not rather de- 
 nounce them as madmen and fools, aban- 
 doned sinners, and justly meriting the 
 punishment due to so much wickedness and 
 folly? Then, alas! have we pronounced a
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 141 
 
 sentence upon ourselves. "We are that 
 guilty race ; and a great proportion of us, 
 I fear, deserve the awful doom pronounced 
 upon the ungodly. 
 
 Knowing then, as we all must, both from 
 experience and revelation, that there is but 
 one way by which we can escape that 
 awful doom, by which we can become 
 permanently happy, why do not more of 
 us pursue it? If it is so irrational, as 
 well as wicked, to pursue an irreligious 
 life, the question becomes an interest- 
 ing one, why so few of the young devote 
 themselves to the services of God. Is 
 there any natural obstacle which we can- 
 not resist ? If there is, we are rather to be 
 pitied than censured. Is there any thing 
 like a natural depravity of the heart, which 
 leads us to hate, and consequently to dis- 
 regard, his laws ? No. I will answer for 
 them : we have never formed any settled 
 deliberate purpose of being bad ; we never
 
 142 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 do a bad action merely because it is bad, 
 and from an implacable hatred to the Being 
 who made us. This would indeed indicate 
 an inherent, total depravity of our natures. 
 But we disavow it; we cannot hate a 
 being whom we cannot injure, and whose 
 matchless perfections, if we do not love 
 and obey, we cannot but venerate. On 
 the contrary, I believe that there is scarcely 
 the being to be found but hopes and in- 
 tends, one day or other, to become a reli- 
 gious man. I believe, so far is man from 
 
 o ' 
 
 being totally and radically bad, that our pro- 
 gress in wickedness is wont to be extremely 
 slow ; that it is a long time before we can 
 overcome (if I may so speak) a natural ten- 
 dency to good; that, in the commencement 
 of ouj vicious career, the struggle with that 
 faithful monitor within is painful and severe, 
 and silenced and worn down only by re- 
 peated offences. I make these remarks, not 
 to exult in the perfection of our nature, or
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 143 
 
 
 
 to espouse a side on a disputed doctrine of 
 faith; but to exculpate the Deity from 
 participating in our guilt by making us 
 corrupt, and to vindicate his character from 
 the aspersion of first creating us bad, and 
 then commanding us to be holy. The 
 truth is, we were made originally accoun- 
 table beings, with faculties and passions, 
 all of which may be improved or per- 
 verted, all v of which may be made con- 
 ducive to our happiness or may sink us 
 in misery. We have the power, and we 
 feel it, of choosing between good and evil, 
 and the ability to perform whatever is re- 
 quired. If, therefore, we become corrupt 
 and debased, the guilt of our iniquity at- 
 taches to no one but ourselves. 
 
 One reason why the young will not per- 
 mit religion to exert its influence over their 
 affections, arises from erroneous impres- 
 sions of its character and requirements. 
 From some gloomy but unfortunate speci-
 
 144 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 men of its power, they never can think 
 of it but as cold and cheerless in its ap- 
 pearance, and as investing its possessors 
 in habiliments the most melancholy and 
 sombre. They have been accustomed to 
 view it as dark and chilling in its charac- 
 ter, and austere and morose in its prin- 
 ciples, unfriendly to every thing social, 
 interfering with every amusement, and 
 even with the common pursuits of life. 
 Hence, to be religious they consider the 
 proper business of age, when the allure- 
 ments and seductions of life have lost their 
 power, and there is little else to be done 
 than to prepare for death. But who told us 
 that pure religion is hostile to the innocent 
 pleasures and enjoyments of the world ? 
 Certainly, not the Bible. Much mischief, 
 I am persuaded, has been done to Chris- 
 tianity by too severe and gloomy represen- 
 tations of her character. But believe me, 
 my friends, religion does not necessarily
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 145 
 
 make war with any amusements or gratifi- 
 cations which are innocent and rational, 
 nor is she to be viewed as always clothed 
 in sackcloth and ashes. 
 
 She comes to us and claims to be re- 
 ceived as a kind and gentle friend, as one 
 who would do us good, and that at the 
 expense of no real or substantial bliss. So 
 far from enjoining on us a solitary and re- 
 served deportment, or encouraging a sad 
 and desponding spirit, she rather inculcates 
 cheerfulness of temper and a disposition to 
 be happy amid all the vicissitudes of life. 
 She comes to us with a smiling aspect, 
 and with the accents of love invites us to 
 mingle our joys with others, and to partici- 
 pate freely with them in the blessings of 
 Providence, in expression of our gratitude 
 for the riches of God's bounty. Through all 
 the changes of life, under all its circumstan- 
 ces, amid its joys and sorrows, its trials and 
 temptations, she promises to be a faithful 
 10
 
 146 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 companion and guide, to warn us of the 
 dangers that beset us, to strengthen our 
 weakness, to be our joy in prosperity, 
 and in adversity our never-failing solace 
 and support. 
 
 Nor is religion inimical to ardor and zeal 
 in the honorable pursuits of life, whether 
 these pursuits be those of fame or of fortune. 
 On the contrary, it encourages industry 
 and emulation as conducive to the general 
 good of society. Every man has certain 
 active duties to perform: if he neglects 
 them, he disobeys a positive divine com- 
 mand, and discovers his ignorance of the 
 very first principles of Christianity. No! 
 Religion enjoins the faithful exercise of 
 all the talents which God has entrusted 
 taour use in the various stations assigned to 
 us. It forms not an alliance with sloth and 
 inactivity, because it commands us to lay 
 up treasures in heaven ; nor discourages us 
 from engaging in the active duties of life,
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 147 
 
 because it bids us take no heed for the 
 morrow. On the contrary, it enjoins upon 
 us to be active in business, as well as 
 fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. 
 
 But we would not be misunderstood on 
 this subject. While abridging none of the 
 innocent pleasures, nor interfering with any 
 of the honorable pursuits of life, religion 
 befriends them only so far as they are in 
 strict accordance with the most holy feel- 
 ings and principles. We must ever re- 
 member that there is no such thing as a 
 compromise between religion and worldli- 
 ness. If we would become sincere votaries 
 at her altars, she will demand the offering 
 of our whole souls, the entire surrender of 
 ourselves to be guided by her counsels. 
 There can be nothing withheld from her 
 influence. The strongholds of iniquity in 
 our hearts must be assailed and broken 
 down; and every vicious propensity, one 
 after another, attacked and subdued. She
 
 148 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 will summon us to give up our most secret 
 sins, as well as to abandon our more open 
 transgressions. She will exact the sacrifice 
 of every unholy passion and grovelling de- 
 sire, in a word, of every thing which 
 can militate in the slightest degree with 
 the divine requisitions and precepts of the 
 gospel. 
 
 Again, we are apt to think that religion 
 is the proper business of age; that we shall 
 have less to contend with, and can engage 
 in it with more certainty of success, when 
 our passions are blunted by time, when our 
 appetites are exhausted, and infirmity and 
 disease unite their influence to break up 
 the ties which have bound us so strongly 
 to the world. But, to say nothing of the 
 madness and folly of an argument like this, 
 in view of the extreme uncertainty of life ; 
 of the possibility, nay, the probability, that, 
 ere old age shall arrive, we shall have long 
 before been called to our final account, to
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 149 
 
 say nothing of this, I say that the chance 
 of our commencing a religious life, and of 
 conforming to its requirements, at an ad- 
 vanced age, is almost entirely hopeless, 
 it is absolutely next to nothing; and ex- 
 
 p 
 
 perience, I think, will bear me out in the 
 assertion. It is true that our passions and 
 appetites may be dead ; it is true that 
 disease and infirmity may tend to loosen 
 our hold upon earth, and every thing around 
 may conspire to arouse us to a sense of 
 our danger, and to remind us of our rapid 
 approach to the grave ; but then, with our 
 animal powers, our minds have decayed, 
 our sensibility to impression has been, im- 
 paired, and the moral sense, so long silenced 
 and subdued, has lost its activity ; while our 
 bad habits and passions, from being cher- 
 ished and indulged, have become so inter- 
 woven and incorporated with our natures 
 as to render their extinction almost impos- 
 sible. Besides, admitting the possibility,
 
 150 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 though doubtful, that we may feel the influ- 
 ence of religion at an advanced stage of 
 existence, what sort of offering is that, I 
 would ask, which we are laying upon the 
 altar of our God in remembrance of the 
 kindness and the numerous blessings with 
 which he has crowned our days, and con- 
 tinued to shower so liberally upon us to 
 so late a period of time ? The offering of a 
 body decayed and broken down by the 
 indulgence of vicious propensities, and of 
 an exhausted mind, whose vigor was ex- 
 pended, it may be, in setting at naught his 
 most righteous laws. Contemptible as it 
 is, I say not but it may be accepted, and 
 we may rejoice in salvation on any terms 
 whatever; but, after all our ingratitude, 
 with how much shame and confusion must 
 we receive so rich a boon at the hands of 
 our Maker! 
 
 After all, as the most acceptable, so is 
 youth the most favorable season for the re-
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 151 
 
 ception of religious feelings and principles. 
 The heart is now kind and generous, and 
 open to tender and useful impressions ; 
 the warm currents of affection have not 
 become chilled by contact with the world, 
 nor has selfishness and avarice frozen up 
 every avenue to the finer feelings of our 
 nature ; besides, our habits and passions 
 have not so completely enslaved us but 
 their fetters may be broken, nor are we so 
 dead in trespasses and sins as to be callous 
 to the stings and reproofs of a wounded 
 conscience. But particularly should we 
 embrace the present, as it may be the 
 only opportunity we shall have. Reason 
 and every day's experience tell us, that 
 we are but pilgrims and strangers here; 
 that shortly, perhaps in a few more days 
 or hours, will the cold damps of death 
 gather upon us, and our breasts be heavy 
 with the last convulsive throbs of expi- 
 ring nature. And cannot youth, with its
 
 152 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 vigor and bloom, protect us from the grasp 
 of the stern Destroyer? What, let me 
 ask, mean these symbols of woe ? What 
 victims have so recently fallen by our sides ? 
 Why strikes that knell with such unrelent- 
 ing rapidity, that scarcely do its mournful 
 notes die on the ear, ere it reiterates again 
 and again, in most fearful succession, 
 the solemn peals of mortality and death ? 
 Their work accomplished, their duties 
 done, full of infirmities as of years, have 
 some aged pilgrims escaped the storms of 
 life, and found at last the long-wished-for 
 resting-place ? No. They were the young 
 and the fair, the fond hopes of their 
 friends, the ornaments of society. But 
 neither youth nor usefulness nor goodness 
 could save them. 
 
 Indeed, every day of our existence fur- 
 nishes new proofs of the truth, that we all 
 may be cut down in the morning of our 
 being. The pathway of life is thickly
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 153 
 
 strewn with those who entered as gladly 
 and as joyfully as ourselves upon its busy 
 and flattering scenes. At every step, some 
 faithful companion, it may be, is dropping 
 by the way; and one by one, as we ad- 
 vance, we are parting for ever with the 
 dearest objects of our affection. 
 
 In view, then, of the dreadful uncer- 
 tainty of life, is not that religion of con- 
 sequence to us, which can suggest a single 
 hope to brighten the dark road we are about 
 to travel ? Is not that religion of conse- 
 quence to us, which looks beyond the grave, 
 and teaches us how to live to die, and die 
 to live for ever ? The truth is, in no con- 
 dition of life can we be permanently happy 
 without it ; it should therefore enlist deeply 
 in its cause all the faculties and affections 
 of our souls. While it is essential to 
 enjoyment in prosperous scenes, its hap- 
 piest influence is, however, exerted in 
 those which are dark and adverse. Reli-
 
 154 
 
 EXCUSES FOR THE 
 
 gion is indeed the solace of all our woes ; 
 it is when we are encountering the storms 
 of life, when the sea is rough and the 
 waves run high, and shipwreck is threaten- 
 ed to all we hold most dear, that she proves 
 the load-star which alone can guide us to 
 safety and peace ; to every heart that a sad 
 reality has broken, she offers the balm of 
 consolation ; and, in our darkest hours, her 
 beams will break in upon us, when our 
 happiness is gone, as we may imagine, for 
 ever and ever. 
 
 It now may be said, that there are many 
 who pass through life, apparently tranquil 
 and happy, without a single serious impres- 
 sion on the subject of religion, or bestowing 
 even a thought upon an hereafter. But we 
 see-not the whole of their lives, nor can we 
 penetrate the sacred recesses of their hearts : 
 their hours of remorse and anguish are 
 known only to themselves. The time, how- 
 ever, will come when this self-deception (if
 
 NEGLECT OF RELIGION. 155 
 
 self-deception it may be called) will be seen. 
 It is when some hidden thunder is just 
 bursting upon their heads ; when they are 
 doomed to drink of the bitter cup of afflic- 
 tion; when the shafts of misfortune are 
 rankling in their bosoms ; when the ago- 
 nies of disease are racking their frames, 
 and the shades of death are gathering 
 about them; when they have no comfort 
 from the past, and no hope for the future, 
 that they will feel the frailty of the 
 reed on which they have rested their hopes, 
 and be alive to the conviction that religion 
 is the one thing needful, and alone can 
 satisfy the wants of an immortal mind.
 
 156 
 
 ON THE IMPORTANCE OF PERSONAL RELIGION TO 
 HAPPINESS IN THIS WORLD. 
 
 Read before the South Parish Society for Mutual Improvement, 
 in 1827. 
 
 ON a former occasion, I addressed you 
 upon the importance of religion, and endea- 
 vored to expose the absurdity of the rea- 
 sons which men give for not submitting to 
 its dictates, and cordially embracing its 
 consolations. I endeavored, at that time, 
 to demonstrate the folly and madness of 
 those who reject a religion which is offered 
 to us in love, by a Being whose very 
 essence is love, to guide us through the 
 trials and temptations of a changing world, 
 to ^support us in affliction, to comfort us in 
 death, and finally to lead us to happiness 
 and heaven ; who, moreover, reject a reli- 
 gion which is urged upon us as the only 
 condition of salvation, and enforced, if
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 157 
 
 neglected, by the severest threatenings of 
 judgment to come. 
 
 This subject I shall now continue. I 
 shall attempt to show that personal religion 
 is intimately and necessarily connected 
 with personal happiness in this world ; and 
 that it is consequently important to possess 
 it, even if we would enjoy ourselves here. 
 We all agree, speculatively at least, that, if 
 the sanctions of religion be true in regard 
 to an hereafter, he does the greatest jus- 
 tice to his intellectual nature, and best 
 understands the true end of existence, who 
 submits to its precepts ; for it is certainly 
 both wise and provident to take care of the 
 future, even at the expense of the present ; 
 and, especially, even to sacrifice pleasures 
 and gratifications, the greatest the world 
 can possibly give, when in that future are 
 involved no less than the boundless ages of 
 eternity ! But can it be true, that the man 
 who religiously devotes himself to the per-
 
 158 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 formance of his duties ; who endeavors to 
 obey all the commands of his Maker; 
 whose life is a continued struggle after 
 those virtues and graces which are to adorn 
 his character, renouncing every secret sin, 
 as well as abandoning every open trans- 
 gression; who is steadfast in every trial 
 and temptation, considering no present evil 
 too great to be endured for the confirma- 
 tion of character, and no pleasure or gratifi- 
 cation too great to be surrendered whenever 
 his religion or an enlightened conscience 
 pronounces the surrender to be necessary ; 
 in a word, who makes religion and virtue 
 the leading objects of pursuit in this world, 
 that he may secure the rewards of the faith- 
 ful in another and a better, can this 
 man be happier, I do not say than the 
 notoriously abandoned and wantonly pro- 
 fligate (for this would be unfair), but than 
 the man, who, solicitous only for the pre- 
 sent, and reckless of the future, limits his
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 159 
 
 views, his hopes, and sources of enjoyment, 
 to the present; and who, in his life and 
 transactions, is governed, honorably it may 
 be, but exclusively and entirely, by worldly 
 motives, and looks for his happiness to 
 worldly pleasures alone ? Can he be hap- 
 pier than the man, who, heedless of the 
 restraints of religion, is bound down only 
 by the artificial restraints of society and of 
 honor; who follows pleasure wherever 
 inclination and taste may direct, whether 
 it be in the walks of literature, in the paths 
 of ambition, in the acquisition of wealth, or 
 in the giddy rounds of trifling amusement ; 
 but who, at the same time, purchases no 
 indulgence at the expense either of health 
 or of character? Can he be so happy? 
 An answer to this question must obviously 
 depend somewhat upon the ideas enter- 
 tained of religion and of its author. 
 
 Did I believe, as some do, that religion 
 is dark and cheerless in its views, and
 
 160 THE IMPORTANCE OP 
 
 austere and morose in its principles, inter- 
 fering with every social pleasure, and cast- 
 ing a gloom over even the common joys of 
 life, I should feel, I confess, not a little 
 embarrassment in endeavoring to answer 
 this question affirmatively. Did I believe 
 that to do honor to our religion, and to be 
 fully subjected to its influence, was to 
 denounce ourselves, the world, and every 
 thing about us, as indiscriminately vile and 
 worthless and wicked ; and that our good- 
 ness is to be measured, more perhaps by 
 the apathy and insensibility with which we 
 can look upon existence, than by the thank- 
 fulness and gratitude we should feel and 
 express for its blessings; did I believe, 
 that, as the Author of our being, out of his 
 mere good pleasure, had made us by nature 
 polluted and corrupt, so he had commanded 
 us to become pure and holy, and that, too, 
 without the ability to do any thing of our- 
 selves; or could I believe in a religion,
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 161 
 
 the tendency of which is to throw a gloom 
 over the fair face of nature, and to under- 
 value and blight every comfort we receive 
 from a bountiful God, by teaching us that 
 all was lost in the Fall, traducing, in 
 fact, the very works of his creation and 
 beneficence, by perpetually contrasting 
 them with our primeval Eden, the ten- 
 dency of which is, moreover, to break down 
 the ties of confidence, of affection, and of 
 sympathy which bind man to man, and 
 wed us to our family altars, by teaching 
 us to regard one another, our parents, our 
 friends, our children, as monsters of iniquity 
 by nature, incapable of a single virtuous 
 action, or of imbibing a single virtuous sen- 
 timent, cast off and reserved for the day of 
 indignation and wrath, unless plucked, by 
 an irresistible decree, as brands from the 
 burning ; did we believe fully and firmly 
 a religion like this, even then we would 
 endeavor to enlist you on its side by point- 
 11
 
 162 THE IMPORTANCE OP 
 
 ing you to the future rewards of the righte- 
 ous ; but we would say nothing of the 
 superior happiness to be gained in this 
 world by espousing her cause. So absurd, 
 indeed, do such doctrines appear, that it 
 is strange they should ever have access 
 to the mind ; yet, dark and chilling and 
 absurd as they are, men say they believe 
 them. We doubt not their sincerity and 
 goodness, and could heartily wish them 
 more cheerful views and a happier religion. 
 But even with this class, after all, we would 
 hazard the issue of our comparison ; for 
 experience in their lives and characters in- 
 contestably demonstrates either that they 
 do not practically believe the contents of 
 their formularies, or that the Almighty 
 and they may bless him for it is more 
 merciful than their creeds, and makes them 
 happy, even in spite of themselves. 
 
 But there are views of religion, in which 
 we profess to believe, and especially one
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 163 
 
 view of its Author, which will, I think, on a 
 moment's consideration, not only remove all 
 doubts, but place the question beyond the 
 possibility of dispute. I refer to one of the 
 most lovely features in his character, and 
 one on which we ought to be most delight- 
 ed to dwell ; because it is one we can best 
 understand, from its frequently exciting our 
 own bosoms, and calling into exercise the 
 warmest and deepest emotions of which 
 our natures are susceptible, his parental 
 character. How much tenderness and love 
 is associated with the name of a parent! 
 and how should our hearts bound with joy 
 and gratitude at the thought of possessing 
 an Almighty Parent! How high our assu- 
 rance of happiness under such a heavenly 
 Guide, and how 'great our security with 
 such a Protector ! Yes, God is our Father. 
 He has explicitly declared himself to be 
 such, and is frequently addressing us by 
 the endearing appellative of children. Our
 
 164 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 Saviour also commands us to pray to him, 
 and confide in him as our Father in heaven, 
 who created us for happiness, who loves us 
 as his children, and guards and protects us 
 amidst all the vicissitudes and under all 
 the circumstances of life ; who commands 
 our obedience in all things to his perfect 
 will, not from arbitrary or from capricious 
 motives, for we can add nothing to his 
 transcendent glory or to his perfect bliss, 
 but because he knows what is best for 
 us, and sees that a particular course of 
 life, in which he has ordered us to walk, 
 will best conduce to our own felicity. This 
 Almighty Parent has willed the happiness 
 of mankind ; to be obtained, however, by 
 a course of religion and virtue. With per- 
 sonal religion he has connected personal 
 happiness, and his Omniscience and Omni- 
 potence are sacredly pledged to sustain 
 their connection, and to preserve them for 
 ever inseparable. How, then, if God is a
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 165 
 
 perfect and unchangeable Being, can his 
 dutiful children be otherwise than happier 
 than the froward and disobedient? I see 
 not how it is possible that they should not 
 be, without subverting the gracious princi- 
 ples he has established, and rendering him 
 weak and fallible like ourselves. The reli- 
 gious man must be the happiest in this 
 world ; for he is pursuing the path which un- 
 erring wisdom, which a kind and Almighty 
 Parent has marked out for him. Nor is 
 this merely an inference from God's paren- 
 tal character alone : it might be shown to 
 be an irresistible deduction from the perfec- 
 tion of all his attributes. Scripture, too, is 
 full of assurances of joy and peace to all 
 who love and worship God in truth and 
 sincerity, and who keep his command- 
 ments ; declaring, most emphatically, that 
 godliness is profitable unto all things, hav- 
 ing the promise of the life that now is, and 
 of that which is to come. Here, on this
 
 166 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 point, we might stop. We think we might 
 safely rest the question, of the superior 
 happiness of the religious life to that of its 
 opposite, on the parental character of God, 
 and on the express declarations which 
 pervade the pages of his revealed word, 
 that the ways of religion are ways of plea- 
 santness, and all her paths are peace. 
 
 But so imperfect and distrustful are our 
 minds, that we are apt to be better satisfied 
 with facts than mere inferences or promises. 
 What, then, is the language of experience 
 upon this subject ? We make this appeal 
 the more willingly, not because our posi- 
 tion in itself needs additional proof, but be- 
 cause its importance is such as to demand 
 all auxiliary aids, and every effort should 
 be- put forth to impress its truth deeply 
 on our minds. We are all in full chase 
 after immediate happiness, we are unwil- 
 ling to forego a present for a future good ; 
 unwilling to sacrifice present pleasures
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 167 
 
 for those which are merely prospective. 
 Make us believe, therefore, that the course 
 we are taking is the wrong one for the at- 
 tainment of our object ; demonstrate to us, 
 by what we see and know, that a course of 
 religion and virtue is the happiest course, 
 and the only one that can ensure to us the 
 object of our desires ; and one very great 
 obstacle will be removed to our cheerfully 
 and cordially embracing it. The motive 
 to goodness, indeed, may not be of the 
 highest order, nor add much to our Chris- 
 tian graces ; but let us only get thus far on 
 our way, and there is hope that new light 
 may break in upon us, and that we shall 
 become less and less under the influence of 
 motives which are selfish and earthly. 
 
 In the first place, then, every man's 
 consciousness attests the important truth 
 we would wish to establish. Ask any 
 man, I care not who he is, what character 
 he believes to be the most happy one. If
 
 168 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 he lets his conscience speak out, and is not 
 brutalized by his vices, he will unhesita- 
 tingly answer, the virtuous and the religious 
 character. Ask any one, I care not who, 
 if he but love his children and would do 
 them good, what course of life, had he it in 
 his power, he would mark out for them, 
 and wish them above all others to pursue, 
 he would say, a virtuous and a religious 
 course ; because he believed it the only 
 one to be trusted, and promising above all 
 others the most substantial and enduring 
 bliss. Ask the man, and surely he must 
 be the best of judges, who has tried both 
 courses of life (and as the world would 
 think successfully too), which he has found 
 to be the most happy, he will answer, the 
 virtuojus and the religious course. He will 
 tell you that he has found a balm for every 
 harassing care, for every worldly disap- 
 pointment, and every wound of the heart, 
 in the sweets of innocence and in the con-
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 169 
 
 solations of religion. The young man's 
 heart, if its emotions can be distinguished 
 amid the roar of folly or the din of busi- 
 ness, will bear ample testimony to the 
 superior pleasures of conscious virtue; 
 and the old man, on reckoning up the 
 sources whence flowed the happiness of 
 his life, if a happy one, will pronounce 
 that religion and virtue were the principal 
 springs of enjoyment; or, if compelled to 
 look back upon days of darkness and sor- 
 row, will declare, in anguish and bitterness 
 of spirit, that religion is, after all, the one 
 thing needful to the completion of human 
 felicity. 
 
 Again, experience in the lives and charac- 
 ters of the truly good and virtuous bears 
 witness to its superior pleasures. What 
 fancied bliss, I descend not to the de- 
 graded sensualist or the abandoned outlaw, 
 their excesses and crimes are necessarily 
 marked with sorrow and pain, and cannot
 
 170 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 admit of comparison, but what fancied 
 bliss can possibly attach to the life of the 
 man who is merely fair and discreet, which 
 belongs not equally, if not in a higher de- 
 gree, to the life of an upright and a godly 
 man ? I cannot conceive. When the good 
 man partakes of the blessings of Provi- 
 dence, which are daily spread before him in 
 such unnumbered variety and endless pro- 
 fusion, is his relish impaired or his taste 
 vitiated, and has he less enjoyment, because 
 his heart overflows with sincere gratitude 
 for bounties so kindly and so generously 
 bestowed upon him ? Or is he less happy, 
 and are his prospects gloomy and cheerless, 
 because in every event and circumstance 
 of life he sees the hand of a Father, and in 
 every thing feels and acknowledges his 
 kindness and protection ? When, in com- 
 mon with others, he pursues the honors or 
 the riches of the world, are his enjoyments 
 less pure, because he regards them as the
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 171 
 
 means of benefiting his fellow-creatures; 
 less pure, because no low-lived trick, or 
 petty cunning, or crooked policy, marks his 
 course to preferment ; or are his acquisitions 
 less pure, because he can never demon- 
 strate to a farthing his charities, and is not 
 over-scrupulous in exacting his dues from 
 the hand of starving penury ; but in each 
 case preserves a peaceful conscience, a 
 pious, elevated, and generous spirit, exerting 
 his influence ever in the cause of justice and 
 virtue, and devoting his substance, in hum- 
 ble imitation of Him who went about doing 
 good, by a constant train of humane atten- 
 tions to the relief of suffering humanity ? 
 Think ye that he is less happy ? Is he not 
 more so ? 
 
 If accustomed to enrich and enlarge his 
 mind from the exhaustless fountains of 
 literature and knowledge, or tempted, in 
 more trifling hours, to pluck flowers from 
 the fairy scenes of fancy and taste, are his
 
 172 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 treasures less valuable, his pleasures less 
 refined or ennobling, because, with every 
 acquisition, his heart warms and glows 
 and expands, as he habitually connects 
 them with the great Source of all refined 
 and intellectual joys? Or, if his mind 
 takes a bolder flight, and soars into the 
 regions of science, endeavoring to unfold 
 the mysteries of creation, in exploring those 
 vast orbs that roll in space, in ascertain- 
 ing their relations, their magnitudes, and 
 motions ; if, unlike the skeptic and worldly 
 man, whose contracted souls are limited to 
 material laws and secondary causes alone, 
 he should, in imagination, shake off the 
 clogs of earth, and endeavor to penetrate 
 the veil which conceals from view the great 
 first Cause of all these mighty wonders, 
 think you that his mind would have less 
 grasp of thought, or be less elevated, less 
 dignified or happy, because it had gained 
 from God's marvellous works new reasons
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 173 
 
 for adoring and fearing, and new motives 
 for loving and obeying, the supreme and 
 almighty Architect? 
 
 And has he not also, equally with others, 
 the joys arising from friendship, from social 
 intercourse, and from domestic love ? 
 When mingling with others in the scenes 
 of the world, or of more private life, if he 
 forbears to incrust himself with a sordid 
 indifference to the welfare of society, and 
 to the wide-spreading miseries occasioned 
 by pride and arrogance, by collisions of 
 interest, and the prevalence of gross and 
 vile passions, which degrade and poison 
 the sources of enjoyment, does he know 
 less of the joys of friendship, or is he the 
 less happy in social intercourse, because he 
 exerts himself to subdue the violence of 
 contentions, to soften the asperities of hu- 
 man nature, and to tranquilize its jarring 
 elements, by teaching men to think less of 
 themselves and more of the happiness of
 
 174 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 others, and by inculcating the godlike vir- 
 tues of love, charity, and mutual forbear- 
 ance ; because he endeavors to make men 
 wiser and better, by raising their standard 
 of moral sentiment, by elevating their taste, 
 their piety, and by the promotion of every 
 Christian virtue ? 
 
 And last, but best of all, in the family 
 circle, that sacred *retreat from the cares, 
 the trials, and the sorrows of the world, 
 how do their comfort and happiness com- 
 pare? They both have blessings, both 
 have joys; and blessings and joys, too, 
 which only he who feels them knows. The 
 one regards his family and children as the 
 dearest objects of existence ; and his heart 
 sympathizes with their tears, and bounds 
 with gladness to meet their smiles ; visions 
 of earthly bliss, in which they are to parti- 
 cipate, continually float before his delighted 
 fancy ; the present is all peace and happi- 
 ness, and the future, at least so far as he
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 175 
 
 extends his view, presents nothing but a 
 perpetual sunshine of joy. Infatuated 
 man ! A single bolt from heaven may 
 scatter all your rising hopes, and make your 
 heart to writhe in anguish. But he goes 
 not beyond this little span of time; all 
 beyond is darkness; he seeks no higher 
 good. The other, besides partaking of all 
 the pleasures which flow from virtuous 
 love, from earthly affections and earthly 
 hopes, keeps his eye fast fixed above ; he 
 sees, beyond, a brighter and a better world ; 
 he points to heaven, and leads the way, 
 where they shall meet again in unbroken 
 numbers, and meet to part no more. Now, 
 which, pray tell me, is the happiest here? 
 Does the flame burn less brightly on the 
 altar of domestic love, because it is mingled 
 with the incense of piety and devotion ? 
 or does he love his children less fondly, 
 because he constantly regards them as ten- 
 der plants, which, nurtured and fostered by
 
 176 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 his paternal care, are to blossom in heaven, 
 and flourish in perennial glory ? 
 
 We have thus far contemplated these two 
 opposite characters in the brighter scenes of 
 life, and have allowed to the irreligious man 
 all the pleasures and gratifications consist- 
 ent with his own maxims of worldly pru- 
 dence and morality. And yet, if I have been 
 at all successful, you will, I think, find no 
 difficulty in pronouncing where the balance 
 of happiness lies. There is no such thing, 
 however, as unalloyed happiness in this 
 world: it exists only in the vagaries of 
 some distempered fancy, or in the dreams 
 of some visionary enthusiast. Ask the 
 most successful, those who entered most 
 gladly upon the business and occupations 
 of the world, where every thing to imagi- 
 nation was gilded with hope, and with the 
 most flattering prospect of realizing all 
 the desires of their hearts ; ask them, when, 
 too, they shall have advanced but a short
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 177 
 
 stage upon their journey, how many trials 
 and disappointments they have had to 
 endure, and where are all the splendid 
 realities for which they have so eagerly and 
 so strenuously contended, and they will 
 answer, if they answer truly, that some have 
 taken to themselves wings and flown away, 
 some have eluded their grasp, some have 
 withered in indulgence, and all have failed 
 to impart the expected felicity. Yes, life 
 is indeed a cup of mingled joys and sor- 
 rows ; and, if we now follow them into the 
 scenes of trial and disappointment and af- 
 fliction, the contrast will be still more strik- 
 ing. So long as life glides on smoothly, 
 with few or no trials and changes to ruffle 
 its surface, to the careless observer, it may 
 be that the man who fastens his hopes 
 and affections upon the scenes of the world 
 floats down the current of time as placidly 
 as he who habitually elevates himself above 
 it. But who shall enter the sanctuary of 
 12
 
 178 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 his heart, and describe the unhappiness 
 that reigns within ; the vexatious cares, the 
 blasted hopes, the stings of conscience, 
 the pangs of remorse for wrongs committed 
 or duties neglected? Who shall portray 
 the loneliness and desolation of the heart 
 estranged from its God and from the com- 
 forts of religion ? And, when the tempest is 
 gathering, and the storms of adversity beat 
 heavily upon him, how forlorn and wretched 
 and miserable must be the man whose soul 
 has not habitually lifted itself to com- 
 munion with its Maker, and has failed to 
 secure for itself an Almighty Protector! 
 No ! He has no consolations, no antidotes 
 against the changes of time. With his 
 possessions, his gods have departed; he 
 has cut himself off from the only sources 
 of comfort and support; he has bared his 
 bosom to the shafts of misfortune, and he 
 must meet them unaided and alone. And 
 at last, on the brink of eternity, with nothing.
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 179 
 
 to comfort him in the retrospect, and no 
 hope beaming upon him from the future, 
 he sinks hopeless and forsaken, a signal 
 proof of the utter insufficiency of the plea- 
 sures of the world to satisfy the wants of 
 an immortal mind. 
 
 Far different is the good man's situation 
 in the hours of trial and disappointment; 
 for these are the scenes of the good man's 
 triumph. His sufferings in life fall infinitely 
 short of the other's ; for it may be stated as 
 a truth, that, although he may have trials 
 which are peculiarly his own, he suffers not 
 with others one-half the grievances which 
 go to swell up the catalogue of the miseries 
 of human life; for so chastened and sub- 
 dued are his feelings, and so well-ordered 
 and moderate his expectations, that he 
 fairly escapes the thousand petty vexations 
 and disappointments into which others are 
 hurried by the impetuosity of passion ; and 
 .so pure and elevated are his sources of
 
 180 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 enjoyment, that even many things deemed 
 severe and hard of endurance, either fall 
 entirely short of wounding his peace, or are 
 borne with tranquillity and composure. 
 The truth is, that troubles of every charac- 
 ter strike less heavily upon him ; for he is 
 constantly disciplining his mind, and pre- 
 paring it to grapple with misfortune. His 
 religion teaches him, and experience is 
 teaching him, that every thing about him 
 is changing and passing away; and he 
 looks not for a paradox in happiness ; he 
 expects not permanent bliss from any thing 
 transitory and fleeting in its character. To 
 losses and deprivations, he yields the more 
 readily, because his principal treasures are 
 in heaven ; and because he views them, 
 moreover, as necessary to the formation of 
 his character, and to his growth in the 
 Christian virtues and graces. His faith is 
 so unwavering and steadfast, as to refer 
 every thing that befalls him to a kind and
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 181 
 
 almighty Parent, who is overruling every 
 thing for his good, who knows what is best 
 for him, and never chastises but in mercy. 
 He unreservedly, therefore, submits himself 
 and all that he possesses to the divine 
 will ; thankful for every thing joyful in life, 
 and no less thankful in adversity to feel 
 himself still under the government and pro- 
 tection of a good and merciful God. Thus 
 is every calamity disarmed of its power to 
 sink him in wretchedness, and every sorrow 
 mitigated in its force. And, in the dark 
 hour of severe bereavement, when every joy 
 seems withered and blasted, when the 
 hand of God rests heavily upon him, he 
 suffers, it is true, all that humanity can 
 suffer for the time ; but he is not dismayed. 
 Though the bolt may have struck him to 
 the heart, and exhausted nature may sink 
 under the blow, still he is not crushed ; he 
 is not forsaken. A light breaks in from 
 above, and dissipates the dark clouds,
 
 182 THE IMPORTANCE OF 
 
 which, in the moment of despair, it may be, 
 obscured his God from his view ; and hope 
 and mercy lend their soft and benignant 
 influence to mitigate the anguish of his 
 sorrows. His mind rests not upon the 
 well-loved form, now sealed in death ; his 
 heart sinks not with it into the clay-cold 
 grave. With the eye of faith, he views the 
 kind and gentle spirit dropping its earthly 
 vestment, and winging its way beyond the 
 stars, to join ten thousand happy spirits, 
 who bear it onward, with shouts of joy, to 
 the abodes of perfect rest and bliss. 
 
 And when his own days are num- 
 bered, he meets their close without a fear. 
 He has so often accustomed his mind to 
 approach the brink of time and to look off, 
 so often dwelt upon the holy scenes beyond, 
 that he hails with joy the approach of 
 death. He can look back upon a life well 
 spent, and heavenly gladness swells before 
 his enraptured view, as he yields his spirit 
 to the God who gave it.
 
 PERSONAL RELIGION. 183 
 
 Yes, while the religious man enjoys, 
 alike with the worldly, every pleasure that 
 is worth the attention of a rational and 
 an immortal mind, he has pleasures the 
 other can never enjoy. He has something 
 better, he has a peace of mind which the 
 world can neither give nor take away. He 
 has in his own bosom a perpetual spring 
 of agreeable sensations, a fountain of the 
 sublimest and sweetest pleasures, which 
 in prosperity will be his joy, and in adver- 
 sity his never-failing solace and support. 
 It is true, he may have difficulties to en- 
 counter, and sacrifices to make ; but the 
 self-denial thus demanded is far outweighed 
 by the enjoyment which it ensures. He 
 derives from it an unconditional security 
 in every event; a self-respect which will 
 never desert him ; and, finally, a noble, a 
 genuine dignity of character, not based 
 upon the artificial distinctions of man, but 
 the result of a hearty contempt for every
 
 184 RELIGION OF 
 
 thing sordid, grovelling, and vicious, and 
 a supreme love for the graces, the unosten- 
 tatious qualities, of the honest, humble, and 
 charitable Christian. 
 
 RELIGION OF EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 
 Read before the South Parish Society for Mutual Improvement, 
 
 IT cannot be disputed, that, even among 
 those whose notions upon religion are in 
 many respects speculatively correct, and 
 who would not be considered by the world 
 otherwise than moral and religious men, 
 there is a great looseness of thinking and 
 acting as to the applicability of religion to 
 the- every-day, hourly occurrences of human 
 life. They seem to act as if they thought 
 its precepts and obligations more con- 
 cerned in governing the great occurrences 
 of life than the small, designed rather to
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 185 
 
 regulate the broad lines of character, than 
 to descend into its more minute details. 
 In scenes of darkness and of sorrow, they 
 may have acknowledged its influence, or, if 
 they have not realized it themselves, may 
 have, at least, witnessed in others its sus- 
 taining and consoling power ; they may be 
 strict in their observance of set days and 
 forms, and scrupulously exact in the per- 
 formance of some of the great duties of 
 religion ; but further than this they do not 
 go. They see and acknowledge God in 
 the magnificence of his works, and in the 
 stupendous and moving events of his Provi- 
 dence ; but they see him not in the ordinary 
 walks of life, nor acknowledge the right of 
 religion to control and direct in its minute 
 events. " God," they say (and with some- 
 thing of a plea of reverence), " God is too 
 great and too high to notice such feeble 
 and insignificant beings as we are, in all 
 our weaknesses and follies and sins. He
 
 186 RELIGION OF 
 
 governs and controls, it is true ; but it is 
 upon a grand and extensive scale. To 
 suppose him to . bend to observe every 
 minute event as it passes, to notice every 
 little circumstance and trifling delinquen- 
 cy of character, is to bring him too low, 
 and to derogate too much from the efful- 
 gence of his majesty and glory." An apo- 
 logy like this, to excuse ourselves from 
 being influenced and restrained in all, even 
 the most minute occurrences of life, I need 
 not say, is founded on reasoning as unphi- 
 losophical as it is unchristian, and replete 
 with danger to the best interests and hopes 
 of man. 
 
 Oh, no ! In order to be truly religious, 
 and that we may derive thence all prof- 
 feTed aid and consolation, we must believe 
 fully and unreservedly that God is with us 
 and around us everywhere ; that he sees 
 and knows every thing we do, and takes 
 cognizance of every act, of every thought
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 187 
 
 and passion, however we ourselves may 
 deem them insignificant, or from their mi- 
 nuteness unworthy his observation. And 
 that he does thus see and know, we cannot 
 but believe, when we reflect that, without 
 this knowledge of minutiae, he is essentially 
 imperfect, and cannot be an omniscient 
 and an omnipotent God. The same 
 power that has lighted up the firmament 
 with so much splendor, that has kindled 
 the ever-glowing furnace of the sun, and 
 decorated the evening sky with so many 
 gems of glory, is exhibited in all its ful- 
 ness in the simplest flower that blossoms 
 in the field, or in the minutest insect that 
 flutters around us ; for nothing short of the 
 infinite Mind could have created and sus- 
 tained structures so curiously and wonder- 
 fully wrought, and have so harmoniously 
 arranged and adapted them to the various 
 circumstances of their being. So, in the 
 affairs of human life, if God is present at
 
 188 RELIGION OF 
 
 all, he is present at all times and on every 
 occasion, and descends to examine the 
 minutest event ; nor is it detracting in the 
 least from his greatness and glory, for, 
 unless he takes cognizance of the trivial 
 as well as the great, we limit his attributes, 
 we weaken his omnipotence, and make 
 him comparatively feeble and powerless 
 like ourselves. As true, then, as there is a 
 God, so true is it that we can never be 
 where he is not, nor where he sees and 
 upholds and loves us not; so true is it that 
 the hairs of our heads are all numbered, 
 and not a sparrow falls to the ground with- 
 out his knowledge. We cannot, there- 
 fore, from our insignificance, hope to. hide 
 ourselves from his presence, or that the 
 smallest of our actions can ever escape the 
 glance of his all-searching eye. 
 
 But the importance of making religion 
 the daily concern of our lives, and of allow- 
 ing it to control each and every event, is
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 189 
 
 still further apparent, when we reflect that 
 our characters are more frequently formed 
 by a series of actions and habits, than by 
 single remarkable events ; and that, in this 
 view, what may appear to us trifling and 
 unimportant as it passes, may cast a light 
 or a shadow which shall gradually affect 
 and influence the whole of our future lives. 
 Indeed, we can hardly say at the time how 
 much a single vicious indulgence, or the 
 smallest dereliction from duty, is to diffuse 
 its deadly influence, and poison the moral 
 sensibilities of the soul ; nor may its dread- 
 ful effects upon our characters, in its full 
 extent, ever be felt till that hour shall 
 arrive^ which will expose the naked deform- 
 ity of each, when we shall see as we are 
 seen, and know as we are known. But 
 enough may be seen, if we will not be 
 blind, to warn us of the danger of casting 
 off the restraints of religion upon even the 
 smallest occasions, and of yielding to the
 
 190 RELIGION OF 
 
 most trifling sins. Time, as it passes, is 
 continually developing their withering in- 
 fluence on the best interests of man. Ask 
 the abandoned sinner of any description, 
 by what steps he has arrived at his present 
 degradation and ruin ; and he will tell you 
 that it was by neglecting the wholesome 
 restraints of religion upon the small events 
 of life. Ask the drunkard, for instance, 
 by what mighty machinery of irresistible 
 causes he has been reduced to his present 
 forlorn and abject state, his home the abode 
 of squalid poverty, his children beggars, 
 and himself the loathsome sepulchre of a 
 guilty but immortal soul ; and he will 
 point you to some moment of foolish 
 hilarity, when, overstepping the bounds of 
 prudence and virtue, he put the intoxicat- 
 ing cup to his lip again and again, till an 
 appetite was created, which is now con- 
 suming him like a devouring fire. Visit 
 your haunts of vice and pollution, or go still
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 
 
 191 
 
 farther to the places where vice pays the 
 forfeit to the offended laws of society, your 
 jails and your gibbets, and inquire by what 
 mighty deeds men were brought to these 
 wretched ends. The last great act which 
 brought them there may be dreadful in- 
 deed; but it is only the end of a series 
 which commenced in some small sin, 
 some trifling dereliction from duty, so 
 small, indeed, as scarcely to have been per- 
 ceptible at first, and which fastidiousness 
 herself, it may be, would have been un- 
 willing to have numbered on the list of 
 crimes ; but which, growing by indulgence, 
 has so insidiously corrupted the springs 
 of virtue, so deadened the conscience, as to 
 render them the victims of every species of 
 pollution. Or, in more favorable instances, 
 take the man whose life shall have glided 
 away without any overt guilt to debase and 
 disgrace him, but who, careless and heed- 
 less of religion, has given himself up to the
 
 192 , RELIGION OF 
 
 common seductions of the world ; who has 
 rioted in its pleasures and amusements, 
 without -a thought of the future ; go 
 to him when the agonies of disease are 
 racking his frame, and the damps of death 
 are upon him, and inquire why all before 
 him is nought but terror and dismay ; 
 and he will point you to some small temp- 
 tation, which, unresisted in the commence- 
 ment of life, gradually sapped the founda- 
 tions of religion, and eradicated from his 
 bosom every principle of virtue and piety ; 
 or, if his moral sense be blunted, and, 
 dead in trespasses and sins, he shall have 
 become insensible to his wretchedness ; 
 when he shall at last wake up in eternity, 
 and his conscience shall sting like an adder, 
 and memory now lighted up shall wander 
 over the long-forgotten past, and be able to 
 call up each act and incident of life, giving 
 to each its true weight in perverting his 
 character and weakening his sensibility to
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. . 193 
 
 virtuous impressions ; from what small 
 beginnings may he not be able to trace the 
 causes which have now sunk him so deep 
 in misery and guilt ! what good resolution, 
 may it not be, that was broken as soon as 
 it was formed, what parental restraint dis- 
 regarded, what sabbath neglected, what 
 passion indulged ! Small they apparently 
 were, it is true, and easily might they have 
 been guarded against ere habit had ren- 
 dered him their slave ; but now, like spec- 
 tres, they haunt him as the sources from 
 whence sprang all his woes. Nor need we 
 imagine cases for illustration : we can ap- 
 peal to our own bosoms for the truth of the 
 position we have taken. With what almost 
 instinctive horror may we not have first lis- 
 tened to some one seducing form of sin! 
 and yet if unrestrained, if we yielded, 
 our memories will tell us how soon our sen- 
 sibility to its heinousness was impaired 
 merely by a repetition of the offence, and 
 
 13
 
 194 RELIGION OF 
 
 from what small beginnings we can trace 
 the vices which may once have bound us in 
 chains of adamant. Who, then, that reflects 
 upon the temptations of life to which he is 
 hourly exposed, who that looks abroad 
 upon the world, and observes the various 
 snares that surround him, the artful soli- 
 citations, the corrupt examples and habits, 
 that assail him, can say that he needs the 
 power of religion in life, only to guard and 
 protect him against its greatest temptations, 
 and under its most afflictive events ? Above 
 all, who that looks into his own heart, 
 and marks its fond attachments, its earthly 
 passions, and treacherous purposes, and 
 how prone he is to yield and to hurry from 
 one excess to another, till virtue is dead 
 and shame is gone, but must feel the con- 
 stant and hourly need of the counsels of 
 religion to assist him in restraining the 
 very beginnings of evil ? 
 
 But it is not merely to restrain us from
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 195 
 
 vice that we require the constant aid of 
 religion : we need also her kindly influences 
 in making us positively good. Character 
 is rarely, if ever, suddenly formed : there is 
 no such violence done to our natures. It 
 grows with our growth, and strengthens 
 with our strength. And it is only by con- 
 sulting the great principles of religion, and 
 daily and hourly applying them to all the 
 minutiae of conduct; by cherishing every 
 good propensity, every devout purpose and 
 holy desire ; by improving the small oppor- 
 tunities we may possess, as well as the 
 great, for the cultivation of the benevolent 
 affections, for laying deep in our hearts the 
 principles of love, of mercy, of charity, of 
 obedience, and of piety, that we can ever 
 hope to arrive at the stature of perfect men 
 in Christ Jesus. 
 
 Again, as has been before suggested, we 
 are too apt to think that religion is prin- 
 cipally applicable to the great events of
 
 196 RELIGION OF 
 
 life, that we need her influences chiefly 
 in resisting the greatest temptations, or in 
 bearing the severest trials ; and here once 
 more we must feel the necessity of first 
 courting her smiles, and imploring her aid 
 in those which we consider of smaller im- 
 portance. When the tempest is lowering, 
 and the angry elements are raging around 
 us, how can we breast the shock, how can 
 we hope to be sustained, if we have not 
 previously armed ourselves for the conflict ? 
 When our possessions are suddenly wrested 
 from us, and we are cast upon the charity 
 of a cold and heartless world, how can we 
 ask for mercy, if our hearts have never 
 melted at the tale of another's woe ; or look 
 to Heaven for comfort and support under 
 the dreadful reverse, if, instead of laying 
 up for ourselves treasures in heaven, by 
 considering ourselves but the stewards of 
 God's bounty, by feeding the hungry and 
 clothing the naked, and preparing our minds
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 197 
 
 for such vicissitudes of Providence, we have 
 been all our lives long cruel and selfish, 
 driving hard bargains, grinding the faces 
 of the poor, and hoarding and hugging our 
 possessions with the grasp of a miser? 
 And with what meekness and forbearance 
 can we endure to have our characters as- 
 sailed by the tongue of calumny and slander, 
 if we have not been able to meet with equa- 
 nimity even the petty trials and vexations 
 of life ? Or, still more, when death enters 
 our dwellings, and takes from us the best 
 loved of our bosoms ; or when, in an hour 
 we think not of, we shall be summoned 
 ourselves to give an account, how shall 
 we endure the calamity, unless in the minor 
 changes of life we have accustomed our- 
 selves to meet with a religious submission 
 all the allotments of Providence ? These, 
 it will be acknowledged, are some of the 
 severest trials of life, trials which would 
 break down the stoutest heart, and cause
 
 198 RELIGION OF 
 
 the strongest to fall by the way, unless the 
 occurrences of each day each hour as it 
 passes are made to subserve the purpose 
 of fortifying, of elevating the mind, and 
 inspiring it with the hope and the resig- 
 nation of a Christian. We see, then, the 
 importance of mingling, with all our pur- 
 suits, the ennobling principles of virtue and 
 holiness ; and the benevolent purpose of 
 Christianity in requiring of us a piety 
 which is not of set times and forms and 
 particular contingencies only, but a habit 
 of thought and of life, an ever-enduring, 
 lofty principle of action. 
 
 But it is said, that it is impossible for us 
 thus to make religion the constant subject 
 of our thoughts : the cares, the amuse- 
 ments, and the business of the world will 
 intrude, and must engross a necessary share 
 of our attention. It is so, and it should be 
 so ; and we know not that religion requires 
 of us to renounce any thing of the world
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 199 
 
 but its sins. But it is a religious habit 
 that we should cultivate, and so firmly and 
 deeply engrave its principles upon our 
 hearts that they can never be effaced. It 
 should never be to us of that extraneous 
 character which can be thrown on and off 
 like a garment, as we in our weakness 
 may deem most befitting the occasion, or 
 demanded by the exigency of the case. It 
 should be deemed the aliment of the soul, 
 and should be as eagerly sought after as the 
 food which is to sustain our animal natures ; 
 so assimilated and incorporated into our 
 minds as to become an essential ingredient 
 in our characters, and to render us truly 
 religious when we are least thinking of it, 
 and when, from the cares and collisions 
 of the world, we may be entirely off our 
 guard. 
 
 The man who would attain to this per- 
 fection of the character of a Christian, with 
 a firm reliance on God to assist him in his
 
 200 RELIGION OF 
 
 weakness, gathers up all his strength for 
 the work, and devotes all his time to its 
 accomplishment; he suffers no opportunity 
 for usefulness, however small it may be, 
 to pass by him unnoticed and unimproved; 
 each succeeding day, as it passes, has done 
 something for his character, as he has made 
 it more free from evil and more full of 
 good; every joy is a new call for his grati- 
 tude, and every sorrow is made a new les- 
 son of submission and of obedience. He 
 devotes the unremitted exertion of all his 
 faculties to the cause of virtue and of piety ; 
 careless of all sufferings and heedless of all 
 privations, through good report and through 
 evil report, he follows only the convictions 
 of conscience and of duty. He fights the 
 goad fight of faith, and subjects the senses 
 to the soul, by bringing into subjection all 
 the evil propensities of his nature, and by 
 subduing all its rebellious desires. In his 
 motives and pursuits, he is so different from
 
 EVERY-DAY IMPORTANCE. 
 
 201 
 
 the man of the world as hardly to pos- 
 sess with him a nature in common; for, 
 while, with low and grovelling purposes, 
 the one is toiling for possessions earthly in 
 their nature, and uncertain in their tenure, 
 he sets his affections on objects which do 
 not perish in using, which time cannot cor- 
 rupt nor accident destroy. 
 
 Thus to make religion the object of our 
 daily and hourly care, or, as has been more 
 strongly and happily expressed, to make it 
 the " life of God in the soul," is doubtless 
 an arduous, a difficult task ; and he who 
 would effect it must, above all, be ever on 
 the watch against the corrupting influence 
 of those foes to his peace, which, under the 
 guise of petty indulgences and trifling sins, 
 are continually besetting his path, and, by 
 slow and gradual approaches, would insi- 
 diously undermine what, in the weakness of 
 pride and self-confidence, he may consider 
 the strongholds of his virtue ; remembering
 
 202 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 the importance of filling up the measure of 
 life with its appropriate duties, and that it 
 is only by patient continuance in well- 
 doing that he can hope to attain to glory, 
 honor, and immortality. 
 
 IS THE ECLAT OF MILITARY FAME FOUNDED 
 EITHER ON SOUND REASON OR ON MORAL 
 PRINCIPLE 1 
 
 Read before the South Parish Society for Mutual Improvement. 
 
 THERE is to me something superlatively 
 ridiculous in the honor and deference paid 
 to the man whose reputation depends on 
 military achievement alone. Scarcely have 
 the -shouts of victory died on our ears, than, 
 regardless of moral distinctions, we hasten 
 to enrol the name of its hero on the temple 
 of fame, to erect a stupendous mausoleum, 
 or to gild his tomb with an inflated descrip-
 
 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 203 
 
 tion of brilliant exploits. No pageantries 
 are too grand and extravagant to celebrate 
 his success; no homage is too servile to 
 facilitate his ascent to the pinnacle of glory. 
 The marble and the canvas are to rescue 
 from oblivion the features of one who has 
 convulsed the world; while his deeds of 
 cruelty and of blood are to live for ever in 
 the varnished records of song and of story. 
 Another and another is added to swell the 
 list, and each, it may be, surpassing the last 
 in crime and enormity, till, amidst the infa- 
 tuation of military splendor and achieve- 
 ment, the distinction between morality and 
 wickedness, between virtue and vice, is 
 completely destroyed. 
 
 And who amongst us has not felt, almost 
 to madness, the glow of military enthu- 
 siasm? "Whose heart has not been even 
 dead to every moral distinction, in view of 
 the chivalric exploits of a hero ? We hear 
 of his noble deeds of daring, his " hair-
 
 204 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 breadth escapes," and we reverence him. 
 "We behold the wreath of triumph which 
 entwines his brow, and the pomp and pa- 
 rade which attend his approach, and are 
 lost in wonder and astonishment. We 
 stand indeed upon enchanted ground, where 
 every thing appears grand and beautiful ; 
 forgetful, that, in preparing laurels for him, 
 it may be we are forging chains for our- 
 selves. Nor is he insensible to the supe- 
 riority he receives from our sycophantic 
 adulations, or remiss in employing the 
 ascendancy he has gained to his further 
 advancement. He would indeed now be- 
 come " a God, and bestride this narrow 
 world like a colossus, while we petty men 
 must peep about to find ourselves dishonor- 
 able'graves." 
 
 It cannot be denied that our earliest and 
 general impressions are in favor of military 
 fame: so were men's once of religious into- 
 lerance and persecution ; and so are they
 
 MILITARY FAME. 205 
 
 now of many of the fashionable follies and 
 vices which neither reason nor religion can 
 justify. But these impressions are derived 
 from the corruption and vices we have 
 imbibed from the world, and not from the 
 moral sense implanted within us. No 
 argument can be deduced from these. 
 General impression is not the tribunal 
 before which the morality either of actions 
 or of character can be tried. It is as often 
 founded upon principles which are erro- 
 neous as upon those which are correct; 
 as often the advocate of the vices as of the 
 virtues of society. Correct the general 
 impressions of the world upon the great 
 principles of action, and the greatest sources 
 of error and iniquity will be for ever re- 
 moved. I do not, however, by these asser- 
 tions, intend to impeach the justice of 
 public opinion upon many of the great 
 points of morality, or to detract from the 
 influence it should ever possess in these
 
 206 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 particulars over our lives and actions. But 
 I do assert its fallibility, and could demon- 
 strate, if necessary, by a thousand examples, 
 that it is often formed upon views which are 
 superficial, and is not unfrequently enlisted 
 in favor of what is brilliant and captivating, 
 rather than of what is intrinsically noble 
 and virtuous. And such I believe to be the 
 character of the impressions we have re- 
 ceived of military fame. In discussing 
 this question, I shall, in the first place, 
 endeavor to demonstrate that the eclat 
 bestowed upon military achievement is 
 unreasonable and extravagant; and, in the 
 next, that it is not founded upon sound 
 principles of morality. 
 
 What, then, are those brilliant traits of 
 character we admire so much in a hero, 
 and to which we bow with so much admi- 
 ration and respect ? Are they not simply 
 his courage, his intrepidity, his imagined 
 superiority of talent, his patriotism, and
 
 MILITARY FAME. 207 
 
 the fancied benefits which are to result to 
 society from their exercise ? 
 
 We admire his courage and intrepidity. 
 But courage, to use the words of a very 
 great man, " is an early dictate of instinct." 
 It is a something, which, like the grosser 
 appetites and passions, we possess in com- 
 mon with the brute creation. The nearer 
 we approach them, as may be seen in 
 savage life, the more distinct are its marks, 
 and the more ferocious its character. 
 There is nothing intellectual in its nature, 
 nor is it susceptible, like mind, of cultiva- 
 tion and improvement. It depends, in fact, 
 entirely upon our physical organization, 
 and is as much the property of the fool 
 and the rogue as of the great and the good. 
 Besides, if courage is noble, it is more fre- 
 quently displayed, though indeed with less 
 brilliancy of effect, and, as we hope, with 
 less criminality of design, in the every-day 
 occurrences of life, than in the camp or the
 
 208 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 field. The physician, for example, who 
 believes in the contagiousness of disease, 
 or the mariner who devotes his days to the 
 perils of the sea, has greater demands for 
 its exercise, than he who risks his life two 
 or three times in a battle, where, according 
 to common results, the chances of escape 
 are twenty or thirty to one in his favor. In 
 truth, courage is so universal, so engrafted 
 in our constitutions, that the man who is 
 destitute of it at once arrests our attention, 
 and is almost regarded as an anomaly in 
 nature. 
 
 I am yet to learn, too, that there is any 
 superior skill or talent to be exercised in 
 the management of a campaign. That 
 profession or science cannot be said to be 
 a difficult one, or deserving of our applause 
 and esteem, which can be almost as suc- 
 cessfully prosecuted without an education 
 as with one; and such seems to be the 
 case with the military profession. It is true
 
 MILITARY FAME. 209 
 
 there have been for a long time academies 
 founded in Europe, and more recently in 
 our own country, for instruction in this par- 
 ticular art. But we certainly see that the 
 greatest victories have been won by those 
 who have had little or no experience in 
 military tactics, and that the greatest revo- 
 lutions have been carried into effect by 
 those who were the least acquainted with 
 the science of war. Our own revolution 
 was conducted to the happiest results by 
 men (with the exception of a few foreign- 
 ers) who were but mere novices in the art ; 
 and it surely was not from military educa- 
 tion that our last struggle was crowned 
 with success. The battle of Bunker's Hill, 
 and the capture of Burgoyne and of Corn- 
 wallis, in the first, the defence of New Or- 
 leans, and the battles of Bridgewater and 
 of Erie, in the last war, achieved, too, 
 over men of acknowledged talents in the 
 Old World, even men who had helped to
 
 210 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 deluge the continent of Europe with blood, 
 and who had been raised to the very sum- 
 mit of military glory, will for ever remain 
 as signal examples of the truth of the posi- 
 tion I have taken, that military success 
 does not generally depend upon the exer- 
 tion of superior talents and acquirements. 
 If it be said that genius alone produced 
 these mighty effects, then can genius per- 
 form in the military profession what it can- 
 not accomplish in others. 
 
 Again, we admire the soldier's patriotism, 
 and his devotedness to his country's good ; 
 and, were it true that he has no selfish pur- 
 poses to gratify, no petty ends to accom- 
 plish, well might we applaud his disinterest- 
 edness, and award to him the glory he so 
 much desires. The sacred name of patriot- 
 ism, alas! is as broad as the mantle of 
 charity, and, like that too, is made to cover 
 a multitude of sins. True love of one's 
 country, I contend, consists as much in a de-
 
 MILITARY FAME. 211 
 
 sire to effect her deliverance from the thral- 
 dom of vice and iniquity, as from the foot 
 of an invader or the chains of a despot. 
 And where shall we see it in its native 
 purity, its virgin brightness, unadulterated 
 by crime, and unpolluted by cupidity and 
 ambition ? Shall we find it in the hero of 
 France, whose boast it was to have inscribed 
 his name on the pillar of Pompey ? or in 
 his humble successor, the magnanimous de- 
 fender of the Bastile and the Inquisition ? 
 in the conqueror at Waterloo, second only 
 to his great master in the support of crime 
 and debauchery ? in the gentle and paci- 
 fic Alexander, with his cunning devices to 
 grasp the world ? in the patriotic Iturbide 
 of the South, with his splendid courts and 
 voluptuous pageantry ? or, to come 
 nearer home, in the illustrious conqueror 
 and relentless executioner of the harmless 
 Typees of the Pacific? No: patriotism, 
 in its native purity, will, I believe, be found
 
 212 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 more frequently to exist in the shade and 
 retirement of peaceful life, than in the 
 bustle of the camp or the field. Its flame 
 will be found to burn the most brightly, 
 and its incense to ascend the most purely, 
 from the bosom of him, who, armed with 
 the breastplate of righteousness, the sword 
 of the Spirit, and the helmet of salvation, 
 stands the faithful sentinel to his country's 
 morals; who assails, in their strongest 
 holds, its besetting sins, and subdues, one 
 after another, its vicious propensities and 
 habits, till the victory is achieved over the 
 foes to religion and virtue. 
 
 But war is a trade, a profession, in which 
 men engage from the same motives as they 
 do in the common concerns of life, some 
 from avarice, ambition, and the love of dis- 
 tinction ; a few, it may be, from benevolent 
 designs, and with a view to promote the 
 public good ; but by far the greatest pro- 
 portion from the facilities it offers for a life
 
 MILITARY FAME. 213 
 
 of luxury and ease. If we consult the his- 
 tory of the armies of the world, we shall 
 find that patriotism exists but in name, 
 even among the greatest of their heroes, 
 and is only preserved as a shield to their 
 enormities and crimes. We shall find 
 armies composed of desperadoes, anxious to 
 retrieve a broken fortune or a broken name ; 
 of outcasts from society, who have no other 
 resource, and no other resort for the indul- 
 gence of their vicious propensities ; of men 
 receiving the honors and distinctions of 
 martyrs to their country's good, who would, 
 in other times and in other situations, have 
 perished in a dungeon or have disgraced a 
 gibbet. 
 
 As to the good that has ever accrued 
 to the world from the exhibition of mili- 
 tary prowess and skill, I must reserve it for 
 another part of the subject ; premising, how- 
 ever, that even were it true that some par- 
 tial benefits have been thus obtained, they
 
 214 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 have been acquired in the exercise of a pro- 
 fession which has no claims to superiority 
 of courage, talent, or patriotism, and con- 
 sequently is not entitled to that extrava- 
 gance of praise which is so often bestowed 
 on it. 
 
 In regard to the morality of military 
 fame, I must be more brief than I could 
 wish, for reasons that have already been 
 stated. It evidently involves the great 
 question as to the justice of war ; and, with 
 our decisions on that subject, the moral 
 character of heroes must stand or fall. And 
 my first remark is that war is unjustifiable, 
 because it is in direct violation of one of 
 the great commandments of the Almighty : 
 " Thou shalt do no murder," a law which 
 is sacred, imperative, and unconditional, 
 a law which enforces itself equally upon 
 the obedience of nations as of individuals, 
 a law, which, however it may be sub- 
 verted or refined away by the decrees of the
 
 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 215 
 
 different potentates of the earth, is acknow- 
 ledged and sanctioned in all the relations 
 of civil life. If a man kills his neighbor, 
 he is denounced as a murderer, an outcast, 
 and is consigned to the most ignominious 
 death to atone for his transgressions. But 
 a military butcher may not only slaughter 
 his thousands with impunity, but be re- 
 warded with the acclamation and ap- 
 plause of an admiring world. And the 
 apology for the morality of his actions is, 
 that he is but the executioner of the decrees 
 of a government to which he has, tacitly at 
 least, sworn allegiance and obedience. But 
 from whom, the question may be asked, 
 did his government derive the power to 
 annul the decrees of the Almighty? and 
 by what right do they pretend to delegate 
 a power which they have never righteously 
 received ? We are bound to the mandates 
 of our superiors, only as they are in accord- 
 ance with the eternal rules of morality laid
 
 216 MILITARY FAME. 
 
 down for the government of our lives and 
 actions. Any fame, therefore, acquired in 
 opposition to these cannot be founded on 
 sound moral principle. 
 
 It is said, that, however this argument 
 may hold good as to an aggressive war, 
 those which are defensive cannot be deemed 
 immoral. And a strictly defensive war 
 perhaps may not be so. But is not this a 
 title claimed by almost every contending 
 foe ? The war is said to be essential to 
 redress some petty wrong, or breach of eti- 
 quette ; or, it may be, to resent an outrage, 
 and to preserve the balance of power among 
 the nations of the earth. In redressing 
 wrongs, however, it is a sound maxim of 
 morals, that no circumstances will justify 
 the infliction of injuries upon the innocent. 
 When, therefore, we remember the thou- 
 sands and thousands of innocent people 
 that are sacrificed to aid these designs, 
 when we recollect the. miseries and cor-
 
 MILITARY FAME. 217 
 
 ruptions, the desolation and blood, which 
 follow in their train, we shall be slow to 
 believe that the fame which arises from 
 military achievement can be founded on 
 sound moral principle. 
 
 There can be nothing indeed so injurious 
 to a community as the admiration bestowed 
 upon a hero. It endangers the peace of 
 the country, by fostering a military spirit, 
 by stimulating reckless ambition, and excit- 
 ing in the young and the giddy a thirst for 
 martial glory. 
 
 If to all this I am assailed with the name 
 of Washington, I answer, that I am not 
 willing to sacrifice him for the sake of an 
 argument. No: his humanity, his disin- 
 terested patriotism, and his brilliant virtues, 
 are sufficient to redeem the military cha- 
 racter as such from indiscriminate oppro- 
 brium. No: in the words of another, 
 " He has ascended to heaven, not like 
 Mahomet, for he needed not the fiction
 
 218 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 of a miracle; not like Elijah, for record- 
 ing time has not registered the man on 
 whom his mantle should descend ; but 
 in humble imitation of the omnipotent 
 Architect, who returned from a created uni- 
 verse to contemplate from his throne the 
 stupendous fabric he had erected." 
 
 THE IMMORTALITY OF THE MIND. 
 
 Read before the South Parish Society for Mutual Improvement in 1830. 
 and subsequently delivered as a Lyceum Lecture. 
 
 " IF a man die, shall he live again ? " We 
 know that this most important of all ques- 
 tions is answered affirmatively and dis- 
 tinctly on every page of the New Testa- 
 ment. But, while the sacred and exalted 
 truths of Christianity may be acknowledged 
 and rejoiced in by us, we must remember 
 that they do not reach every man's bosom
 
 OF THE MIND. 219 
 
 alike. There are some who deny them, 
 some who openly avow their disbelief and 
 rejection of the evidences of a revelation 
 made to man ; while there are others who 
 say, that these evidences are involved in so 
 much obscurity that they hardly know 
 whether to believe them or not. In the 
 intercourse of life, it may be our lot to fall 
 in with such persons; perhaps they may 
 be among our relatives, our friends, or our 
 neighbors, persons over whose minds it 
 is possible for a happy influence to be ex- 
 erted. The condition of such minds is 
 truly lamentable ; and, if honest and can- 
 did, deeply to be pitied. But what is to be 
 done ? How shall they be reached ? By 
 repeating over and over again the argu- 
 ments in favor of Christianity, which we 
 will suppose them to have heard from their 
 earliest days, and to which they may have 
 listened with tolerably open and inquiring 
 minds ? We think not. Such a course, it
 
 220 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 is possible, might meet the wants of the 
 wavering, the timid, and the doubtful, but 
 rarely, we think, the case of the man whose 
 scepticism is confirmed and daring ; for we 
 do not believe that this is the root of the 
 evil : we believe that it extends still deeper, 
 and embraces the very first principles 
 of religion. We doubt, indeed, whether 
 there be any, unless they are educated as 
 Jews, living under the light of the Chris- 
 tian dispensation, who reject this revelation 
 alone ; we believe, that, in most instances, 
 what is called Deism is, in truth, dark and 
 chilling Atheism. Accordingly, we hear 
 such men suggesting doubts and difficul- 
 ties ; speculating on the eternity of matter, 
 on organization and mind, their insepa- 
 rable* connection, and the like ; or break- 
 ing out into express and open infidelity. 
 So true is it, we fear, that " he that denieth 
 the Son denieth the Father also." We 
 must then go back to the evidences of
 
 OF THE MIND. 221 
 
 natural religion, before we can hope to pro- 
 duce a conviction of that which is revealed. 
 The existence of a God, all-powerful, wise, 
 and good, should be the first great lesson 
 brought to bear upon the mind ; the natural 
 evidences of which it would seem could 
 hardly fail of ensuring belief, if faithfully 
 drawn and enforced, and candidly and 
 kindly received. The next should be the 
 doctrine of the immortality of the soul, 
 or the answer to the question proposed 
 for discussion, " If a man die, shall he 
 live again?" as derived from the same 
 evidences, and unconnected with what is 
 taught in the Christian dispensation. We 
 well know that we cannot hope to make 
 out an argument upon this momentous 
 subject, which shall be perfectly demonstra- 
 tive, without the aid of Christianity; but 
 we do think, that, with a previous belief in 
 the existence of a God, we shall render it 
 so highly probable, that the mind may be
 
 222 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 opened to receive with joy the light which 
 Christianity throws upon it. And, how- 
 ever well grounded we may be in our faith, 
 may not this view of the subject be useful 
 and interesting to us all? In seasons of 
 suffering and of trial, when the heart is 
 sick and the mind is distressed, is it not 
 well to have the collateral evidence which 
 the light of nature affords, so that the mind, 
 in its wanderings, if need be, may fall back 
 upon itself (if I may so speak), and find in 
 its own nature, and in its connection with 
 God, the evidence of its future exist- 
 ence? 
 
 The subject is one abounding in me- 
 taphysical speculations and difficulties. 
 Aware of this, I have, with such labor as I 
 coukl bestow, drawn my arguments from a 
 great variety of sources ; and must refer 
 those who would extend their researches 
 into this momentous subject to the works 
 of Priestley, Berkeley, Reid, Bishop Butler,
 
 OF THE MIND. 223 
 
 Paley, Locke, Stewart, and Brown, to all of 
 whom I acknowledge myself indebted for 
 portions of my argument. With this 
 avowal of my indebtedness to the labor of 
 others, I must bespeak your patience and 
 undivided attention, while I offer you the 
 results of my reflection and study. 
 
 To an unreflecting mind, death, at the 
 first view, does seem to be the end of all 
 things. We are overwhelmed with the 
 change and desolation it produces. We 
 see the body fallen, and mingling with the 
 common dust; the eye that delighted us 
 has lost its lustre; the lips, whence pro- 
 ceeded the accents of love and kindness, are 
 now hushed and silenced for ever ; and the 
 mind, too, which was our light and our joy, 
 seems to have participated in the common 
 calamity, and to have sunk with the body 
 into the cold and silent grave. This is the 
 first, and it is most certainly a natural 
 impression. But if we look back upon the
 
 224 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 changes and shocks which the soul has 
 sustained in its connection with the body, 
 and with impunity too, perhaps we may 
 see some reason to correct the impression 
 we may have formed, that it will certainly 
 perish with the body. Take the foetal life, 
 for example, and compare it with infancy. 
 Here is a change, both in the mode and 
 means of existence, as great as any thing 
 can possibly be, and a change, the survival 
 of which, prior to experience, we should 
 have pronounced absolutely impossible. 
 The same may be said of the change 
 from infancy to youth, and from youth to 
 manhood and old age. The fact is a de- 
 monstrable one, that we have many times 
 over, during these different periods, parted 
 with every particle of our bodies, and are 
 physically totally different beings ; and yet 
 the fact is equally demonstrable, that, not- 
 withstanding these astonishing changes, 
 we ourselves, our thinking principle, our
 
 OF THE MIND. 225 
 
 personal identity, are still the same; for 
 we can go back to our earliest days, and 
 pronounce with confidence that we are the 
 same individual beings. Still more, we 
 may see in the animal kingdom instances of 
 a change so closely resembling death, that, 
 but for the experience we have had that it 
 is not so, we should unhesitatingly pro- 
 nounce it to be death, which yet is only 
 a change preparatory to a higher order of 
 existence. For example, we see the slimy 
 worm gradually losing its sensibility and 
 its power of motion, and wrap itself in its 
 winding-sheet, so cold, so inert, so void of 
 feeling, that a child would pronounce it 
 dead, and examine it closely as we may, 
 there is no evidence that it contains the 
 principle of life ; yet, from its chill and 
 narrow cell, the gilded butterfly bursts forth, 
 and wings its way to other scenes and 
 other modes of existence. Again, we not 
 unfrequently see, that, from the ravages 
 15
 
 226 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 of disease, from apoplexy, injury, and 
 fainting, as also in sleep, the mind, the 
 thinking principle within us, is for a time 
 as much removed from view as it is by 
 death, and is apparently annihilated; yet 
 we know that it was only veiled from 
 our notice, and could not develop itself at 
 the time through the organs of the body 
 with which it was connected. If so, if it 
 can be veiled from our view at all, without 
 involving its destruction, why may it not 
 be so for a longer period, as in death, and 
 still be continued in existence? We see 
 not. And why may we not suppose, that, 
 having survived these natural changes of 
 the body, which any one unacquainted with 
 the fact would have pronounced impos- 
 sible, and which were necessary to a higher 
 state of being, death itself is only a more 
 sudden change, equally introductory and 
 necessary to the further and higher devel- 
 opment of what has already survived so
 
 OF THE MIND. 227 
 
 much ? Or, to make the case stronger, if 
 we have survived the loss of our material 
 frames, which have been taken from us 
 particle by particle again and again, why 
 may we not part with them as naturally, 
 though suddenly, and still continue to 
 exist, as in the former instances, in some 
 higher state or order of being ? From what 
 has been said, we think that a fair conclu- 
 sion may be drawn in favor of the soul's 
 surviving the dissolution of the body, unless 
 it can be proved that death will be its cer- 
 tain destruction. Now, this cannot be 
 done ; for beyond what we call death we 
 cannot go, and consequently can argue no- 
 thing about the soul's future. It has been 
 conducted to this point against all probabi- 
 lity ; and why, we ask, shall it not continue 
 to be preserved through this also ? The ana- 
 logy of the past is certainly in its favor. 
 
 We have, moreover, in the circumstances 
 of death, however much at first view it may
 
 228 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 favor the utter annihilation of the soul, one 
 of the strongest arguments for its immor- 
 tality. It is this. Death is not the de- 
 struction even of our bodies; of all the 
 particles which compose them, not a single 
 one is lost or destroyed; they merely 
 undergo a chemical decomposition, are 
 separated, subjected to new laws and to 
 new modes of existence ; and, if so, shall 
 not the thinking principle continue to exist ? 
 If gross matter does not perish, must the 
 mind die? You would think but poorly 
 of the reasoning which would lead to such 
 a conclusion. We grant that the Deity 
 has power to annihilate the mind if he 
 pleases ; but, before arriving at such a con- 
 clusion, we ought to have potent reasons 
 for* believing, that, while he saves every 
 element of the body, he destroys the spirit 
 alone. 
 
 But it may be said, that, granting the 
 fact, as we must, that the particles of
 
 OF THE MIND. 
 
 the body are not destroyed, but are only 
 separated, still, if the mind be compounded 
 with our material frames, at the moment 
 of death, with the particles of the latter, 
 our intellectual faculties may be scattered 
 by the four winds of heaven; and what 
 better is this than annihilation ? I answer, 
 that even this would be better ; for, so long 
 as the particles of matter composing the 
 organization which was united with mind, 
 or (if this view is preferred) which was 
 productive of so great a result as mind, 
 are suffered to exist, I must be permitted 
 to hope and believe, that the mind, or this 
 glorious result of organization, will continue 
 to live also. The same power that made 
 could recombine them again. And we 
 have still greater reasons for believing thus, 
 which will be alluded to hereafter. But 
 this idea, that we are so compounded that 
 the particles of our bodies cannot be sepa- 
 rated at death, without involving the disso-
 
 230 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 lution also of our intellectual natures, pro- 
 ceeds, I think, from false views of the sub- 
 ject. The truth is, we cannot but believe 
 that the soul, whatever its specific nature 
 may be, is actually distinct, indivisible, and 
 separate from the body, although in its 
 present state closely united with it. And 
 this we infer from what we can learn of its 
 nature. Its phenomena, such as include 
 all the intellectual operations, as percep- 
 tion, memory, imagination, all our emo- 
 tions of grief, joy, and the like, are entirely 
 different from the phenomena or pro- 
 perties of matter, of which the body is 
 composed, such as extension, elasticity, 
 inertia, and some others; and seem to 
 belong to different essences. The mode, 
 too, by which we arrive at a knowledge of 
 them is as opposite as are their pheno- 
 mena. We cannot contemplate them 
 through the same faculty. One class is 
 made known to us internally, the other
 
 OF THE MIND. 231 
 
 externally ; the one by a consciousness or 
 feeling within, the other by our senses 
 from without. If, moreover, we attempt 
 to compare these two classes of phenomena 
 with each other, in order to determine 
 whether they are of the same kind, and 
 may probably belong to the same essence, 
 we cannot discover the slightest analogy 
 between them. On the contrary, there 
 results from the contemplation of one class 
 a notion which is quite irreconcilable with 
 that which results from the contemplation 
 of the other class. We cannot subject 
 corporeal matter and its attributes to our 
 examination, without conceiving it, as well 
 as the space which it occupies, to be in its 
 nature infinitely divisible, or capable of 
 separation and division without end. On 
 the other hand, we cannot contemplate the 
 phenomena of mind, or make the mental 
 operations of which we are conscious the 
 subject of our reflection, without being
 
 232 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 irresistibly convinced that they belong to 
 one being or thing, which is in itself abso- 
 lutely indivisible. Our perceptions, recol- 
 lections, thoughts, feelings, emotions of 
 sorrow and of joy, are all felt by us to 
 belong to a self-same being, which we can- 
 not, by the utmost effort of the imagination, 
 fancy to be divided into parts or separated. 
 We feel and know it to be a single, indi- 
 visible being. We infer, also, the distinct- 
 ness of the soul, from attending to some of 
 its operations. If it be not distinct, it has 
 been asked, " How can we account for that 
 power of abstracting itself in deep medita- 
 tion ; of being, as it were, absent from the 
 body, unmoved by the cravings of its appe- 
 tites, and insensible to all external impres- 
 sions ; " that power which it possesses of 
 controlling, by the fiat of its will, the mo- 
 tion of every muscle and of every nerve ; 
 " of combining and arranging its ideas, and 
 of even correcting and overruling the evi-
 
 OF THE MIND. 233 
 
 dences that are brought to it from the 
 senses, and of not unfrequently substituting 
 conclusions of its own of an entirely oppo- 
 site character ? What shall we say of the 
 power it has of forming thoughts which 
 are purely spiritual and intellectual ; of the 
 vigor and brightness it sometimes exhibits 
 in the hour of death, when the frame which 
 encompasses it is tottering, and crumbling 
 to dust ; of its activity and invention, and 
 fertility of fancy and imagination, when 
 the world is shut out, and the senses are 
 fast locked in sleep ? " Surely, we cannot 
 account for these wonderful operations of 
 mind, without supposing it to be in its 
 nature very different from the body. 
 
 We know, also, from our own conscious- 
 ness, that the mind is distinct and indivisi- 
 ble ; for we know that consciousness is one, 
 and hence that the substance, whatever it 
 may be, in which it resides, must be one 
 also. If this substance be not one, then jt
 
 234 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 is capable of division, and, if capable of 
 division at al^, it is infinitely so; for we 
 cannot conceive of any thing, however 
 small it may be, and however much it may 
 have been divided, that is not suscepti- 
 ble of being divided again. Is it not so ? 
 Conceive, then, of the smallest substance 
 you can, of a substance which must be a 
 million times magnified before you can 
 discern it; now think of it, if you can, 
 without having any extension ; think of it, 
 if you can, without having a top and a 
 bottom, a right-hand side and a left. You 
 cannot ; and, if not, it may be divided, and 
 again, and the process may be carried on 
 ad infinitum. This capability of division 
 may be affirmed of all matter, conse- 
 quently of any part of the body, or of the 
 brain, which we consider as the chosen 
 residence of the mind. There is no such 
 thing as unity, I mean indivisible unity, 
 which can be ascribed to any of them.
 
 OF THE MIND. 235 
 
 Now, if the mind be but a part of the 
 body or of the brain, under particular orga- 
 nization, with the particles which compose 
 it the mind must be divisible also, and 
 consequently may share their fate at death, 
 whatever it may be. Try the mind, then, 
 by this law of divisibility belonging to all 
 matter, and see if it applies. Take again 
 the power of consciousness, the conscious- 
 ness of our existence, for example : can we 
 conceive of its being separated, so that a 
 part shall be here and a part there ? No. 
 If not, if we cannot divide the power of 
 consciousness, still less can we divide the 
 substance in which it resides, the conscious 
 being. The ME is confessedly a permanent 
 being. Every individual feels and acts as 
 if he were one and identical, and as such 
 he is invariably considered by others, not- 
 withstanding the admitted fact, that the 
 material components of his body are sub- 
 ject to perpetual mutation ; for over this
 
 236 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 ceaseless cycle of change presides that 
 power which controls and governs at its 
 will. Take, again, some of the emotions 
 of the mind, as joy and sorrow: if they 
 belong not strictly to a substance which is 
 indivisible, and distinct from the brain, 
 then, the brain having, for instance, ten 
 thousand particles, we must have a sor- 
 row or a joy composed of ten thousand lit- 
 tle joys or sorrows ; for an aggregate, or the 
 brain as a whole, cannot possess in kind 
 what does not appertain to the particles of 
 which it is composed. Now, can you con- 
 ceive of ten thousand little joys or sorrows 
 composing a whole one? Can you con- 
 ceive of half a joy, or half a sorrow, or of 
 one which has a top and a bottom? If 
 not, -our joys and our sorrows, having no 
 properties in common with the particles of 
 the brain, must be distinct in their kind; 
 and consequently the substance, or the 
 mind in which they reside, must be distinct
 
 OF THE MIND. 237 
 
 also. Again, there is no such oneness in 
 matter as can be ascribed to a thought, 
 for example. What we call a whole, 
 as the brain for instance, having an ag- 
 gregate of particles, possesses no unity 
 about it, for it can still be divided ; and, if 
 thought be matter, ten thousand little 
 thoughts can no more produce one thought 
 than the same number of particles of mat- 
 ter can compose one single indivisible sub- 
 stance. If thought be a compound of matter, 
 like the brain, then it is composed of an in- 
 finitely divisible number of thoughts, as is 
 this organ of an infinitely divisible number 
 of particles. It follows, if this distinction 
 between mind and matter be well-founded, 
 as I believe it is, that our bodies are, strictly 
 speaking, no parts of ourselves (I mean of 
 course of our minds) any more than any 
 foreign matter is, certainly not more than 
 those particles of matter which we had 
 with us some seven years since, and in as
 
 238 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 close a^connection as those we have now, 
 but which may have been served up to us in 
 the form of a vegetable, or have become a 
 component part of the roof which gives us 
 its shelter, or may again enter into the for- 
 mation of our frames. And it is as easy to 
 conceive that we may exist out of our bodies 
 as in them ; or, certainly, as to conceive 
 that we shall exist at some future time in 
 bodies to which we have not now the slight- 
 est relation, as we certainly shall if we live 
 much longer. And we have almost as 
 much reason to believe that we shall sur- 
 vive the sudden fall of our present bodies, 
 as that we have survived the old ones, 
 which some of us have repeatedly cast 
 off. 
 
 It- is true, the connection between our 
 bodies and our minds is intimate and es- 
 sential while we stay here upon the earth. 
 The body, and ^he organs of the mind, are 
 given us for our convenience, and are the
 
 OF THE MIND. 239 
 
 necessary media by which we communi- 
 cate with earth, and by which the various 
 faculties of the mind manifest them- 
 selves. When it shall be time for us to 
 go hence, these instruments, having served 
 their purpose, and having become incum- 
 brances perhaps to our entrance upon that 
 state where intellect and mind are alone to 
 be found, like fetters shall be struck off, and 
 the mind escape unhurt " amid the war of 
 elements, the wreck of matter, and the 
 crush of worlds." But I have no sympathy 
 with those who consider this material frame 
 as worthless or vile. I may be allowed 
 (excuse the personality) to consider it as a 
 vehicle, curiously wrought to be sure, for 
 it was made by a wise and almighty Archi- 
 tect, in which I am to embark on some 
 short or long and distant journey, and fur- 
 nished with every thing valuable for the 
 comfort and intellectual -and moral im- 
 provement of so precious a personage. It
 
 240 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 is provided with all necessary machinery, 
 to repair the wear and tear, and the disas- 
 ters it may meet with, and to overcome the 
 hindrances it may encounter on the road. It 
 is so constructed that I may move it in any 
 direction at my will. I may press on in 
 the narrow and direct way, which, though 
 rough at first, is smoothest at last; or I 
 may stray into forbidden paths, on account 
 of the gentle declivities they present, and 
 some treacherous flowers which may be 
 growing upon their borders, neglectful of 
 my duty, and forgetting the frightful steeps 
 I must climb to pay for my temerity. It is 
 fitted up, moreover, with the most delicate 
 instruments of every description, to assist 
 me in the culture of moral and intellectual 
 excellence, which something within tells me 
 is the great object of my journey, and the 
 only thing valuable in the home where I 
 hope to arrive, when I shall step out of the 
 vehicle which has borne me along. These
 
 OF THE MIND. 
 
 instruments, in proportion to their delicacy 
 and magnitude, will be in some degree the 
 measure of my power and responsibility. 
 I may use or abuse this frame, and shall be 
 proportionally happy or miserable when it 
 shall be broken and gone. I may be called 
 to leave it early or late ; it may break down 
 in the pride of its glory, and fresh as it came 
 from the hands of its Maker, or when, shat- 
 tered by time and shorn of its lustre, it is 
 scarcely able to sustain itself. This home 
 of which I speak may be conjectural, in- 
 deed; yet I cannot but hope to find it 
 at last, more especially as the frail tene- 
 ment I now occupy, though ruined for 
 me, will still continue to exist, and its 
 materials will be worked over again for 
 the accomplishment of some worthy end, it 
 may be, for the conveyance of another like 
 myself. From this figure (if figure it may 
 be called) may be gathered what I under- 
 stand to be the distinction between matter 
 
 16
 
 242 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 and mind, as also their connection and rela- 
 tive importance. 
 
 " What am I, whence produced, and for -what end ? 
 Whence drew I being, to what period tend ? 
 Am I the abandoned orphan of wild chance, 
 Dropped by wild atoms in disordered dance ? 
 Or from an endless chain of causes wrought, 
 And of unthinking substance, born with thought ? 
 Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood, 
 A branching channel with a mazy flood ? 
 The purple stream, that through my vessels glides, 
 Dull and unconscious flows, like common tides ; 
 The pipes, through which the circling juices stray, 
 Are not that thinking I, no more than they. 
 This frame, compacted with transcendent skill, 
 Of moving -joints, obedient to my will, 
 Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree, 
 Waxes and wastes, I call it mine, not me. 
 New matter still the mouldering mass sustains ; 
 The mansion changed, the tenant still remains ; 
 And from the fleeting stream, repaired by food, 
 Distinct as is the swimmer from the flood." 
 
 Again, it may be objected, that the mind, 
 although not strictly speaking matter itself, 
 or a component part of the brain, still
 
 OF THE MIND. 
 
 243 
 
 may be the result of the whole, under par- 
 ticular circumstances of organization: as, 
 for instance, in the chemical mixture of two 
 bodies, the result, or the third substance 
 produced, is totally different from the two of 
 which it was composed ; as pieces of ma- 
 chinery display mechanical powers, which 
 could not have been looked for in their 
 parts when separate ; or, still more, as 
 electricity or galvanism is a result, a pro- 
 perty, which nobody could discover in single 
 jars of glass or plates of metal. If such 
 results as these can be produced from com- 
 binations of matter, why may not thought 
 also be merely a result of organized brain ? 
 This is a denial of the proposition we have 
 advanced, that, in all combinations of mate- 
 rial parts, the properties of the whole or the 
 aggregate cannot be different in kind from 
 those of its parts ; or, if we take away the 
 properties of the parts, we take away the 
 properties of the whole or aggregate. Now,
 
 244 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 as to this idea of mind's being merely a 
 result, we say that figure, magnitude, and 
 motion (in which last are included attrac- 
 tion arid repulsion) are the universal powers 
 and properties of material particles, and 
 from the combinations of material particles 
 nothing has ever been known to result but 
 some modification of figure, magnitude, 
 and motion. It is, therefore, directly in op- 
 position to the results of universal experi- 
 ence to suppose, that a combination of 
 material particles can give rise to the pheno- 
 mena, or constitute the operations peculiar 
 to mind, or those feelings of which we are 
 internally conscious. The contractions and 
 lengthenings of cords or fibres, and the 
 movement of fluid particles, must ever be 
 sorrfething different in kind from the emo- 
 tions of pleasure and pain, hope and fear. 
 Besides, as we have before suggested, there 
 is no such thing as a unity of result from 
 what is called a material whole, because
 
 OF THE MIND. 245 
 
 there is no such thing as a material whole 
 in the strict sense of the term ; there is no 
 unity about it; we cannot think of any 
 collection of particles so congregated that 
 it cannot be divided, and if divided at 
 all, it may be so ad infinitum. If this be 
 true, and it cannot be disputed, there can 
 be no such thing as a unity of result from 
 a material whole, such as the brain is. It 
 must be an infinity of results corresponding 
 with the infinity of particles of which the 
 latter is composed ; and, if such be the re- 
 sult which is called mind, then it is com- 
 pounded of an infinity of little results, 
 which is infinite nonsense ; because then it 
 would partake pf the common properties 
 of matter, such as divisibility, hardness, 
 softness, and the like. 
 
 In regard to the examples above-men- 
 tioned, of results being different from the 
 materials from which they are elicited, we 
 answer that they are fallacious. In chemi-
 
 246 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 cal compounds, all the properties of the 
 agents employed themselves into modi- 
 fications of one property, viz. that of 
 chemical affinity, or the elective attraction 
 of particles of various kinds for each other. 
 This one property, from which all the ope- 
 rations of chemistry result, is modified, and, 
 with respect to particular substances, in- 
 creased or diminished by chemical compo- 
 sition; but still nothing new in kind is 
 acquired by any chemical combination 
 whatever. In like manner, the mechanical 
 powers, which are the results of machinery 
 or construction, may be explained, without 
 proving that any power new in kind has 
 been generated. In regard to electricity 
 and galvanism, we have the most striking 
 results from the combination of glass jars 
 and metallic plates, something for which 
 we could not have looked in any of them 
 singly ; and here we might suppose, that the 
 result is different in kind from what any of
 
 OF THE MIND. 247 
 
 the component parts of the machine pos- 
 sessed before. But it is not so ; a new agent 
 has not been called into existence ; a new 
 agent has only been called into operation, 
 but nothing different from what was there 
 before. The electric or galvanic fluid be- 
 longed, in a latent state, to every particle 
 of the glass and the metal, and was only 
 called into operation by new combinations : 
 no new agent, or result, was generated. 
 So true is it, and we may state it as a 
 universal fact, that the properties possessed 
 by any aggregates whatever of material 
 bodies are not different in kind from the 
 properties of the parts from which such 
 aggregates were compounded, but are re- 
 solvable into them. The human brain, 
 then, which, in a certain way, is instru- 
 mental in the operations of the mind, and 
 in fact contains the organs by which the 
 various faculties of the mind manifest 
 themselves, can onlv be considered as a
 
 248 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 collection of instruments, an auxiliary as- 
 sisting the mind in the performance of its 
 functions, as a crutch or a pair of specta- 
 cles assists a man in walking or seeing; 
 and as, in the latter case, our powers of 
 walking or seeing will be proportioned to 
 the goodness of the instruments, so will the 
 faculties of our minds manifest themselves 
 more or less brilliantly as these organs of 
 the brain, which is its instrument, are more 
 or less delicate or fully developed. But 
 still it is inferior, and but an instrument. 
 Being composed wholly of insentient and 
 inert particles of matter, which are infi- 
 nitely divisible, it cannot produce, as a re- 
 sult, mind or the phenomena of mind, such 
 as thought, feeling, and volition ; because 
 thes'e phenomena are entirely peculiar and 
 distinct in kind, and because powers or 
 qualities so diverse from those of the com- 
 ponent parts are never, within the sphere 
 of human experience, found to be produced
 
 OF THE MIND. 249 
 
 by any combinations whatever. So much 
 for mind's being the mere result of orga- 
 nized matter. 
 
 But it may be further stated, as an objec- 
 tion to this distinction between matter and 
 mind, that it cannot be so great as we 
 imagine, since the mind is essentially influ- 
 enced by the accidents and diseases incident 
 to the body, that certainly the powers 
 which are not unfrequently weakened by 
 sickness, and obliterated by injury and 
 disease, must be dependent on the body for 
 their existence, and perish with it in its fall. 
 There seems to be proved an indissoluble 
 connection between them. If this were 
 universally the case, I confess that there 
 would be great weight in the argument; 
 but, even then, it would not be conclusive. 
 The truth is, however, that this effect of 
 disease upon the mind is much less fre- 
 quent than the reverse. How frequently 
 do we stand by the dying bed, and look
 
 250 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 upon the body which the fires of a fever 
 have almost consumed, reduced to the last 
 degree of weakness and emaciation, so 
 disfigured, so sadly changed, that, but for 
 the intellect and the affections which are 
 glowing within, we should hardly recognize 
 its possessor, the soul regarding with 
 a holy calmness the ruin of the outward 
 frame, enduring with a fortitude which no 
 tortures can shake, and exercising an un- 
 broken intellect amid the wreck of a dying 
 body! Nay, more, in cases (and surely 
 my observation has not been limited) where 
 the mind had become so shattered and torn 
 and maddened by the fury of disease as to 
 render it almost incredible that it should 
 ever be roused again from its delirium, I 
 have seen it in such instances, and not 
 rarely, suddenly burst forth, and gleam with 
 more than its original lustre, as if it would 
 leave an argument behind, that, in the 
 obscuration it had suffered, it had not been
 
 OF THE MIND. 
 
 251 
 
 shorn of its glory, and a pledge that it 
 would continue to brighten, even after 
 it should have passed beneath the black 
 cloud which was about to envelop it in its 
 bosom. Now, if we could produce but one 
 such instance, it would prove that the 
 mind and the body are not so essentially 
 connected as that they must necessarily 
 perish together. If we can produce more, 
 as we can by far the greatest majority, 
 does it not prove that there is no necessary, 
 no natural connection at all ; that the body 
 is a receptacle fitted for the mind, which has 
 the brain, to establish its communication 
 with earth for a time, and is furnished with 
 instruments and organs, behind which it 
 may stand, if I may be allowed the expres- 
 sion, to take its observations, to communi- 
 cate the result of its researches, and make 
 known its- feelings to others? These in- 
 struments and organs are necessary to the 
 proper development of itself to the world
 
 252 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 and to other similar beings. I have said 
 that the brain seems to be a collection of 
 instruments and organs, by which alone 
 the mind can develop itself. As they 
 are weakened or deranged or broken, pro- 
 portionally so will become the develop- 
 ments of the mind ; if they are merely 
 weakened, its exhibitions will be those of 
 imbecility ; if deranged, those of wildness 
 and delirium ; if broken, we shall see it no 
 more. But, in this derangement of the 
 instruments of its brain, the mind, though 
 affected by them for the time, be it remem- 
 bered, has lost nothing of its power, as is 
 frequently shown by its perfect recovery 
 from delirium and from apoplexy, and more 
 especially in the cases I have mentioned, 
 in 'which the mind, after having been 
 eclipsed for a long time by disease, upon a 
 momentary alleviation becomes suddenly 
 illuminated, shedding its light even upon 
 the borders of the grave. Or take more
 
 OF THE MIND. 
 
 familiar and more simple instances, as 
 of the sight impaired by an imperfect for- 
 mation or an injury of the eye ; the defect 
 is in the instrument, and not in the power ; 
 repair it, as you can by a glass, and you 
 will find the power as good as before; 
 pluck it out, the power remains the same, 
 and, could it be replaced, we could so 
 prove it. Take off the leg: we cannot 
 walk ; but the power remains ; it is only 
 the instrument which is lost; replace it, or 
 give it the substitute of a wooden one, and 
 we can walk, not so well to be sure, 
 but only because we have not so good an 
 instrument. I might go on in this way to 
 prove that the power is distinct from the 
 instruments of the body, and consequently 
 that the mind, in which this power resides, 
 is distinct also. And, having proved that 
 the disease or injury of some of the in- 
 struments of the body (and even of those 
 affecting some of the higher powers of the
 
 254 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 mind, as the memory, judgment, and in 
 cases of fever), and the destruction of 
 some others, detract nothing from the 
 mind or its powers, I have a right to infer 
 that it will still remain unimpaired when 
 they shall have been dissolved and taken 
 away; that is, that mind and body are 
 perfectly distinct. 
 
 Again, it may be argued, and with some 
 plausibility, that, as the mental powers 
 have never been found but in conjunction 
 with a certain organized system of matter, 
 we ought, as philosophers, to conclude that 
 these powers necessarily exist in and result 
 from that organized system, unless they 
 can be shown to be incompatible with 
 other known properties of the same sub- 
 stance (and we really think we have shown 
 this incompatibility) ; or, more simply, as 
 we never witness the phenomena of mind 
 except in connection with those of matter, 
 therefore the substance to which these two
 
 OF THE MIND. 255 
 
 classes belong is one and the same. Now, 
 we say that this proposition is not true. 
 The whole universe displays the most strik- 
 ing marks of the existence and operation of 
 mind or intellect, in a state separate from 
 organization, and under circumstances 
 which preclude all reference to organiza- 
 tion. The universal Mind, though every- 
 where present where matter exists, though 
 everywhere moving and arranging the 
 parts of matter, appears to do so without 
 being united with matter, as in the case of 
 visible created beings. There is, therefore, 
 at least one being or substance of that 
 nature which we call mind, separate and 
 distinct from organized matter. And, if the 
 phenomena of mind can be discovered in 
 one instance in a state absolutely separate 
 from organized matter, it is philosophical 
 to conclude, when we do find these pheno- 
 mena connected and organized with that 
 with which they have no property in com-
 
 256 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 mon, that the connection is owing to tem- 
 porary circumstances, and that it is not 
 natural and essential. 
 
 This connection of mind and matter, as 
 existing in the brain of man, is indeed 
 wonderful; but, mysterious as it is, it is 
 one, which, with a previous belief in the 
 existence of God as the great and universal 
 Spirit, we might have had good reasons, 
 even prior to experience, to have expected ; 
 for it is in close accordance with what we 
 witness in the other departments of God's 
 government. The whole analogy of nature 
 seems to confirm it. There is a connecting 
 medium leading from the lowest order of 
 matter quite up to the throne of God ; 
 there is no sudden break in the series ; 
 there is no violence in the transition from 
 one order of being to another; it is so 
 natural and gradual that we are at a loss 
 sometimes to distinguish their boundaries ; 
 every part is in a state of progression, and
 
 OF THE MIND. 257 
 
 striving at something more perfect than 
 itself; unfolding a beautiful scale of ascen- 
 sion, every division harmoniously playing 
 into every other division, and, with the 
 nicest adjustment, preparing for its further- 
 ance, 
 
 " All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; 
 The chain holds on, and where it ends unknown." 
 
 Between the mineral and vegetable king- 
 doms, for instance, we have substances 
 which seem to partake of the nature of 
 both ; so also between the vegetable and 
 animal, and through the higher orders of the 
 latter, where there is a machinery of mind, 
 as in the monkey and orang-outang tribe, 
 up to its more perfect development in man, 
 who himself seems the connecting medium 
 between matter and mind, between animal 
 and intellectual existences. And, viewing 
 this uniform gradation of being, was it not 
 natural to expect its continuance, so that, 
 17
 
 258 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 in the complex nature of man, the visible 
 should be connected with the invisible 
 world, the spiritual with the material, and 
 thus his alliance be made good with angels, 
 and, through them, with the universal Spi- 
 rit, and great Author of all ? We cannot 
 but think the analogy perfect and con- 
 clusive. 
 
 If it now be said, (abandoning the idea 
 that mind is matter, or merely a result,) that 
 the Creator, being omnipotent, could cer- 
 tainly endow material particles, in a state 
 of organization, with whatever powers it 
 pleased him to bestow, we answer, that, if 
 the powers bestowed upon any system of 
 parts were such as did not result from the 
 modification or composition of the powers 
 of the parts, the endowing such a system 
 with new powers or properties means, if it 
 means any thing, the adding of something 
 new in kind, some new thing, some new 
 entity, to which these powers belong. This
 
 OF THE MIND. 259 
 
 we will grant; and this we call mind. 
 What it is, we know not, nor can we know 
 here. We must . 
 
 " Wait the great teacher death, and God adore." 
 
 I have thus given you a few arguments 
 in favor of the immortality and immate- 
 riality of the mind. Time prevents my 
 enlarging. But one thing, on the subject 
 of immaterialism, in which I fully believe, 
 because it has greater weight of argument, 
 is encumbered with fewer difficulties, and 
 has less dangerous tendencies, than the 
 opposite theory, one thing, I say, have I 
 learnt, and that is modesty and toleration 
 towards an opponent. Against the philo- 
 sophical and conscientious materialist will 
 I never rise in judgment. We do wrong 
 in confounding atheism with materialism : 
 they are not essentially connected. A belief 
 in materialism is consistent with a firm 
 belief in the continued existence of the
 
 260 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 mind. The same Being that combined 
 them at first can and will recombine them 
 if it pleases him. Priestley was a mate- 
 rialist. Dr. Good, against whom the charge 
 of ultraism can never be brought, believed 
 the soul a certain refinement of matter, 
 in fact, was a transcendental materialist! 
 Hear, too, what Locke says : " All the diffi- 
 culties that are raised against the thinking 
 of matter, from our ignorant or narrow 
 conceptions, after all, stand not in the way 
 of the power of God, if he pleases to ordain 
 it so." Bishop Watson, too, the great de- 
 fender of revelation, says, " Believing as I 
 do in its truth, I am not disturbed at my 
 inability clearly to convince myself that 
 the mind is not a substance distinct from 
 the body." And many have been the con- 
 scientious materialists who have been the 
 noble defenders of Christianity, and of a 
 continued existence to the mind. 
 
 We come now to another class of argu-
 
 OF THE MIND. 261 
 
 ments, the moral proofs of the future exist- 
 ence of the soul. But, before going further, 
 it may be well to give a short summary of 
 the arguments which have been already 
 advanced. 
 
 The first was, that, although death 
 seems to be t the destruction of every 
 thing, a little reflection may teach us that 
 it need be nothing more than a change. 
 Proofs were given of the changes we 
 have already undergone, in parting with 
 our material frames over and over again ; 
 changes, which, prior to experience, we 
 should have pronounced beyond all ques- 
 tion fatal; and, having been conducted to 
 the point of death through all these changes, 
 and against probability, the inference was 
 drawn, that death may be nothing more 
 than a change, though a sudden one, 
 still natural ; and as the other changes we 
 have undergone have been succeeded by 
 higher states of existence for the mind,
 
 262 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 so may death be no less naturally the 
 introduction of it to a still higher order 
 of being. 
 
 2. The second was derived from the eco- 
 nomy of nature. Death is not destruc- 
 tion: even the elements of the body are 
 saved. It was asked, if gross matter is 
 not wasted and lost, can the mind, of 
 superior worth, die ? The Deity can anni- 
 hilate it; but will he destroy the soul, and 
 save nothing but the body ? 
 
 3. The third was an answer to the ob- 
 jection, that, if the mind and body are 
 strictly compounded, the former must be 
 separated and dissolved with the body at 
 death ; and that this could in no wise 
 differ from annihilation. My answer was, 
 that, if it need were, I could believe in 
 a material soul rather than in none; for, 
 while mere matter is saved, I cannot 
 believe that so great a result as the mind 
 will be lost. The power that combined
 
 OF THE MIND. 263 
 
 them at first can and will recombine 
 them again. I would here repeat, that 
 we do wrong in confounding atheism with 
 materialism: they are not essentially con- 
 nected. A belief in materialism is consis- 
 tent with a firm belief in the future exist- 
 ence of the soul. No better men or better 
 Christians than some materialists I might 
 name has the world ever produced. With 
 this admission, I endeavored to prove that 
 matter and mind are not so compounded, 
 because I believe this view to be more 
 consistent with truth, to be less encum- 
 bered with difficulties, arid to involve less 
 dangerous tendencies, than the other theo- 
 ry. My argument rested upon the infinite 
 divisibility of matter, and the total contra- 
 riety between the phenomena of mind and 
 of matter. If they were the same, our 
 minds, thoughts, sorrows, and joys could be 
 divided with the brain, and would partake 
 of its properties, so that we should have
 
 264 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 thoughts of all sizes and shapes, hard and 
 soft, round and square. But our conscious- 
 ness is single, and so are our different 
 emotions, consequently the mind in 
 which they reside is single and distinct 
 from the body; and, as it has changed 
 several times, so may it again. 
 
 4. To the objection that the mind, al- 
 though not strictly matter, may be a unique 
 result of matter under peculiar organiza- 
 tion, it was answered, that all experience 
 is against this; that nothing can result 
 from the combinations of matter, as an 
 aggregate or whole, which does not partake 
 of the properties of the particles of which 
 it is composed; that the properties of 
 mind are peculiar; and, moreover, that 
 there can be no such thing as a unity of 
 result, like mind, from what is called a ma- 
 terial whole ; because there is no such 
 thing in matter as unity, or an indivisible 
 whole.
 
 OF THE MIND. 265 
 
 5. The argument against the perfect 
 distinction of mind from matter, drawn 
 from its intimate connection with the body, 
 and the sympathy it manifests for the dis- 
 eases and accidents of the latter, so far from 
 being evidence against it, is even strongly 
 in its favor ; for disease and accident de- 
 tract nothing from the power of the mind, as 
 is seen in the destruction of some parts of 
 the body (which we considered as a collec- 
 tion of instruments for its use), and more 
 especially in the full development of mind 
 sometimes at the hour of death. 
 
 6. Against the objection of experience, 
 as it may be called, that, as we never wit- 
 ness mind but in connection with orga- 
 nized matter, it is philosophical to conclude 
 that they have no separate existence, we 
 brought forward one example at least, 
 the great universal Mind or Spirit; and 
 hence inferred, that the connection in 
 man ought to be considered rather as acci-
 
 266 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 dental and temporary than as necessary 
 and essential. 
 
 7. We said also that the analogy of 
 creation is in favor of this complex nature 
 of man, composed as he is of matter and 
 mind; that as there is a gradation through 
 all the works of nature, each class harmoni- 
 ously playing into the other, and each stri- 
 ving at something more perfect than itself, 
 it is natural, we have a right to expect, 
 there should be a being which should con- 
 nect mind with matter, the visible with the 
 invisible world, man with his God, and 
 this life with a future one. 
 
 8. And finally, if it be asserted that 
 God can certainly endow matter with any 
 powers he may please, it was said, If it 
 is truly meant that something is annexed 
 to matter, then we are agreed : let others 
 name it as they will, that something we 
 call. mind. 
 
 With all this presumptive proof that the
 
 OF THE MIND. 267 
 
 mind will survive the body at death (and 
 we think it very strong), we are willing to 
 admit, that he who made it can destroy it, 
 if he pleases. But we think it incumbent 
 on those who would oppose us to give 
 some good reasons why the great Creator, 
 after having preserved it through so many 
 violent trials and changes, should annihilate 
 it at death ; and more especially since he 
 saves every particle of the gross body, 
 which only served to enclose it and to con- 
 nect it with the earth. Let it be our duty 
 to offer some further arguments of a moral 
 character why he will not ; and on this, time 
 warns me to be brief. 
 
 In the first place, then, a belief in the 
 continued existence of the mind results 
 from its very nature, from its capacity, 
 its progress, and its connection with God. 
 We have said that gross divisible matter 
 is not destroyed. We cannot even con- 
 ceive of its annihilation ; much less, then,
 
 268 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 can we conceive of the annihilation of what 
 in its nature is single and indivisible like 
 mind. Thus much for its essence. In re- 
 gard to its capacity, when we contem- 
 plate the mind, with its wonderful powers 
 of memory, thought, and imagination, em- 
 ployed, not merely upon the objects that 
 are fleeting and temporary, but looking 
 back into all past time, and extending its 
 view into the far distant future ; occupying 
 itself in investigating subjects the most 
 abstruse, in fathoming the depths of sci- 
 ence, and perpetually tending and aspiring 
 towards the enjoyment of some more com- 
 plete improvement and felicity than this 
 world can afford; endowed with faculties, 
 which exalt it above every other created 
 being, which inspire it with a disposition 
 to the practice of justice and charity, and 
 of every other virtue, which prompt it to 
 the worship of a Supreme Being, and guide 
 it to the discovery that he who made the
 
 OP THE MIND. 269 
 
 earth and ocean, the starry firmament and 
 the everlasting sun, he is God ; when 
 we see it dissatisfied with the present, 
 bounding forward in endless progression 
 into a far distant future, and expatiating 
 even in imagination amidst the scenes of 
 an eternity to come, have we not an ex- 
 pectant assurance that it is formed for a 
 more glorious destiny than to perish for 
 ever in the grave ? Else why this feverish 
 hope, this love of fame, this restless acti- 
 vity, this longing after immortality ? Is 
 the advancement of which the mind is 
 capable in knowledge, virtue, and happi- 
 ness, to be employed as an argument for its 
 destruction ? And will it be destroyed at 
 the moment when it shows the greatest 
 capacity for yet farther improvement, lest 
 it should become still more excellent and 
 happy? Surely we cannot ascribe such 
 motives to Deity : rather let us believe, that 
 the improvement and happiness of what
 
 270 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 he has cherished so fondly, and provided 
 for so bountifully, he will continue to sus- 
 tain in endless existence. 
 
 We argue also the reality of a future 
 , life of the soul, because it is this alone 
 which will explain the mysteries of the pre- 
 sent state. It is a maxim of philosophy 
 to adopt that as truth, even though it 
 should not come within the evidence of 
 the senses, which will satisfactorily explain 
 what would be entirely inexplicable with- 
 out it. We act upon this principle in life. 
 When Sir Isaac Newton discovered the 
 universal law of gravitation, it gained 
 credence, not from any particular know- 
 ledge he gave of its essence, or of its mode 
 of operation, for he knew nothing about it, 
 but because it solved so perfectly what be- 
 fore appeared to be wild confusion in the 
 material universe, world following world, 
 and matter swinging in air, without any 
 apparent power to support it. So is also
 
 OF THE MIND. 271 
 
 the reality of a future life the only theory 
 which will solve the problem of the appa- 
 rent moral disorders of this. We may 
 know nothing of its mode, or where it ftill 
 be, by the terms of our argument we are 
 not bound to know about it, yet, if 
 it will serve to unlock the mysteries and 
 apparent disorders of our present life, we 
 feel bound to admit the probability of its 
 realization. Now, apply the principle, 
 examine the state of the moral world 
 without it. I admit a vastly greater pro- 
 portion of happiness than misery, for it 
 would be a dreadful school if it were not so ; 
 but, mingled with it, you see much sorrow 
 and much misery, meted out in unequal, 
 and, it would seem, in very unjust pro- 
 portions. You see the bounties of Pro- 
 vidence scattered about, as it were, by a 
 capricious hand, the virtuous suffering in 
 poverty, and the vicious rolling in wealth : 
 here, the orphan famishing for sustenance ;
 
 272 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 and there, old age mourning in solitude 
 and desolation : here, hypocrisy success- 
 fully practising its wiles ; and there, inno- 
 cence and merit writhing under the lash of 
 calumny and slander, man the prey of 
 man, the victim of every species of tyranny 
 and oppression. Enough we see, could we 
 look no farther, to arraign the justice, and 
 even the, goodness, of our Maker. A future 
 life is the key to unravel the mystery : the 
 mists disperse, and the darkness flees away. 
 In this world we see but the commence- 
 ment of our existence ; a disciplinary school, 
 preparatory to another and a better, where 
 all inequality shall be remedied, and strict, 
 impartial justice rendered; where, in the 
 development of eternity, the evils which we 
 so much dreaded here shall be proved to 
 have been but blessings in disguise. 
 
 Finally, we argue the continued existence 
 of the mind, from its being a natural senti- 
 ment of the human heart. The belief of a
 
 OF THE MIND. 273 
 
 future life is not founded upon the thin- 
 spun speculations of some abstract philo- 
 sophers. Philosophy, alas! with a few 
 honorable exceptions, has but too often lent 
 its aid, by its subtleties and refinements, to 
 controvert the plainest truths, to check the 
 voice of unsophisticated reason, and to ob- 
 scure the light which God, in his works, in 
 his providence, and in his moral govern- 
 ment, has shed upon this most noble and ex- 
 alting of truths. Cicero, however, made this 
 universality of sentiment a principal proof 
 of the immortality of the soul ; and, in the 
 last hour of his life, Socrates triumphed in 
 the persuasion of its truth. When the vene- 
 rable sage, in his seventieth year, took the 
 poisoned cup to which he had been con- 
 demned by an ungrateful country, he alone 
 stood unmoved, while his friends were 
 weeping around him. He upbraided their 
 cowardice, and entreated them to exercise 
 a manliness worthy of the patrons of virtue. 
 
 18
 
 274 THE IMMORTALITY 
 
 " It would indeed," said he } " be inexcusable 
 in me to despise death, if I were not per- 
 suaded that it will conduct me into the 
 presence of the gods, the righteous govern- 
 ors of the universe, and into the society of 
 just and good men ; but I draw confidence 
 from the hope, that something of man re- 
 mains after death, and that the state of the 
 good will be much better than that of 
 the bad." He drank the deadly cup, and 
 shortly afterwards expired. " A story," says 
 Cicero, " which I never read without tears." 
 It is this belief which has given to man, in 
 all ages and times, his desire for reputa- 
 tion and fame after he shall have been 
 gathered to his fathers. It is this which 
 presses upon the guilty conscience in the 
 ho'ur of death, and makes man dread what 
 is to follow him beyond the grave. It 
 is this belief, written by the finger of God 
 upon the heart, which we find in almost all 
 nations of the globe, shadowed, it may be,
 
 OF THE MIND. 275 
 
 and mingled with error, fable, and supersti- 
 tion, but still essentially the same, a 
 belief in an existence beyond the grave, 
 whether it be the elysium of the heathen, 
 the paradise of the Mussulman, or the fair 
 fields and green mountains of the more 
 simple and uncultivated. 
 
 " Lo ! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind 
 Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind : 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk or milky way ; 
 Yet simpler nature to his hope has given, 
 Beyond the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced ; 
 Some happier island in the watery waste, 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold."
 
 276 
 
 SPEECH AT A MEETING OF THE PORTSMOUTH 
 UNITARIAN ASSOCIATION. 
 
 BEFORE the vote on the acceptance of the 
 report is taken, allow me, sir, to say a few 
 words upon the peculiar character and 
 excellencies of the religious system which 
 it is the object of this Association, through 
 its tracts, to diffuse. And the first of its 
 peculiar features which I shall notice is, 
 that it is perfectly simple and intelligible. 
 In opposition to a faith full of mystery, of 
 superstition, and of contradiction ; in its 
 principles derogatory to the character of 
 God, investing him with the attributes 
 of an unmerciful despot, rather than those 
 of a kind, a universal, and a benevolent 
 Parent; a faith bewildering and debasing, 
 and, in some degree, fatal to the best inte- 
 rests of man as a moral and accountable
 
 UNITARIAN CHRISTIANITY. 277 
 
 being ; which throws a gloom over the fair 
 face of nature, and undervalues the works 
 and bounties of providence; which tends, 
 moreover, to break down the ties of 
 confidence, of affection, and of sympathy, 
 that bind man to man, and wed us to 
 our family altars, by teaching us to regard 
 one another, our parents, our friends, our 
 children, as monsters of iniquity by nature, 
 incapable of a single virtuous action, or 
 of imbibing a single virtuous sentiment, 
 cast off, and reserved for the day of indig- 
 nation and wrath, unless plucked as brands 
 from the burning; which cripples the mind, 
 and renders the services of religion the 
 offerings of a slavish fear, rather than 
 the aspirations of a holy devotion, and 
 man the degraded subject of indignation 
 and wrath, rather than of divine compla- 
 cency and love, I say, in opposition to a 
 faith like this, we have espoused one, which, 
 from its simplicity and ease of comprehen-
 
 278 THE EXCELLENCIES OF 
 
 sion, is better calculated to diffuse the 
 principles of Christianity, to aid the pre- 
 valence of an enlarged, enlightened, and 
 exalted piety, and to make man feel pro- 
 foundly its promises and threatenings ; 
 which vindicates and exalts the character 
 of God, as a most tender and compassionate 
 Father, and appeals most powerfully to the 
 noble and ingenuous principles of love, 
 gratitude, and veneration in his creatures ; 
 a faith which expands the mind with the 
 most noble views, and animates it with 
 consoling hopes under every trial. And, 
 believing and feeling, as we ought, its 
 sacred truths, we are, of all men, the most 
 inexcusable, if, with heart and hand, we 
 put not forth our best efforts to promote 
 and extend them. It is a principle with 
 us, that religion, to be useful, must be sim- 
 ple, and perfectly intelligible to all ; it is a 
 fundamental axiom with us, that all re- 
 vealed truths are in conformity with the
 
 UNITARIAN CHRISTIANITY. 279 
 
 principles of right reason, and consistent 
 with one another, and that it is impossible 
 they should be either irrational or contra- 
 dictory to one another. Hence, our faith 
 is founded upon the plain and obvious 
 meaning of Scripture, and is divested of 
 what we consider the corruptions, dogmas, 
 and superstitions, which the inventions of 
 men, and ages of darkness, have heaped 
 around it. We believe in no mysterious 
 revelations, in no creeds or confessions of 
 faith, other than are found in the simplicity 
 of the gospel. The Bible, and not the 
 artificial exactions of human invention, 
 the Bible alone, we hold to be our formu- 
 lary, our creed, our Westminster Catechism, 
 to be read and understood by the aid of the 
 reason which God has given us, and whose 
 highest office it is to search and investigate 
 his revealed will. By the right use of rea- 
 son in reading, and taking the tenor and 
 the natural import of the Scriptures, and
 
 280 THE EXCELLENCIES OF 
 
 explaining what is dark and mysterious by 
 what is simple and plain, we have gathered 
 from them, we trust, a purer faith and a 
 more perfect rule of life. Hence we believe 
 not in the Trinity, because it contradicts 
 the fair and liberal construction of ninety- 
 nine parts in a hundred of the Scriptures ; 
 because the word itself is nowhere to be 
 found, and, at most, is but an inference from 
 here and there some obscure passages, and 
 that, too, by calling forth the most subtle 
 and metaphysical deductions of that very 
 reason, the use of which its advocates so 
 much decry in the explanation of divine 
 truth. So, also, we reject the doctrine of 
 total depravity, as being in contradiction to 
 what we know of ourselves and of the mer- 
 ciful attributes of the Deity, and as nowhere 
 explicitly revealed ; and of the atonement, 
 as commonly defined, as abhorrent to every 
 principle of justice and mercy, in making 
 the innocent suffer for the guilty, and ab-
 
 UNITARIAN CHRISTIANITY. 281 
 
 solving us from personal responsibility. 
 Thus, also, we reject the doctrines of elec- 
 tion, of final perseverance, of irresistible 
 grace, and so on of all the doctrines of Cal- 
 vinism, to the end of the chapter. 
 
 Indeed, we believe all the doctrines of 
 Christianity essential to salvation to be ex- 
 tremely simple ; so plain that he who runs 
 may read ; that the wayfaring man, though 
 a fool, cannot err therein ; and admirably 
 comprised in the language of Scripture, 
 in faith in God, and in the Lord Jesus 
 Christ as an all-sufficient Saviour. Not 
 but that there are abstruse passages of dif- 
 ficult solution, and some even beyond our 
 comprehension. These, however, if they 
 cannot be explained by what is obvious and 
 clear, we leave, as of no practical impor- 
 tance, and to be revealed at the great day, 
 when we shall see as we are seen, and 
 know as we are known. 
 
 But, while we believe in one Supreme
 
 282 THE EXCELLENCIES OF 
 
 God alone, we reject not the Saviour, as 
 we have been unjustly accused. We reject 
 not the divinity of his mission. We con- 
 sider all his commands as coming from 
 God, and receive his promises and threat- 
 enings as if spoken by Jehovah himself. 
 And, while we rely on his death, in a 
 moral point of view, as a necessary part of 
 the glorious and merciful plan to effect our 
 deliverance, we ascribe also, in opposition 
 to others, a like efficacy to all parts of his 
 eventful life and character, as his example, 
 death, resurrection, and his mediatorial 
 office at the right hand of God. In reject- 
 ing, too, the doctrines of election as un- 
 merciful, depravity as cruel, and the final 
 condemnation of all, unless plucked by an 
 irresistible decree as brands from the burn- 
 ing, as unscriptural, and subversive of ac- 
 countability, we reject not, as has been 
 unjustly said of us, the doctrine of a future 
 and righteous retribution, believing, as
 
 UNITARIAN CHRISTIANITY. 283 
 
 much as do our opponents, that the way of 
 the transgressor is hard, and that without 
 holiness no man shall see the Lord. 
 
 It is obvious, then, from what has been 
 said, that our religion is a religion of the 
 heart rather than of the head, a religion of 
 practice rather than of speculation. 
 
 Another feature of the principles of the 
 system we profess to believe is the bene- 
 volent and charitable spirit it breathes. In 
 opposition to that exclusive system of faith 
 which consigns over to final condemnation 
 and ruin all who differ from its doctrines, 
 and cannot subscribe to its particular for- 
 mularies of belief, it inculcates charity and 
 good-will to all, of every sect and name, 
 however widely they differ in dogmas, pro- 
 vided they exhibit the spirit of their Mas- 
 ter, and manifest in their characters that 
 they have drunk of the waters of life. 
 
 Still another feature of our faith is its 
 higher moral tendency, and its superior
 
 284 THE EXCELLENCIES OF 
 
 adaptation to diffuse the grand principles 
 of Christianity. We must be aware, that, 
 on this point, our opponents have assailed 
 us with the utmost virulence and bitter- 
 ness, as if our faith were opposed to every 
 principle of Christianity, and our best deeds 
 but filthy rags. Good done by an Unita- 
 rian is no longer good, and his virtues but 
 shining sins. To this, however, we oppose 
 the purity of their faith, and the practice of 
 their lives, asking them to confute the 
 one by candid and scriptural arguments, 
 and to discredit the other by instituting any 
 comparisons they may please. Not that 
 we would arrogate to ourselves a high and 
 exalted virtue, or place our feeble piety 
 above that of our neighbors ; for, after all, 
 we must acknowledge ourselves but unpro- 
 fitable servants and sinners in the sight of 
 God. But let them compare church with 
 church, city with city, where these opposite 
 beliefs prevail, and we fear not the result
 
 UNITARIAN CHRISTIANITY. 285 
 
 of the investigation. We point to a neigh- 
 boring city and to New England, where 
 liberal principles were first planted in our 
 country, and where they have grown and 
 flourished to an almost incredible extent 
 within the last twenty years, and then to 
 the orthodox cities of the South and the 
 orthodox countries of Europe, and ask 
 where will you find most sobriety and 
 good order and morality, most of the bene- 
 volent virtues, most attention to the sab- 
 bath, and the institutions of religion ; in a 
 word, we fearlessly ask, where will you 
 find the most piety? We fear not the 
 result of such an inquiry. If piety and 
 religion are not to be found in New Eng- 
 land, they do not exist in the world ; yes, 
 in New England, the centre, too, of liberal 
 Christianity. That our faith is better 
 adapted to diffuse the grand principles of 
 Christianity, I cannot doubt. The time is 
 coming, if it has not already come, when
 
 286 EXCELLENCIES OP UNITARIANISM. 
 
 men will have a simple and intelligible 
 religion, or no religion at all. The popular 
 creeds have so little to enlighten the under- 
 standing and to engage the affections, that 
 some have turned from them with disgust, 
 and have sunk into downright skepticism. 
 They suppose that the advocates of Chris- 
 tianity will at least report it fairly, and there 
 is so much of absurdity on the face of this 
 report that they reject it at once ; they come 
 very naturally to the conclusion, that God 
 would never reveal to men doctrines which 
 no human powers could comprehend ; and 
 thus they set aside the whole as a delusion, 
 and seek only for arguments to disprove a 
 deception which they think is practised 
 upon the world. Yes, I could point you 
 to more than one man, who, from the 
 absurdities and false notions which have 
 been pressed upon them by the leaders in 
 religion, have sunk into the cold regions of 
 infidelity.
 
 287 
 
 SPEECH AT A MEETING IN BEHALF OF THE 
 
 ESTABLISHMENT OF A STATE LUNATIC 
 
 ASYLUM. 
 
 MR. CHAIRMAN, I am happy to have an 
 opportunity, in common with others, to raise 
 my voice, and to lend my influence, hum- 
 ble as it may be, to the promotion of the 
 object which has called together, on this 
 occasion, so many of the benevolently dis- 
 posed of our State. And after the eloquent 
 and pathetic recitals we have had from 
 the lips of gentlemen this evening, whose 
 heart does not almost bleed, and whose 
 sympathies are not deeply moved and 
 strongly enlisted in favor of the wretehed 
 maniac, whose misfortune it is to have a 
 mind in ruins, his godlike faculties levelled 
 with the dust, and reduced by the withering 
 influence of this awful visitation to a level
 
 288 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 with the beasts of the field, on whom the 
 bright beams of reason never dawned ; 
 nay, to a more forlorn condition than the 
 beasts of the field, consigned to chains 
 and dungeons, not unfrequently parcelled 
 out, and subjected to the care of mercenary 
 keepers, who would be scarcely tolerated 
 to look after the felon, the murderer, or the 
 most depraved of the community? And 
 how much more poignant and painful must 
 be these emotions, when we reflect, that, 
 bating a small minority rendered insane by 
 intemperance and vice, they have been 
 struck down promiscuously from the ranks 
 of the good, the great, the virtuous, and the 
 brave ; and that, in an age of philanthropic 
 exertion, when land and sea have been tra- 
 versed to break the fetters of the oppressed, 
 even to extend comfort to the blood-stained 
 convict, in this State, for ages, ever 
 since its- discovery, in this boasted land 
 of liberty, has the cold and loathsome dun-
 
 A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM. 289 
 
 geon of the guiltless wretched maniac been 
 passed by, and he doomed to clank his 
 chains in hopeless captivity, condemned as 
 no criminal ever was condemned, and suf- 
 fering as no criminal ever did suffer ! 
 
 Sir, the cases of distress and misery in- 
 flicted upon this unhappy portion of our 
 race, which have been cited this evening 
 and spread before the public in the news- 
 papers of the day, were they not attested 
 by respectable witnesses, would be almost 
 too much even for the lovers of the mar- 
 vellous to put any confidence in. But, sir, 
 they are no fictions, they are sad, sad 
 realities. So far are they from being 
 painted in too glowing colors, so far from 
 being overstated, I believe that not one 
 half has been told. My own personal ob- 
 servation will more than corroborate them ;, 
 but I cannot go into details. 
 
 We would, however, by no means accuse 
 those who have had the care of the insane 
 
 19
 
 290 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 of designed oppression or wanton cruelty 
 towards them. The treatment they have 
 received has originated, undoubtedly in a 
 great measure, from the terror of their friends 
 and keepers, and from an opinion that their 
 condition was irremediable and hopeless ; 
 and irremediable and hopeless, because in- 
 sanity has been considered (and is no doubt 
 now so considered by some) as a disease 
 of the spiritual nature of man, wholly 
 independent of his material nature, and 
 therefore entirely beyond the control of 
 material remedies. The time has been, 
 when to have traced insanity to a bodily 
 origin, to have fixed upon its true resi- 
 dence in a material organ, the brain, 
 would have been considered as confounding 
 spirit with matter, as something worse 
 than madness, and its promugation branded 
 as advocating the grossest form of infi- 
 delity. But, happily for humanity, truth 
 and reason are as imperishable as the mind, 
 
 *- -' m m ,
 
 A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM. 291 
 
 and under their influence, cheerless dogma- 
 tism and false doctrines and prejudices are 
 rapidly passing away ; and it is now clear- 
 ly seen, and generally acknowledged, that 
 it is the old doctrine that sickness and 
 disease and insanity can reach the mind 
 itself, the immaterial principle, which 
 is fraught with all the dangers of infidelity, 
 and of subverting the soul's heaven-born 
 principle, its glorious immortality. Now 
 that the public eye has been opened to the 
 subject, it is clearly discerned that sickness 
 and disease cannot reach the mind itself, 
 that it is a derangement of the material in- 
 struments, the bodily organs, through which 
 it develops itself, that occasions its per- 
 turbed and insane manifestations. To prove 
 that the mind itself can be reached by dis- 
 ease would be to cast doubt on its immor- 
 tality. If it can sicken, it can die. This is 
 one instance, amongst many, in which erro- 
 neous theories lead to bad, and, in regard to
 
 292 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 the treatment of the insane at least, to inhu- 
 man practices. And a deep debt of gratitude 
 do we owe (whether their theories in all their 
 minute distinctions be true or not) to Gall 
 and Spurzheim and their coadjutors, for 
 clearing away the rubbish that has envelop- 
 ed the philosophy of the human mind, and 
 giving us clear and definite views of its con- 
 nection with matter, and the absolute neces- 
 sity of the healthy action of the latter to its 
 right and full development. Particularly 
 are we indebted to them for their delicate 
 and skilful dissections of the brain, demon- 
 strating beyond the possibility of a doubt 
 that all the varied phases of insanity may 
 be traced to some lesion or diseased ac- 
 tion of that important organ. Until their 
 day, this was a difficult point to be distin- 
 guished in anatomy. So satisfactorily, 
 however, has the discovery been rendered, 
 that Spurzheim, in one of his works, makes 
 the assertion, that a case of insanity, how-
 
 A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM. 293 
 
 ever mild, could not be brought, in which 
 he could not show its marks indelibly im- 
 pressed upon the brain, or rather growing 
 out of its diseased action. We owe to them 
 also the very best, the most scientific books 
 upon this awful scourge. Indeed, so en- 
 tirely is it now settled that mania is a 
 disease of the body, and to be treated like 
 all other diseases of the bodily organs, and 
 not as a curse of Heaven, a possession 
 by demoniacs or evil and malignant spi- 
 rits, that the whole system of punish- 
 ment and torture wherewith to exorcise 
 them has been banished as worthy only of 
 a superstitious and cruel age ; and we 
 should as soon think now of loading the 
 gouty or the paralytic with obloquy and 
 reproach, and of curing them by the ap- 
 plication of the bastinado, as of treating the 
 maniac with the neglect, and often positive 
 cruelty, formerly practised. 
 
 Two things, then, have we arrived at
 
 294 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 conclusively, which are of immense impor- 
 tance. The first is a correct theory of the 
 disease of insanity; and the second, the 
 certainty that it is under the control of reme- 
 dial agents as much as are other diseases, 
 and, as experience has amply tested, quite 
 as successfully treated, if not more so, than 
 are most other maladies to which the body 
 is exposed. But under what mode, and in 
 what situations, shall the insane be placed, 
 to ensure their most successful restora- 
 tion to sanity and health? We answer, 
 that the best treatment to be adopted is 
 directly the reverse of what has been prose- 
 cuted heretofore. The iron that has pierced 
 the maniac's soul must be withdrawn ; the 
 shackles that have galled his limbs must 
 be broken ; his dungeon-house, into whose 
 dreary recess the light of heaven never en- 
 ters, and the voice of kindness never reaches, 
 must be demolished, and give place to a 
 well-ordered home, where comfort and kind-
 
 A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM. 295 
 
 ness may usurp the place of filthy misery 
 and of savage brutality, where, instead 
 of being thrust forth from the world as a 
 loathsome leper, he can be gladdened with 
 the accents of mercy, his irritated feelings 
 soothed, his despondency encouraged, 
 and where, when his lucid intervals return 
 to him, he can look up with confidence to 
 those who minister to him, with the convic- 
 tion that, when his lights have been extin- 
 guished, and he lies helmless and hopeless 
 upon the surge, there is a skilful hand pre- 
 pared to rescue him from the tempest, or, if 
 unable to save, anxious to assuage and to 
 soothe him. 
 
 Such a place is in every thing the reverse 
 of what the insane have been accustomed 
 to in our State. It is an Asylum for the 
 the Insane, in imitation of those which 
 have been founded in other States, particu- 
 larly of the one at Worcester, which we 
 have now assembled to petition our poli-
 
 296 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 tical fathers to grant for the sake of suffer- 
 ing humanity. 
 
 I will not exhaust your patience so much 
 as to go into the details of the advantages 
 likely to accrue from such an institution. 
 They have been already eloquently and 
 faithfully portrayed. Suffice it to say, if 
 it offered no better encouragement for the 
 recovery of. the insane than do their pre- 
 sent abodes, humanity would be amply 
 remunerated in the restoration of comfort 
 which they would enjoy. But encourage- 
 ment of recovery, beyond the most san- 
 guine expectations, is authorized in the 
 reports. I find, on examination, that in one 
 instance, of forty cases, all were sent home 
 well : this is unusual. In another, a 
 Quaker-establishment, of one hundred and 
 forty received, eighteen only remained un- 
 improved. I hold in my hand the report of 
 the Worcester Asylum, which is full of en- 
 couragement. The amount of it is, that, of
 
 A STATE LUNATIC ASYLUM. 297 
 
 the recent cases, eighty out of a hundred 
 have been cured, while of the old cases 
 one-third of the whole. 
 
 Most fervently do I hope that we shall 
 succeed in this noble enterprise. But at 
 least let us deserve success by the immola- 
 tion of every sectional prejudice, of every 
 personal preference. Let no selfish, polluted 
 hand be uplifted in hindrance of this noble 
 object. Let us remember what has been 
 said of virtuous, disinterested actions, that 
 every sacrifice made upon the altar of 
 general good becomes a treasure profitably 
 invested, yielding interest to all future 
 times. Yes, disinterested actions are as 
 beacons which men light up along the 
 course of life.
 
 298 
 
 SPEECH AT AN ANNUAL MEETING OF THE POETS- 
 MOUTH SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 
 
 I AM glad to hear from the report which 
 has been read, as well as to know from 
 personal experience, that this great though 
 unobtrusive charity (the Seaman's Home) 
 is still continued in existence, and is work- 
 ing, though noiselessly, the great good it 
 was designed to accomplish. I call it a 
 great charity, for I know of but few of the 
 charities of the day which surpass it in uti- 
 lity ; and surely I may term it unobtrusive, 
 for so silently and noiselessly has it been 
 accomplishing its purposes, that I doubt 
 not "there are very many here present who 
 have scarcely heard the name of the Sea- 
 man's Home, and much less have become 
 acquainted with its beneficent designs, its 
 deeds of mercy and kindness, though
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 299 
 
 wrought in the very midst of us. I speak 
 of this as a great charity, designed for a 
 large class of our fellow-creatures, a long- 
 suffering, long-neglected, and much-abused 
 class; so degraded indeed, till within a 
 short period, that the sailor at the North, 
 though, in a certain sense, enjoying per- 
 sonal liberty, was often sunk as low as 
 the slave at the South ; not restrained, to 
 be sure, like the last, by the manacle and 
 the chain, and doomed to drag out life 
 exposed to the perpetual lash of the task- 
 master ; but quite as degraded in ignorance, 
 his mind quite as much in bondage, and, 
 like him, occupying no higher station, nor 
 calling forth any more sympathy, than is 
 bestowed upon the vilest things of creation, 
 the most grovelling beasts of the field. 
 And yet what has not been done for the 
 slave ! What efforts have been made, 
 what vast enginery of private and asso- 
 ciated effort has been called forth, to ame-
 
 300 
 
 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 liorate his condition! Many, very many, 
 have been found amongst us ready to pour 
 forth their treasures, nay, almost their blood, 
 like water, if so be they could release him 
 from the bondage under which he is groan- 
 ing; and however much they may be 
 mistaken in some of the means they are 
 taking in behalf of this cause, still I can- 
 not but respect their motives, as honorable 
 to the cause of benevolence, honorable to 
 human nature; and could I, consistently 
 with justice, consistently with the peace 
 and happiness of both master and slave (for 
 we are bound to consult the interests of 
 all), restore, by my single fiat, liberty to 
 every son and daughter of Adam, most 
 cheerfully would I do it ; nay, so much do 
 I hate the very name of slavery, that I 
 sometimes think, did it depend upon me, 
 I would strike off every chain and every 
 fetter, and that, too, regardless of con- 
 sequences. On this matter, however, I
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 301 
 
 may not dwell: upon this subject men 
 may honestly differ. 
 
 But here, about the almost worse than 
 slavery of the North, the debasing igno- 
 rance, the suffering and degradation, of the 
 poor sailor, there cannot be an honest 
 difference of opinion. All that we can 
 plead in extenuation of his treatment is, 
 that, amid the multiplicity of other calls 
 upon our sympathy, he has been most 
 strangely overlooked, most strangely for- 
 gotten. Yes, most strangely has he been 
 forgotten ! Every sentiment of benevolence 
 and of gratitude should have forbidden this 
 our coldness and neglect. For what has 
 he not done for us ? What comfort, beyond 
 the bare necessaries of life, do we enjoy, 
 and do not, in part at least, owe to him ? 
 What have we, beyond the mere productions 
 of the ground we tread upon, which has 
 not been brought to us by his unremitting 
 care and toil ? If the farmer and the laborer
 
 302 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 are the bone and muscle, most assuredly 
 sailors are the very sinews of our country. 
 Every luxury we enjoy, every advantage 
 resulting from foreign intercourse, every 
 new accession of light and knowledge 
 
 from abroad to the common stock, all the 
 
 > 
 facilities of intercourse, all the blessings 
 
 flowing from a widely-extended commerce, 
 the perpetuation and extension of Chris- 
 tianity itself, with the virtues emanating 
 from intellects and hearts expanded by 
 means of intercourse from abroad, bene- 
 fits that have no limit but the great 
 globe itself, all, all these blessings 
 flow from his unremitted exertions, his un- 
 daunted courage, and incessant sufferings. 
 Yes, sir, sufferings. And what does he 
 not "suffer? A sailor's life, it is said, is 
 a dog's life. It is worse: a sailor's life, 
 as it has heretofore been, commences in 
 suffering and ends in suffering, nothing 
 but suffering. He is often but poorly fed
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 303 
 
 and clad, and entirely uncared for except 
 to make the most of him to the sacrifice of 
 every comfort. He ventures upon the peril- 
 ous deep, it may be, exposed to the biting 
 cold of winter, the peltings of the pitiless 
 storm, the fiery bolts from heaven, the 
 angry surge lashing upon an iron-bound 
 coast; or to a deadly climate; or to the 
 still more deadly influences of foreign asso- 
 ciations, corruptions, and vices; and, it 
 may be, escaping these, homeward-bound, 
 with new aspirations and hopes and reso- 
 lutions, his eye no sooner catches the 
 wished-for port, than his ship is surrounded 
 by harpies to allure him into their polluted 
 dens ; and what wonder is it, that, with no 
 generous associations to aid him, no kindly 
 hand extended to protect him, no house of 
 refuge opened to receive him, he falls an 
 easy prey, and is again seduced into these 
 haunts of vice and profligacy, where, soon 
 sponged and fleeced to his last cent, he has
 
 304 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 no other resource than a jail, an alms- 
 house, or another voyage ? 
 
 Now, sir, the remedy for these miseries 
 and sufferings of the poor sailor has been 
 found in the provision of suitable boarding- 
 houses upon strictly temperate and vir- 
 tuous principles. They are called Sea- 
 men's Homes, and in many of our large 
 cities they have been wonderfully success- 
 ful. We have one here, which has been in 
 existence about three years, but of so 
 modest and unpretending a character, that 
 the good it has done is, I fear, but little 
 known. And that I may diffuse a know- 
 ledge of its character, and may bear my 
 testimony to the worth of its keeper, is the 
 reason why I appear here. It is kept by a 
 matron, who seems to have been made and 
 raised up by Providence for the very "pur- 
 pose. With the greatest energy of character, 
 she unites the greatest kindness and gentle- 
 ness ; and it is surely to the credit of these
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 305 
 
 rough sons of the ocean, that they are more 
 awed by the light of her benignant eye 
 beaming upon them, than they would be 
 by the dark frowns and coarse threats of 
 the would-be lords of creation ; and to their 
 credit be it spoken, that, though surrounded 
 by persons of all descriptions and from dif- 
 ferent climes, she, an unprotected widow, 
 confiding in the goodness of her cause, and 
 relying upon no other weapons of defence 
 than those of kindness and love, to their 
 credit be it spoken, and to that of her tact 
 and her gentle manners, she has rarely, if 
 ever, been assailed by the tongue of rude- 
 ness, or even of impoliteness. The secret 
 of her success is her devotion to the cause, 
 her entirely disinterested love of doing the 
 sailors good. In the midst of them, she 
 feels herself as a mother in the midst of her 
 children, delighted and delighting ; and by 
 that appellation have I known them often 
 to salute her. She is not there for hire or 
 
 20
 
 306 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 emolument, as you will readily believe, 
 when you are informed that she receives 
 but a dollar a week for her services. She 
 feels it to be the path of service in which 
 Providence has directed her to walk, to 
 deviate from which would be a dereliction 
 of duty. How much good she has done 
 will never be known till the final disclosure 
 of her good deeds in the future world. That 
 it has been great I have personal know- 
 ledge, in the assurance of which I may say, 
 that all who have been with her once inva- 
 riably come again ; and, at this very time, 
 she has two upon a visit to whom she had 
 shown great acts of kindness. One, feeling 
 himself sick upon his return from a voyage 
 very many miles distant, took the stage and 
 cars last week, and has hurried down to 
 be under the kind care of her who had 
 done so much for him. The other, I be- 
 lieve, is now present, and, did his modesty 
 permit, would bear witness to the zeal and
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 307 
 
 kindness of her of whom I speak. He was 
 the one who arrived here in the burning 
 ship three years ago, was struck down by a 
 bolt from heaven, and brought to her house 
 in the most forlorn condition possible. And 
 never could a mother have been kinder 
 to her child than she was to him, watch- 
 ing over him when undergoing the pangs 
 of a most excruciating operation, by night 
 and by day soothing him with her con- 
 soling words, infusing into his mind reli- 
 gious instruction and principle, and pre- 
 paring him for the death which seemed 
 inevitably to await him, and to which he 
 said he had brought himself to submit. 
 But, death being averted, she then devoted 
 herself assiduously to prepare him for life ; 
 as it was obvious, that, maimed as he was, 
 he must enter upon a new course of indus- 
 try. In a short time, she had him taught 
 to read, and write, and keep accounts, and 
 took great interest in his learning a useful
 
 308 SPEECH IN BEHALF OF 
 
 trade. And she has the satisfaction of 
 knowing, that, through her instrumentality, 
 he is now an altered man. From being 
 a thriftless sailor, always spending as he 
 gained, he is now a worthy citizen of Bos- 
 ton, keeps a clothing-store there, is entirely 
 contented and happy, and, to my salutation 
 yesterday, replied that the most fortunate 
 event that had ever happened to him was 
 that he had lost his leg, and had fallen into 
 so kind and faithful hands. 
 
 Such, sir, is our Seaman's Home, but 
 little known ; and such its keeper, still less 
 known. But, sir, it is languishing for want 
 of funds ; for it is not sufficiently patronized 
 to support itself. We ask now, and rely 
 upon the benevolent, for assistance. But 
 still more would we call upon the merchants 
 and captains to extend their influence to 
 this house. They can do much if they will. 
 They can help those who are laboring in 
 this holy work to elevate a class of men
 
 THE SEAMEN'S FRIEND SOCIETY. 309 
 
 who have been long neglected and for- 
 saken, and who require but an act of kind- 
 ness, in bringing them under good influences 
 when on shore, to make them honorable, 
 useful, and happy citizens.
 
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